Mother had the dishes to wash after she had tucked the Peter-bird under the afghan on the sitting room sofa for his daily nap, but there was never any grumbling in her heart over the weary days and the unaccustomed tasks; she was too busy "making things make themselves." If only there were a little more money! That was her chief anxiety; for the unexpected, the outside sources of income were growing fewer, and in a year's time the little hoard would be woefully small. Was she doing all that she could, she wondered, as her steps flew over the Yellow House from attic to cellar. She could play the piano and sing; she could speak three languages and read four; she had made her curtsy at two foreign courts; admiration and love had followed her ever since she could remember, and here she was, a widow at forty, living in a half-deserted New England village, making parsnip stews for her children's dinner. Well, it was a time of preparation, and its rigors and self-denials must be cheer fully faced. She ought to be thankful that she was able to get a simple dinner that her children could eat; she ought to be thankful that her beef and parsnip stews and cracker puddings and corn bread were being transmuted into blood and brawn and brain-tissue, to help the world along somewhere a little later! She ought to be grateful that it was her blessed fortune to be sending four rosy, laughing, vigorous young people down the snowy street to the white-painted academy; that it was her good luck to see four heads bending eagerly over their books around the evening lamp, and have them all turn to her for help and encouragement in the hard places. Why should she complain, so long as the stormy petrels were all working and playing in Mother Carey's water garden where they ought to be; gathering strength to fly over or dive under the ice-pack and climb Shiny Wall? There is never any gate in the wall; Tom the Water Baby had found that out for himself; so it is only the plucky ones who are able to surmount the thousand difficulties they encounter on their hazardous journey to Peacepool. How else, if they had not learned themselves, could Mother Carey's chickens go out over the seas and show good birds the way home? At such moments Mrs. Carey would look at her image in the glass and say, "No whimpering, madam! You can't have the joys of motherhood without some of its pangs! Think of your blessings, and don't be a coward! -- 

"Who sweeps a room as by God's laws Makes that and th' action fine."

Then her eyes would turn from blue velvet to blue steel, and strength would flow into her from some divine, benignant source and transmute her into father as well as mother!

Was the hearth fire kindled in the Yellow House sending its glow through the village as well as warming those who sat beside it? There were Christmas and New Year's and St. Valentine parties, and by that time Bill Harmon saw the woodpile in the Carey shed grow beautifully less. He knew the price per cord, -- no man better; but he and Osh Popham winked at each other one windy February day and delivered three cords for two, knowing that measurement of wood had not been included in Mother Carey's education. Natty Harmon and Digby Popham, following examples a million per cent better than parental lectures, asked one afternoon if they shouldn't saw and chop some big logs for the fireplaces.

Mrs. Carey looked at them searchingly, wondering if they could possibly guess the state of her finances, concluded they couldn't and said smilingly: "Indeed I will gladly let you saw for an hour or two if you'll come and sit by the fire on Saturday night, when we are going to play spelling games and have doughnuts and root beer."

The Widow Berry, who kept academy boarders, sent in a luscious mince pie now and then, and Mrs. Popham and Mrs. Harmon brought dried apples or pumpkins, winter beets and Baldwin apples. It was little enough, they thought, when the Yellow House, so long vacant, was like a beacon light to the dull village; sending out its beams on every side.

"She ain't no kind of a manager, I'm 'fraid!" said Bill Harmon. "I give her 'bout four quarts and a half of kerosene for a gallon every time she sends her can to be filled, but bless you, she ain't any the wiser! I try to give her as good measure in everything as she gives my children, but you can't keep up with her! She's like the sun, that shines on the just 'n' on the unjust. Hen Lord's young ones eat their lunch or their supper there once or twice a week, though the old skinflint's got fifty thousand dollars in the bank."

"Never mind, Bill." said Osh Popham; "there's goin' to be an everlastin' evenupness somewheres! Probably God A'mighty hez his eye on that woman, and He'll see her through. The young ones are growin' up, and the teacher at the academy says they beat the devil on book learnin'! The boy'll make a smart man, pretty soon, and bring good wages home to his mother. The girls are handsome enough to pick up husbands as soon as they've fully feathered out, so it won't be long afore they're all on the up grade. I've set great store by that family from the outset, and I'm turrible glad they're goin' to fix up the house some more when it comes spring. I'm willin' to work cheap for such folks as them."

"You owe 'em somethin' for listenin' to you, Osh! Seems if they moved here jest in time to hear your stories when you'd 'bout tuckered out the rest o' the village!"

"It's a pity you didn't know a few more stories yourself, Bill," retorted Mr. Popham; "then you'd be asked up oftener to put on the back-log for 'em, and pop corn and roast apples and pass the evenin'. I ain't hed sech a gay winter sence I begun settin' up with Maria, twenty years ago."

"She's kept you settin' up ever since, Osh!" chuckled Bill Harmon.

"She has so!" agreed Osh cheerfully, "but you ain't hardly the one to twit me of it; bein' as how you've never took a long breath yourself sence you was married! But you don't ketch me complainin'! It's a poor rule that won't work both ways! Maria hurried me into poppin' the question, and hurried me into marryin' her, an' she ain't let up on me a minute sence then; but she'll railroad me into heaven the same way, you see if she don't. She'll arrive 'head o' time as usual and stan' right there at the bars till she gits Dig 'n' Lallie Joy 'n' me under cover!"

"She's a good woman, an' so's my wife," remarked Bill sententiously; "an' Colonel Wheeler says good women are so rigged inside that they can't be agreeable all the time. The couple of 'em are workin' their fingers to the bone for the school teacher to-day; fixin' him up for all the world as if he was a bride. He's got the women folks o' this village kind o' mesmerized, Thurston has."

"He's a first-rate teacher; nobody that ain't hed experience in the school room is fitted to jedge jest how good a teacher Ralph Thurston is, but I have, an' I know what I 'm talkin' about."

"I never heard nothin' about your teachin' school, Osh."

"There's a good deal about me you never heard; specially about the time afore I come to Beulah, 'cause you ain't a good hearer, Bill! I taught the most notorious school in Digby once, and taught it to a finish; I named my boy Digby after that school! You see my father an' mother was determined to give me an education, an' I wa'n't intended for it. I was a great big, strong, clumsy lunkhead, an' the only thing I could do, even in a one-horse college, was to play base ball, so they kep' me along jest for that. I never got further than the second class, an' I wouldn't 'a' got there if the Faculty hadn't 'a' promoted me jest for the looks o' the thing. Well Prof. Millard was off in the country lecturin' somewheres near Bangor an' he met a school superintendent who told him they was awful hard up for a teacher in Digby. He said they'd hed three in three weeks an' had lost two stoves besides; for the boys had fired out the teachers and broke up the stoves an' pitched 'em out the door after 'em. When Prof. Millard heard the story he says, 'I've got a young man that could teach that school; a feller named Ossian Popham.' The superintendent hed an interview with me, an' I says: 'I'll agree to teach out your nine weeks o' school for a hundred dollars, an' if I leave afore the last day I won't claim a cent!' 'That's the right sperit,' says the Supe, an' we struck a bargain then an' there. I was glad it was Saturday, so 't I could start right off while my blood was up. I got to Digby on Sunday an' found a good boardin' place. The trustees didn't examine me, an' 't was lucky for me they didn't. The last three teachers hed been splendid scholars, but that didn't save the stoves any, so they just looked at my six feet o' height, an' the muscle in my arms, an' said they'd drop in sometime durin' the month. 'Look in any time you like after the first day,' I says. 'I shall be turrible busy the first day!'

"I went into the school house early Monday mornin' an' built a good fire in the new stove. When it was safe to leave it I went into the next house an' watched the scholars arrive. The lady was a widder with one great unruly boy in the school, an' she was glad to give me a winder to look out of. It was a turrible cold day, an' when 't was ten minutes to nine an' the school room was full I walked in as big as Cuffy. There was five rows of big boys an' girls in the back, all lookin' as if they was loaded for bear, an' they graded down to little ones down in front, all of 'em hitchin' to an' fro in their seats an' snickerin'. I give 'em a surprise to begin with, for I locked the door when I come in, an' put the key in my pocket, cool as a cucumber.

"I never said a word, an' they never moved their eyes away from me. I took off my fur cap, then my mittens, then my overcoat, an' laid 'em in the chair behind my desk. Then my undercoat come off, then my necktie an' collar, an' by that time the big girls begun to look nervous; they 'd been used to addressin', but not undressin', in the school room. Then I wound my galluses round my waist an' tied 'em; then I says, clear an' loud:' I'm your new teacher! I'm goin' to have a hundred dollars for teachin' out this school, an' I intend to teach it out an' git my money. It's five minutes to nine. I give you just that long to tell me what you're goin' to do about it. Come on now!' I says, 'all o' you big boys, if you're comin', an' we'll settle this thing here an' now. We can't hev fights an' lessons mixed up together every day, more 'n 's necessary; better decide right now who's boss o' this school. The stove's new an' I'm new, an' we call'ate to stay here till the end o' the term!'

"Well, sir, not one o' that gang stirred in their seats, an' not one of 'em yipped! I taught school in my shirt sleeves consid'able the first week, but I never hed to afterwards. I was a little mite weak on mathematics, an' the older boys an' girls hed to depend on their study books for their information, -- they never got any from me, -- but every scholar in that Digby school got a hundred per cent in deportment the nine weeks I taught there!"



XXX

The Inglenook


It was a wild Friday night in March, after days of blustering storms and drifting snow. Beulah was clad in royal ermine; not only clad, indeed, but nearly buried in it. The timbers of the Yellow House creaked, and the wreaths of snow blew against the windows and lodged there. King Frost was abroad, nipping toes and ears, hanging icicles on the eaves of houses, and decorating the forest trees with glittering pendants. The wind howled in the sitting room chimney, but in front of the great back-log the bed of live coals glowed red and the flames danced high, casting flickering shadows on the children's faces. It is possible to bring up a family by steam heat, and it is often necessary, but nobody can claim that it is either so simple or so delightful as by an open fire!

The three cats were all nestled cosily in Nancy's lap or snuggled by her side. Mother Carey had demurred at two, and when Nancy appeared one day after school with a third, she spoke, with some firmness, of refusing it a home. "If we must economize on cats," cried Nancy passionately, "don't let's begin on this one! She doesn't look it, but she is a heroine. When the Rideout's house burned down, her kittens were in a basket by the kitchen stove. Three times she ran in through the flames and brought out a kitten in her mouth. The tip of her tail is gone, and part of an ear, and she's blind in one eye. Mr. Harmon says she's too homely to live; now what do you think?"

"I think nobody pretending to be a mother could turn her back on another mother like that," said Mrs. Carey promptly. "We'll take a pint more milk, and I think you children will have to leave something in your plates now and then, you polish them until it really is indecent."

To-night an impromptu meeting of the Ways and Means Committee was taking place by the sitting room fire, perhaps because the family plates had been polished to a terrifying degree that week.

"Children," said Mother Carey, "we have been as economical as we knew how to be; we have worked to the limit of our strength; we have spent almost nothing on clothing, but the fact remains that we have scarcely money enough in our reserve fund to last another six months. What shall we do?"

Nancy leaped to her feet, scattering cats in every direction.

"Mother Carey!" she exclaimed remorsefully. "You haven't mentioned money since New Year's, and I thought we were rubbing along as usual. The bills are all paid; what's the matter?"

"That is the matter!" answered Mrs. Carey with the suspicion of a tear in her laughing voice, "The bills are paid, and there's too little left! We eat so much, and we burn so much wood, and so many gallons of oil'"

"The back of the winter's broken, mother dear!" said Gilbert, as a terrific blast shook the blinds as a terrier would a rat. "Don't listen to that wind; it 's only a March bluff! Osh Popham says snow is the poor man's manure; he says it's going to be an early season and a grand hay crop. We'll get fifty dollars for our field."

"That will be in July, and this is March," said his mother. "Still, the small reversible Van Twiller will carry us through May, with our other income. But the saving days are over, and the earning days have come, dears! I am the oldest and the biggest, I must begin."

"Never!" cried Nancy. "You slave enough for us, as it is, but you shall never slave for anybody else; shall she, Gilly?"

"Not if I know it!" answered Gilbert with good ringing emphasis.

"Another winter I fear we must close the Yellow House and -- "

The rest of Mother Carey's remark was never heard, for at Nancy's given signal the four younger Careys all swooned on the floor. Nancy had secretly trained Peter so that he was the best swooner of the family, and his comical imitation of Nancy was so mirth-compelling that Mother Carey laughed and declared there was no such thing as talking seriously to children like hers.

"But, Muddy dear, you weren't in earnest?" coaxed Nancy, bending her bright head over her mother's shoulder and cuddling up to her side; whereupon Gilbert gave his imitation of a jealous puppy; barking, snarling, and pushing his frowzly pate under his mother's arm to crowd Nancy from her point of vantage, to which she clung valiantly. Of course Kitty found a small vacant space on which she could festoon herself, and Peter promptly climbed on his mother's lap, so that she was covered with -- fairly submerged in -- children! A year ago Julia used to creep away and look at such exhibitions of family affection, with a curling lip, but to-night, at Mother Carey's outstretched hand and smothered cry of "Help, Judy!" she felt herself gathered into the heart of the laughing, boisterous group. That hand, had she but known it, was stretched out to her because only that day a letter had come, saying that Allan Carey was much worse and that his mental condition admitted of no cure. He was bright and hopeful and happy, so said Mr. Manson; -- forever sounding the praises of the labor-saving device in which he had sunk his last thousands. "We can manufacture it at ten cents and sell it for ten dollars," he would say, rubbing his hands excitedly. "We can pay fifty dollars a month office rent and do a business of fifty thousand dollars a year!" "And I almost believe we could!" added Mr. Manson, "if we had faith enough and capital enough!"

"Of course you know, darlings, I would never leave Beulah save for the coldest months; or only to earn a little money," said Mrs. Carey, smoothing her dress, flattening her collar, and pinning up the braids that Nancy's hugs had loosened.

"I must put my mind on the problem at once," said Nancy, pacing the floor. "I've been so interested in my Virgil, so wrapped up in my rhetoric and composition, that I haven't thought of ways and means for a month, but of course we will never leave the Yellow House, and of course we must contrive to earn money enough to live in it. We must think about it every spare minute till vacation comes; then we'll have nearly four months to amass a fortune big enough to carry us through the next year. I have an idea for myself already. I was going to wait till my seventeenth birthday, but that's four months away and it's too long. I'm old enough to begin any time. I feel old enough to write my Reminiscences this minute."

"You might publish your letters to the American Consul in Breslau; they'd make a book!" teased Gilbert.

"Very likely I shall, silly Gilly," retorted Nancy, swinging her mane haughtily. "It isn't every girl who has a monthly letter from an Admiral in China and a Consul in Germany."

"You wouldn't catch me answering the Queen of Sheba's letters or the Empress of India's," exclaimed Gilbert, whose pen was emphatically less mighty than his sword. "Hullo, you two! what are you whispering about?" he called to Kathleen and Julia, who were huddled together in a far corner of the long room, gesticulating eloquently.

"We've an idea! We've an idea! We've found a way to help!" sang the two girls, pirouetting back into the circle of firelight. "We won't tell till it's all started, but it's perfectly splendid, and practical too."

"And so ladylike!" added Julia triumphantly.

"How much?" asked Gilbert succinctly.

The girls whispered a minute or two, and appeared to be multiplying twenty-five first by fifteen, and then again by twenty.

"From three dollars and seventy-five cents to four dollars and a half a week according to circumstances!" answered Kathleen proudly.

"Will it take both of you?"

"Yes."

"All your time?"

More nods and whispers and calculation.

"No, indeed; only three hours a day."

"Any of my time?"

"Just a little."

"I thought so!" said Gilbert loftily. "You always want me and my hammer or my saw; but I'll be busy on my own account; you'll have to paddle your own canoe!"

"You'll be paid for what you do for us," said Julia slyly, giving Kathleen a poke, at which they both fell into laughter only possible to the very young.

Then suddenly there came a knock at the front door; a stamping of feet on the circular steps, and a noise of shaking off snow.

"Go to the door, Gilbert; who can that be on a night like this, -- although it is only eight o'clock after all! Why, it's Mr. Thurston!"

Ralph Thurston came in blushing and smiling, glad to be welcomed, fearful of intruding, afraid of showing how much he liked to be there.

"Good-evening, all!" he said. "You see I couldn't wait to thank you, Mrs. Carey! No storm could keep me away to-night."

"What has mother been doing, now?" asked Nancy. "Her right hand is forever busy, and she never tells her left hand a thing, so we children are always in the dark."

"It was nothing much," said Mrs. Carey, pushing the young man gently into the high-backed rocker. "Mrs. Harmon, Mrs. Popham, and I simply tried to show our gratitude to Mr. Thurston for teaching our troublesome children."

"How did you know it was my birthday?" asked Thurston.

"Didn't you write the date in Lallie Joy's book?"

"True, I did; and forgot it long ago; but I have never had my birthday noticed before, and I am twenty-four!"

"It was high time, then!" said Mother Carey with her bright smile.

"But what did mother do?" clamored Nancy, Kathleen and Gilbert in chorus.

"She took my forlorn, cheerless room and made it into a home for me," said Thurston. "Perhaps she wanted me to stay in it a little more, and bother her less! At any rate she has created an almost possible rival to the Yellow House!"

Ralph Thurston had a large, rather dreary room over Bill Harmon's store, and took his meals at the Widow Berry's, near by. He was an orphan and had no money to spend on luxuries, because all his earnings went to pay the inevitable debts incurred when a fellow is working his way through college.

Mrs. Carey, with the help of the other two women, had seized upon this stormy Friday, when the teacher always took his luncheon with him to the academy, to convert Ralph's room into something comfortable and cheerful. The old, cracked, air-tight stove had been removed, and Bill Harmon had contributed a second-hand Franklin, left with him for a bad debt. It was of soapstone and had sliding doors in front, so that the blaze could be disclosed when life was very dull or discouraging. The straw matting on the floor had done very well in the autumn, but Mrs. Carey now covered the centre of the room with a bright red drugget left from the Charlestown house-furnishings, and hung the two windows with curtains of printed muslin. Ossian Popham had taken a clotheshorse and covered it with red felting, so that the screen, so evolved could be made to hide the bed and washstand. Ralph's small, rickety table had been changed for a big, roomy one of pine, hidden by the half of an old crimson piano cloth. When Osh had seen the effect of this he hurried back to his barn chamber and returned with some book shelves that he had hastily glued and riveted into shape. These he nailed to the wall and filled with books that he found in the closet, on the floor, on the foot of the bed, and standing on the long, old-fashioned mantel shelf.

"Do you care partic'larly where you set, nights, Ossian?" inquired Mrs. Popham, who was now in a state of uncontrolled energy bordering on delirium. "Because your rockin' chair has a Turkey red cushion and it would look splendid in Mr. Thurston's room. You know you fiddle 'bout half the time evenin's, and you always go to bed early."

"Don't mind me!" exclaimed Ossian facetiously, starting immediately for the required chair and bringing back with it two huge yellow sea shells, which he deposited on the floor at each end of the hearth rug.

"How do you like 'em?" he inquired of Mrs. Carey.

"Not at all," she replied promptly.

"You don't?" he asked incredulously. "Well, it takes all kinds o' folks to make a world! I've been keepin' 'em fifteen years, hopin' I'd get enough more to make a border for our parlor fireplace, and now you don't take to 'em! Back they go to the barn chamber, Maria; Mis' Carey's bossin' this job, and she ain't got no taste for sea shells. Would you like an old student lamp? I found one that I can bronze up in about two minutes if Mis' Harmon can hook a shade and chimbly out of Bill's stock."

They all stayed in the room until this last feat was accomplished; stayed indeed until the fire in the open stove had died down to ruddy coals. Then they pulled down the shades, lighted the lamp, gave one last admiring look, and went home.

It had meant only a few hours' thought and labor, with scarcely a penny of expense, but you can judge what Ralph Thurston felt when he entered the door out of the storm outside. To him it looked like a room conjured up by some magician in a fairy tale. He fell into the rocking-chair and looked at his own fire; gazed about at the cheerful crimson glow that radiated from the dazzling drugget, in a state of puzzled ecstasy, till he caught sight of a card lying near the lamp, -- "A birthday present from three mothers who value your work for their boys and girls."

He knew Mrs. Carey's handwriting, so he sped to the Yellow House as soon as his supper was over, and now, in the presence of the whole family, he felt tongue-tied and wholly unable to express his gratitude.

It was bed time, and the young people melted away from the fireside.

"Kiss your mother good-night, sweet Pete," said Nancy, taking the reluctant cherub by the hand. "'Hoc opus, hic labor est,' Mr. Thurston, to get the Peter-bird upstairs when once he is down. Shake hands with your future teacher, Peter; no, you mustn't kiss him; little boys don't kiss great Latin scholars unless they are asked."

Thurston laughed and lifted the gurgling Peter high in the air. "Good night, old chap!" he said "Hurry up and come to school!"

"I'm 'bout ready now!" piped Peter. "I can read 'Up-up-my-boy-day-is-not-the-time-for-sleep-the-dew-will-soon-be-gone' with the book upside down, -- can't I, Muddy?"

"You can, my son; trot along with sister."

Thurston opened the door for Nancy, and his eye followed her for a second as she mounted the stairs. She glowed like a ruby to-night in her old red cashmere. The sparkle of her eye, the gloss of her hair, the soft red of her lips, the curve and bend of her graceful young body struck even her mother anew, though she was used to her daughter's beauty. "She is growing!" thought Mrs. Carey wistfully. "I see it all at once, and soon others will be seeing it!"

Alas! young Ralph Thurston had seen it for weeks past! He was not perhaps so much in love with Nancy the girl, as he was with Nancy the potential woman. Some of the glamour that surrounded the mother had fallen upon the daughter. One felt the influences that had rained upon Nancy ever since she had come into the world, One could not look at her, nor talk with her, without feeling that her mother -- like a vine in the blood, as the old proverb says -- was breathing, growing, budding, blossoming in her day by day.

The young teacher came back to the fireplace, where Mother Carey was standing in a momentary brown study.

"I've never had you alone before," he stammered, "and now is my chance to tell you what you've been to me ever since I came to Beulah."

"You have helped me in my problems more than I can possibly have aided you," Mrs. Carey replied quietly. "Gilbert was so rebellious about country schools, so patronizing, so scornful of their merits, that I fully expected he would never stay at the academy of his own free will. You have converted him, and I am very grateful."

"Meantime I am making a record there," said Ralph, "and I have this family to thank for it! Your children, with Olive and Cyril Lord, have set the pace for the school, and the rest are following to the best of their ability. There is not a shirk nor a dunce in the whole roll of sixty pupils! Beulah has not been so proud of its academy for thirty years, and I shall come in for the chief share in the praise. I am trying to do for Gilbert and Cyril what an elder brother would do, but I should have been powerless if I had not had this home and this fireside to inspire me!"

"Tibi splendet focus!" quoted Mrs. Carey, pointing to Olive's inscription under the mantelpiece. "For you the hearth fire glows!"

"Have I not felt it from the beginning?" asked Ralph. "I never knew my mother, Mrs. Carey, and few women have come into my life; I have been too poor and too busy to cultivate their friendship. Then I came to Beulah and you drew me into your circle; admitted an unknown, friendless fellow into your little group! It was beautiful; it was wonderful!"

"What are mothers for, but to do just that, and more than all, for the motherless boys?"

"Well, I may never again have the courage to say it, so just believe me when I say your influence will be the turning-point in my life. I will never, so help me God, do anything to make me unworthy to sit in this fireglow! So long as I have brains and hands to work with, I will keep striving to create another home like this when my time comes. Any girl that takes me will get a better husband because of you; any children I may be blessed with will have a better father because I have known you. Don't make any mistake, dear Mrs. Carey, your hearth fire glows a long, long distance!"

Mother Carey was moved to the very heart. She leaned forward and took Ralph Thurston's young face, thin with privation and study, in her two hands. He bent his head instinctively, partly to hide the tears that had sprung to his eyes, and she kissed his forehead simply and tenderly. He was at her knees on the hearth rug in an instant; all his boyish affection laid at her feet; all his youthful chivalry kindled at the honor of her touch.

And there are women in the world who do not care about being mothers!



XXXI

Grooves Of Change


The winter passed. The snow gradually melted in the meadows and the fields, which first grew brown and then displayed patches of green here and there where the sun fell strongest. There was deep, sticky mud in the roads, and the discouraged farmers urged their horses along with the wheels of their wagons sunk to the hub in ooze. Then there were wet days, the wind ruffling the leaden surface of the river, the sound of the rain dripping from the bare tree-boughs, the smell of the wet grass and the clean, thirsty soil. Milder weather came, then blustery days, then chill damp ones, but steadily life grew, here, there, everywhere, and the ever-new miracle of the awakening earth took place once again. Sap mounted in the trees, blood coursed in the children's veins, mothers began giving herb tea and sulphur and molasses, young human nature was restless; the whole creation throbbed and sighed, and was tremulous, and had growing pains.

April passed, with all its varying moods of sun and shower, and settled weather came.

All the earth was gay. Land and sea Gave themselves up to jollity And with the heart of May Did every Beast keep holiday.

The Carey girls had never heard of "the joy of living" as a phrase, but oh! they knew a deal about it in these first two heavenly springs in little Beulah village! The sunrise was so wonderful; the trees and grass so marvellously green; the wild flowers so beautiful! Then the river on clear days, the glimpse of the sea from Beulah's hill tops, the walks in the pine woods, -- could Paradise show anything to compare?

And how good the food tasted; and the books they read, how fresh, how moving, how glorious! Then when the happy day was over, sleep came without pause or effort the moment the flushed cheek touched the cool pillow.

"These," Nancy reflected, quoting from her favorite Wordsworth as she dressed beside her open window, "These must be

"The gifts of morn, Ere life grows noisy and slower-footed thought Can overtake the rapture of the sense.

"I was fifteen and a half last spring, and now, though it is only a year ago, everything is different!" she mused. "When did it get to be different, I wonder? It never was all at once, so it must have been a little every day, so little that I hardly noticed it until just now."

A young girl's heart is ever yearning for and trembling at the future. In its innocent depths the things that are to be are sometimes rustling and whispering secrets, and sometimes keeping an exquisite, haunting silence. In the midst of the mystery the solemn young creature is sighing to herself, "What am I meant for? Am I everything? Am I nothing? Must I wait till my future comes to me, or must I seek it?"

This was all like the sound of a still, small voice in Nancy's mind, but it meant that she was "growing up," taking hold on life at more points than before, seeing new visions, dreaming new dreams. Kathleen and Julia seemed ridiculously young to her. She longed to advise them, but her sense of humor luckily kept her silent. Gilbert appeared crude, raw; promising, but undeveloped; she hated to think how much experience he would have to pass through before he could see existence as it really was, and as she herself saw it. Olive's older view of things, her sad, strange outlook upon life, her dislike of anything in the shape of man, her melancholy aversion to her father, all this fascinated and puzzled Nancy, whose impetuous nature ran out to every living thing, revelling in the very act of loving, so long as she did not meet rebuff.

Cyril perplexed her. Silent, unresponsive, shy, she would sometimes raise her eyes from her book in school and find him gazing steadily at her like a timid deer drinking thirstily at a spring. Nancy did not like Cyril, but she pitied him and was as friendly with him, in her offhand, boyish fashion, as she was with every one.

The last days of the academy term were close at hand, and the air was full of graduation exercises and white muslin and ribbon sashes. June brought two surprises to the Yellow House. One morning Kathleen burst into Nancy's room with the news: "Nancy! The Fergusons offer to adopt Judy, and she doesn't want to go. Think of that! But she's afraid to ask mother if she can stay. Let's us do it; shall we?"

"I will; but of course there is not enough money to go around, Kitty, even if we all succeed in our vacation plans. Julia will never have any pretty dresses if she stays with us, and she loves pretty dresses. Why didn't the Fergusons adopt her before mother had made her over?"

"Yes," chimed in Kathleen. "Then everybody would have been glad, but now we shall miss her! Think of missing Judy! We would never have believed it!"

"It's like seeing how a book turns out, to watch her priggishness and smuggishness all melting away," Nancy said. "I shouldn't like to see her slip back into the old Judyisms, and neither would mother. Mother'll probably keep her, for I know Mr. Manson thinks it's only a matter of a few months before Uncle Allan dies."

"And mother wouldn't want a Carey to grow up into an imitation Gladys Ferguson; but that's what Judy would be, in course of time."

Julia took Mrs. Ferguson's letter herself to her Aunt Margaret, showing many signs of perturbation in her usually tranquil face.

Mrs. Carey read it through carefully. "It is a very kind, generous offer, Julia. Your father cannot be consulted about it, so you must decide. You would have every luxury, and your life would be full of change and pleasure; while with us it must be, in the nature of things, busy and frugal for a long time to come."

"But I am one more to feed and clothe, Aunt Margaret, and there is so little money!"

"I know, but you are one more to help, after all. The days are soon coming when Nancy and Gilbert will be out in the world, helping themselves. You and Kathleen could stay with Peter and me, awaiting your turn. It doesn't look attractive in comparison with what the Fergusons offer you!"

Then the gentle little rivers that had been swelling all the past year in Julia's heart, rivers of tenderness and gratitude and sympathy, suddenly overflowed their banks and, running hither and thither, softened everything with which they came in contact. Rocky places melted, barren spots waked into life, and under the impulse of a new mood that she scarcely understood Julia cried, "Oh! dear Aunt Margaret, keep me, keep me! This is home; I never want to leave it! I want to be one of Mother Carey's chickens!"

The child had flung herself into the arms that never failed anybody, and with tears streaming down her cheeks made her plea.

"There, there, Judy dear; you are one of us, and we could not let you go unless you were to gain something by it. If you really want to stay we shall love you all the better, and you will belong to us more than you ever did; so dry your eyes, or you will be somebody's duckling instead of my chicken!"

The next surprise was a visit from Cousin Ann Chadwick, who drove up to the door one morning quite unannounced, and asked the driver of the depot wagon to bring over her two trunks immediately.

"Two trunks!" groaned Gilbert. "That means the whole season!"

But it meant nothing of the kind; it meant pretty white dresses for the three girls, two pairs of stockings and two of gloves for the whole family, a pattern of black silk for Mrs. Carey, and numberless small things to which the Carey wardrobe had long been a stranger.

Having bestowed these offerings rather grimly, as was her wont, and having received the family's grateful acknowledgments with her usual lack of grace, she proceeded in the course of a few days to make herself far more disagreeable than had been the case on any previous visit of her life. She had never seen such dusty roads as in Beulah; so many mosquitoes and flies; such tough meat; such a lack of fruit, such talkative, over-familiar neighbors, such a dull minister, such an inattentive doctor, such extortionate tradesmen.

"What shall we do with Cousin Ann!" exclaimed Mrs. Carey to Nancy in despair. "She makes us these generous presents, yet she cannot possibly have any affection for us. We accept them without any affection for her, because we hardly know how to avoid it. The whole situation is positively degrading! I have borne it for years because she was good to your father when he was a boy, but now that she has grown so much more difficult I really think I must talk openly with her."

"She talked openly enough with me when I confessed that Gilbert and I had dropped and broken the Dirty Boy!" said Nancy, "and she has been very cross with me ever since."

"Cousin Ann," said Mrs. Carey that afternoon on the piazza, "it is very easy to see that you do not approve of the way we live, or the way we think about things in general. Feeling as you do, I really wish you would not spend your money on us, and give us these beautiful and expensive presents. It puts me under an obligation that chafes me and makes me unhappy."

"I don't disapprove of you, particularly," said Miss Chadwick. "Do I act as if I did?"

"Your manner seems to suggest it."

"You can't tell much by manners," replied Cousin Ann. "I think you're entirely too soft and sentimental, but we all have our faults. I don't think you have any right to feed the neighbors and burn up fuel and oil in their behalf when you haven't got enough for your own family. I think you oughtn't to have had four children, and having had them you needn't have taken another one in, though she's turned out better than I expected. But all that is none of my business, I suppose, and, wrong-headed as you are, I like you better than most folks, which isn't saying much."

"But if you don't share my way of thinking, why do you keep fretting yourself to come and see us? It only annoys you."

"It annoys me, but I can't help coming, somehow. I guess I hate other places and other ways worse than I do yours. You don't grudge me bed and board, I suppose?"

"How could I grudge you anything when you give us so much, -- so much more than we ought to accept, so much more than we can ever thank you for?"

"I don't want to be thanked; you know that well enough; but there's so much demonstration in your family you can't understand anybody's keeping themselves exclusive. I don't like to fuss over people or have them fuss over me. Kissing comes as easy to you as eating, but I never could abide it. A nasty, common habit, I call it! I want to give what I like and where and when I like, and act as I'm a mind to afterwards. I don't give because I see things are needed, but because I can't spend my income unless I do give. If I could have my way I'd buy you a good house in Buffalo, right side of mine; take your beggarly little income and manage it for you; build a six-foot barbed wire fence round the lot so 't the neighbors couldn't get in and eat you out of house and home, and in a couple of years I could make something out of your family!"

Mrs. Carey put down her sewing, leaned her head back against the crimson rambler, and laughed till the welkin rang.

"I suppose you think I'm crazy?" Cousin Ann remarked after a moment's pause.

"I don't know, Cousin Ann," said Mrs. Carey, taking up her work again. "Whatever it is, you can't help it! If you'll give up trying to understand my point of view, I won't meddle with yours!"

"I suppose you won't come to Buffalo?"

"No indeed, thank you, Cousin Ann!"

"You'll stay here, in this benighted village, and grow old, -- you that are a handsome woman of forty and might have a millionaire husband to take care of you?"

"My husband had money enough to please me, and when I meet him again and show him the four children, he will be the richest man in Paradise."

Cousin Ann rose. "I'm going to-morrow, and I shan't be back this year. I've taken passage on a steamer that's leaving for Liverpool next week!"

"Going abroad! Alone, Cousin Ann?"

"No, with a party of Cook's tourists."

"What a strange idea!" exclaimed Mrs. Carey.

"I don't see why; 'most everybody's been abroad. I don't expect to like the way they live over there, but if other folks can stand it, I guess I can. It'll amuse me for a spell, maybe, and if it don't, I've got money enough to break away and do as I'm a mind to."

The last evening was a pleasant, friendly one, every Carey doing his or her best to avoid risky subjects and to be as agreeable as possible. Cousin Ann Chadwick left next day, and Mrs. Carey, bidding the strange creature good-bye, was almost sorry that she had ever had any arguments with her.

"It will be so long before I see you again, Cousin Ann, I was on the point of kissing you, -- till I remembered!" she said with a smile as she stood at the gate.

"I don't know as I mind, for once," said Miss Chadwick. "If anybody's got to kiss me I'd rather it would be you than anybody!"

She drove away, her two empty trunks in the back of the wagon. She sailed for Liverpool the next week and accompanied her chosen party to the cathedral towns of England. There, in a quiet corner of York Minster, as the boy choir was chanting its anthems, her heart, an organ she had never been conscious of possessing, gave one brief sudden physical pang and she passed out of what she had called life. Neither her family affairs nor the names of her relations were known, and the news of her death did not reach far-away Beulah till more than two months afterward, and with it came the knowledge that Cousin Ann Chadwick had left the income of five thousand dollars to each of the five Carey children, with five thousand to be paid in cash to Mother Carey on the settlement of the estate.



XXXII

Doors Of Daring


Little the Careys suspected how their fortunes were mending, during those last days of June! Had they known, they might almost have been disappointed, for the spur of need was already pricking them, and their valiant young spirits longed to be in the thick of the fray. Plans had been formed for the past week, many of them in secret, and the very next day after the close of the academy, various business projects would burst upon a waiting world. One Sunday night Mother Carey had read to the little group a poem in which there was a verse that struck on their ears with a fine spirit: -- 

"And all the bars at which we fret, That seem to prison and control, Are but the doors of daring set Ajar before the soul."

They recited it over and over to themselves afterwards, and two or three of them wrote it down and pinned it to the wall, or tucked it in the frame of the looking glass.


Olive Lord knocked at her father's study door the morning of the twenty-first of June. Walking in quietly she said, "Father, yesterday was my seventeenth birthday. Mother left me a letter to read on that day, telling me that I should have fifty dollars a month of my own when I was seventeen, Cyril to have as much when he is the same age."

"If you had waited courteously and patiently for a few days you would have heard this from me," her father answered.

"I couldn't be sure!" Olive replied. "You never did notice a birthday; why should you begin now?"

"I have more important matters to take up my mind than the consideration of trivial dates," her father answered. "You know that very well, and you know too, that notwithstanding my absorbing labors, I have endeavored for the last few months to give more of my time to you and Cyril."

"I realize that, or I should not speak to you at all," said Olive. "It is because you have shown a little interest in us lately that I consult you. I want to go at once to Boston to study painting. I will deny myself everything else, if necessary, but I will go, and I will study! It is the only life I care for, the only life I am likely to have, and I am determined to lead it."

"You must see that you are too young to start out for yourself anywhere; it is simply impossible."

"I shall not be alone. Mrs. Carey will find me a good home in Charlestown, with friends of hers. You trust her judgment, if no one else's."

"If she is charitable enough to conduct your foolish enterprises as well as those of her own children, I have nothing to say. I have talked with her frequently, and she knows that as soon as I have finished my last volume I shall be able to take a more active interest in your affairs and Cyril's."

"Then may I go?"

"When I hear from the person in Charlestown, yes. There is an expedition starting for South America in a few months and I have been asked to accompany the party. If you are determined to leave home I shall be free to accept the invitation. Perhaps Mrs. Carey would allow Cyril to stay with her during my absence."

"I dare say, and I advise you to go to South America by all means; you will be no farther away from your family than you have always been!" With this parting shot Olive Lord closed the study door behind her.

"That girl has the most unpleasant disposition, and the sharpest tongue, I ever met in the course of my life!" said Henry Lord to himself as he turned to his task.

Mother Carey's magic was working very slowly in his blood. It had roused him a little from the bottomless pit of his selfishness, but much mischief had been done on all sides, and it would be a work of time before matters could be materially mended. Olive's nature was already warped and embittered, and it would require a deal of sunshine to make a plant bloom that had been so dwarfed by neglect and indifference.

Nancy's door of daring opened into an editorial office. An hour here, an hour there, when the Yellow House was asleep, had brought about a story that was on its way to a distant city. It was written, with incredible care, on one side of the paper only; it enclosed a fully stamped envelope for a reply or a return of the manuscript, and all day long Nancy, trembling between hope and despair, went about hugging her first secret to her heart.

Gilbert had opened his own particular door, and if it entailed no more daring than that of Nancy's effort, it required twice the amount of self-sacrifice. He was to be, from June twenty-seventh till August twenty-seventh, Bill Harmon's post-office clerk and delivery boy, and the first that the family would know about it would be his arrival at the back door, in a linen jacket, with an order-book in his hand. Bravo, Gilly! One can see your heels disappearing over the top of Shiny Wall!

The door of daring just ready to be opened by Kathleen and Julia was of a truly dramatic and unexpected character.

Printed in plain letters, twenty-five circulars reposed in the folds of Julia's nightdresses in her lower bureau drawer. The last thing to be done at night and the first in the morning was the stealthy, whispered reading of one of these documents, lest even after the hundredth time, something wrong should suddenly appear to the eye or ear. They were addressed, they were stamped, and they would be posted to twenty-five families in the neighborhood on the closing day of the academy.


Summer Vacation School

The Misses Kathleen and Julia Carey announce the opening of classes for private instruction on July 1st, from two to four o'clock daily in the

Hamilton Barn.

Faculty.

Miss Kathleen Carey  Reading & Elocution        2 P.M. Miss Julia Carey    Dancing, Embroidery      2-30 P.M. Mrs. Peter Carey    Vocal Music, Part Singing     3 P.M. Miss Nancy Carey    Composition            4 P.M. Mr. Gilbert Carey   Wood carving, Jig Sawing, Manual Training from 4 to 5 Fridays only.

Terms cash. 25 cents a week.

N. B. Children prepared for entrance to the academy at special prices.


Meantime the Honorable Lemuel Hamilton had come to America, and was opening doors of daring at such a rate of speed that he hardly realized the extent of his own courage and what it involved. He accepted an official position of considerable honor and distinction in Washington, rented a house there, and cabled his wife and younger daughter to come over in September. He wrote his elder daughter that she might go with some friends to Honolulu if she would return for Christmas. ("It's eleven years since we had a Christmas tree," he added, "and the first thing you know we shall have lost the habit!")

To his son Jack in Texas he expressed himself as so encouraged by the last business statement, which showed a decided turn for the better, that he was willing to add a thousand dollars to the capital and irrigate some more of the unimproved land on the ranch.

"If Jack has really got hold out there, he can come home every two or three years," he thought. "Well, perhaps I shall succeed in getting part of them together, part of the time, if I work hard enough; all but Tom, whom I care most about! Now that everything is in train I'll take a little vacation myself, and go down to Beulah to make the acquaintance of those Careys. If I had ever contemplated returning to America I suppose I shouldn't have allowed them to settle down in the old house, still, Eleanor would never have been content to pass her summers there, so perhaps it is just as well."

The Peter-bird was too young to greatly dare; still it ought perhaps to be set down that he sold three dozen marbles and a new kite to Billy Harmon that summer, and bought his mother a birthday present with the money. All Peter's "doors of daring" had hitherto opened into places from which he issued weeping, with sprained ankles, bruised hands, skinned knees or burned eyelashes.



XXXIII

Mother Hamilton's Birthday


It was the Fourth of July; a hot, still day when one could fairly see the green peas swelling in their pods and the string beans climbing their poles like acrobats! Young Beulah had rung the church bell at midnight, cast its torpedoes to earth in the early morning, flung its fire-crackers under the horses' feet, and felt somewhat relieved of its superfluous patriotism by breakfast time. Then there was a parade of Antiques and Horribles, accompanied by the Beulah Band, which, though not as antique, was fully as horrible as anything in the procession.

From that time on, the day had been somnolent, enlivened in the Carey household only by the solemn rite of paying the annual rent of the Yellow House. The votive nosegay had been carefully made up, and laid lovingly by Nancy under Mother Hamilton's portrait, in the presence not only of the entire family, but also of Osh Popham, who had called to present early radishes and peppergrass.

"I'd like to go upstairs with you when you get your boquet tied up," he said, "because it's an awful hot day, an' the queer kind o' things you do 't this house allers makes my backbone cold! I never suspicioned that Lena Hamilton hed the same kind o' fantasmic notions that you folks have, but I guess it's like tenant, like landlord, in this case! Anyhow, I want to see the rent paid, if you don't mind. I wish't you'd asked that mean old sculpin of a Hen Lord over; he owns my house an' it might put a few idees into his head!"

In the afternoon Nancy took her writing pad and sat on the circular steps, where it was cool. The five o'clock train from Boston whistled at the station a mile away as she gathered her white skirts daintily up and settled herself in the shadiest corner. She was unconscious of the passing time, and scarcely looked up until the rattling of wheels caught her ear. It was the station wagon stopping at the Yellow House gate, and a strange gentleman was alighting. He had an unmistakable air of the town. His clothes were not as Beulah clothes and his hat was not as Beulah hats, for it was a fine Panama with a broad sweeping brim. Nancy rose from the steps, surprise dawning first in her eyes, then wonder, then suspicion, then conviction; then two dimples appeared in her cheeks.

The stranger lifted the foreign-looking hat with a smile and said, "My little friend and correspondent, Nancy Carey, I think?"

"My American Consul, I do believe!" cried Nancy joyously, as she ran down the path with both hands outstretched. "Where did you come from? Why didn't you tell us beforehand? We never even heard that you were in this country! Oh! I know why you chose the Fourth of July! It's pay day, and you thought we shouldn't be ready with the rent; but it's all attended to, beautifully, this morning!"

"May I send my bag to the Mansion House and stay a while with you?" asked Mr. Hamilton. "Are the rest of you at home? How are Gilbert and Kathleen and Julia and Peter? How, especially, is Mother Carey?"

"What a memory you have!" exclaimed Nancy. "Take Mr. Hamilton's bag, please, Mr. Bennett, and tell them at the hotel that he won't be there until after supper."

It was a pleasant hour that ensued, for Nancy had broken the ice and there was plenty of conversation. Then too, the whole house had to be shown, room by room, even to Cousin Ann's stove in the cellar and the pump in the kitchen sink.

"I never saw anything like it!" exclaimed Hamilton. "It is like magic! I ought to pay you a thousand dollars on the spot! I ought to try and buy the place of you for five thousand! Why don't you go into the business of recreating houses and selling them to poor benighted creatures like me, who never realize their possibilities?"

"If we show you the painted chamber will you promise not to be too unhappy?" asked Nancy. "You can't help crying with rage and grief that it is our painted chamber, not yours; but try to bear up until you get to the hotel, because mother is so soft-hearted she will be giving it back to you unless I interfere."

"You must have spent money lavishly when you restored this room," said the Consul; "it is a real work of art."

"Not a penny," said Mrs. Carey. "It is the work of a great friend of Nancy's, a seventeen-year-old girl, who, we expect, will make Beulah famous some day. Now will you go into your mother's room and find your way downstairs by yourself? Julia, will you show Mr. Hamilton the barn a little later, while Nancy and I get supper? Kitty must go to the Pophams' for Peter; he is spending the afternoon with them."

Nancy had enough presence of mind to intercept Kitty and hiss into her ear: "Borrow a loaf of bread from Mrs. Popham, we are short; and see if you can find any way to get strawberries from Bill Harmon's; it was to have been a bread-and-milk supper on the piazza, to-night, and it must be hurriedly changed into a Consular banquet! Verb. sap. Fly!"

Gilbert turned up a little before six o'clock and was introduced proudly by his mother as a son who had just "gone into business."

"I'm Bill Harmon's summer clerk and delivery boy," he explained. "It's great fun, and I get two dollars and a half a week."

Nancy and her mother worked like Trojans in the kitchen, for they agreed it was no time for economy, even if they had less to eat for a week to come.

"Mr. Hamilton is just as nice as I guessed he was, when his first letter came," said Nancy. "I went upstairs to get a card for the supper menu, and he was standing by your mantelpiece with his head bent over his arms. He had the little bunch of field flowers in his hand, and I know he had been smelling them, and looking at his mother's picture, and remembering things!"

What a merry supper it was, with a jug of black-eyed Susans in the centre of the table and a written bill of fare for Mr. Hamilton, "because he was a Consul," so Nancy said.

Gilbert sat at the head of the table, and Mr. Hamilton thought he had never seen anything so beautiful as Mrs. Carey in her lavender challie, sitting behind the tea cups; unless it was Nancy, flushed like a rose, changing the plates and waiting on the table between courses. He had never exerted himself so much at any diplomatic dinner, and he won the hearts of the entire family before the meal was finished.

"By the way, I have a letter of introduction to you all, but especially to Miss Nancy here, and I have never thought to deliver it," he said. "Who do you think sent it, -- all the way from China?"

"My son Tom!" exclaimed Nancy irrepressibly; "but no, he couldn't, because he doesn't know us."

"The Admiral, of course!" cried Gilbert.

"You are both right," Mr. Hamilton answered, drawing a letter from his coat pocket. "It is a Round Robin from the Admiral and my son Tom, who have been making acquaintance in Hong Kong. It is addressed:

"From The Yellow Peril, In China

"to

"The Yellow House, In Beulah,

"Greeting!"

Nancy crimsoned. "Did the Admiral tell your son Tom I called him the Yellow Peril? It was wicked of him! I did it, you know, because you wrote me that the only Hamilton who cared anything for the old house, or would ever want to live in it, was your son Tom. After that I always called him the Yellow Peril, and I suppose I mentioned it in a letter to the Admiral."

"I am convinced that Nancy's mind is always empty at bedtime," said her mother, "because she tells everything in it to somebody during the day. I hope age will bring discretion, but I doubt it."

"My son Tom is coming home!" said his father, with unmistakable delight in his voice.

Nancy, who was passing the cake, sat down so heavily in her chair that everybody laughed.

"Come, come, Miss Nancy! I can't let you make an ogre of the boy," urged Mr. Hamilton. "He is a fine fellow, and if he comes down here to look at the old place you are sure to be good friends."

"Is he going back to China after his visit?" asked Mrs. Carey, who felt a fear of the young man something akin to her daughter's.

"No, I am glad to say. Our family has been too widely separated for the last ten years. At first it seemed necessary, or at least convenient and desirable, and I did not think much about it. But lately it has been continually on my mind that we were leading a cheerless existence, and I am determined to arrange matters differently."

Mrs. Carey remembered Ossian Popham's description of Mrs. Lemuel Hamilton and forebore to ask any questions with regard to her whereabouts, since her husband did not mention her.

"You will all be in Washington then," she said, "and your son Tom with you, of course?"

"Not quite so near as that," his father replied. "Tom's firm is opening a Boston office and he will be in charge of that. When do you expect the Admiral back? Tom talks of their coming together on the Bedouin, if it can be arranged."

"We haven't heard lately," said Mrs. Carey; "but he should return within a month or two, should he not, Nancy? My daughter writes all the letters for the family, Mr. Hamilton, as you know by this time."

"I do, to my great delight and satisfaction. Now there is one thing I have not seen yet, something about which I have a great deal of sentiment. May I smoke my cigar under the famous crimson rambler?"

The sun set flaming red, behind the Beulah hills. The frogs sang in the pond by the House of Lords, and the grasshoppers chirped in the long grass of Mother Hamilton's favorite hayfield. Then the moon, round and deep-hued as a great Mandarin orange, came up into the sky from which the sun had faded, and the little group still sat on the side piazza, talking. Nothing but their age and size kept the Carey chickens out of Mr. Hamilton's lap, and Peter finally went to sleep with his head against the consul's knee. He was a "lappy" man, Nancy said next morning; and indeed there had been no one like him in the family circle for many a long month. He was tender, he was gay, he was fatherly, he was interested in all that concerned them; so no wonder that he heard all about Gilbert's plans for earning money, and Nancy's accepted story. No wonder he exclaimed at the check for ten dollars proudly exhibited in payment, and no wonder he marvelled at the Summer Vacation School in the barn, where fourteen little scholars were already enrolled under the tutelage of the Carey Faculty. "I never wanted to go to anything in my life as much as I want to go to that school!" he asserted. "If I could write a circular as enticing as that, I should be a rich man. I wish you'd let me have some new ones printed, girls, and put me down for three evening lectures; I'd do almost anything to get into that Faculty." "I wish you'd give the lectures for the benefit of the Faculty, that would be better still," said Kitty. "Nancy's coming-out party was to be in the barn this summer; that's one of the things we're earning money for; or at least we make believe that it is, because it's so much more fun to work for a party than for coal or flour or meat!"

A look from Mrs. Carey prevented the children from making any further allusions to economy, and Gilbert skillfully turned the subject by giving a dramatic description of the rise and fall of The Dirty Boy, from its first appearance at his mother's wedding breakfast to its last, at the house-warming supper.

After Lemuel Hamilton had gone back to the little country hotel he sat by the open window for another hour, watching the moonbeams shimmering on the river and bathing the tip of the white meeting-house steeple in a flood of light. The air was still and the fireflies were rising above the thick grass and carrying their fairy lamps into the lower branches of the feathery elms. "Haying" would begin next morning, and he would be wakened by the sharpening of scythes and the click of mowing machines. He would like to work in the Hamilton fields, he thought, knee-deep in daisies, -- fields on whose grass he had not stepped since he was a boy just big enough to go behind the cart and "rake after." What an evening it had been! None of them had known it, but as a matter of fact they had all scaled Shiny Wall and had been sitting with Mother Carey in Peacepool; that was what had made everything so beautiful! Mr. Hamilton's last glimpse of the Careys had been the group at the Yellow House gate. Mrs. Carey, with her brown hair shining in the moonlight leaned against Gilbert, the girls stood beside her, their arms locked in hers, while Peter clung sleepily to her hand.

"I believe they are having hard times!" he thought, "and I can't think of anything I can safely do to make things easier. Still, one cannot pity, one can only envy them! That is the sort of mother I would have made had I been Nature and given a free hand! I would have put a label on Mrs. Carey, saying: 'This is what I meant a woman to be!'"



XXXIV

Nancy Comes Out


Nancy's seventeenth birthday was past, and it was on the full of the August moon that she finally "came out" in the Hamilton barn. It was the barn's first public appearance too, for the villagers had not been invited to the private Saturday night dances that took place during the brief reign of the Hamilton boys and girls. Beulah was more excited about the barn than it was about Nancy, and she was quite in sympathy with this view of things, as the entire Carey family, from mother to Peter, was fairly bewitched with its new toy. Day by day it had grown more enchanting as fresh ideas occurred to one or another, and especially to Osh Popham, who lived, breathed, and had his being in the barn, and who had lavished his ingenuity and skill upon its fittings. Not a word did he vouchsafe to the general public of the extraordinary nature of these fittings, nor of the many bewildering features of the entertainment which was to take place within the almost sacred precincts. All the Carey festivities had heretofore been in the house save the one in honor of the hanging of the weather vane, which had been an out-of-door function, attended by the whole village. Now the community was all agog to disport itself in pastures new; its curiosity being further piqued by the reception of written invitations, a convention not often indulged in by Beulah.

The eventful day dawned, clear and cool; a day with an air like liquid amber, that properly belonged to September, -- the weather prophet really shifting it into August from pure kindness, having taken a sticky dogday out and pitchforked it into the next month.

The afternoon passed in various stages of plotting, planning, and palpitation, and every girl in Beulah, of dancing age, was in her bedroom, trying her hair a new way. The excitement increased a thousand fold when it was rumored that an Admiral (whatever that might be) had arrived at the hotel and would appear at the barn in full uniform. After that, nobody's braids or puffs would go right!

Nancy never needed to study Paris plates, for her hair dressed itself after a fashion set by all the Venuses and Cupids and little Loves since the world began. It curled, whether she would or no, so the only method was to part the curls and give them a twist into a coil, from which vagrant spirals fell to the white nape of her neck. Or, if she felt gay and coquettish as she did tonight, the curls were pinned high to the crown of her head and the runaways rioted here and there, touching her cheek, her ear, her neck, never ugly, wherever they ran.

Nancy had a new yellow organdy made "almost to touch," and a twist of yellow ribbon in her hair. Kathleen and Julia were in the white dresses brought them by Cousin Ann, and Mrs. Carey wore her new black silk, made with a sweeping little train. Her wedding necklace of seed pearls was around her neck, and a tall comb of tortoise shell and pearls rose from the low-coiled knot of her shining hair.

The family "received" in the old carriage house, and when everybody had assembled, to the number of seventy-five or eighty, the door into the barn was thrown open majestically by Gilbert, in his character as head of the house of Carey. Words fail to describe the impression made by the barn as it was introduced to the company, Nancy's debut sinking into positive insignificance beside it.

Dozens of brown japanned candle-lanterns hung from the beamed ceiling, dispensing little twinkles of light here and there, while larger ones swung from harness pegs driven into the sides of the walls. The soft gray-brown of the old weathered lumber everywhere, made a lovely background for the birch-bark brackets, and the white birch-bark vases that were filled with early golden-rod, mixed with tall Queen Anne's lace and golden glow. The quaint settles surrounding the sides of the room were speedily filled by the admiring guests. Colonel Wheeler's tiny upright piano graced the platform in the "tie up." Miss Susie Bennett, the church organist, was to play it, aided now and then by Mrs. Carey or Julia. Osh Popham was to take turns on the violin with a cousin from Warren's Mills, who was reported to be the master fiddler of the county.

When all was ready Mrs. Carey stood between the master fiddler and Susie Bennett, and there was a sudden hush in the room. "Friends and neighbors," she said, "we now declare the Hall of Happy Hours open for the general good of the village. If it had not been for the generosity of our landlord, Mr. Lemuel Hamilton, we could never have given you this pleasure, and had not our helpers been so many, we could never have made the place so beautiful. Before the general dancing begins there will be a double quadrille of honor, in which all those will take part who have driven a nail, papered or painted a wall, dug a spadeful of earth, or done any work in or about the Yellow House."

"Three cheers for Mrs. Carey!" called Bill Harmon, and everybody complied lustily.

"Three cheers for Lemuel Hamilton!" and the rafters of the barn rang with the response.

Just then the Admiral changed his position to conceal the moisture that was beginning to gather in his eyes; and the sight of a personage so unspeakably magnificent in a naval uniform induced Osh Popham to cry spontaneously: "Three cheers for the Admiral! I don't know what he ever done, but he looks as if he could, all right!" at which everybody cheered and roared, and the Admiral to his great surprise made a speech, during which the telltale tears appeared so often in his eyes and in his voice, that Osh Popham concluded privately that if the naval hero ever did meet an opposing battleship he would be likelier to drown the enemy than fire into them!

The double quadrille of honor passed off with much elegance, everybody not participating in it being green with envy because he was not. Mrs. Carey and the Admiral were partners; Nancy danced with Mr. Popham, Kathleen with Digby, Julia with Bill Harmon. The other couples were Mrs. Popham and Gilbert, Lallie Joy and Cyril Lord, Olive and Nat Harmon, while Mrs. Bill led out a very shy and uncomfortable gentleman who had dug the ditches for Cousin Ann's expensive pipes.

Then the fun and the frolic began in earnest. The girls had been practising the old-fashioned contra dances all summer, and training the younger generation in them at the Vacation School. The old folks needed no rehearsal! If you had waked any of them in the night suddenly they could have called the changes for Speed the Plough, The Soldier's Joy, The Maid in the Pump Room, or Hull's Victory.

Money Musk brought Nancy and Mr. Henry Lord on to the floor as head couple; a result attained by that young lady by every means, fair or foul, known to woman; at least a rudimentary, budding woman of seventeen summers! His coming to the party at all was regarded by Mother Carey, who had spent the whole force of her being in managing it, as nothing short of a miracle. He had accepted partly from secret admiration of his handsome neighbor, partly to show the village that he did not choose always to be a hermit crab, partly out of curiosity to see the unusual gathering. Having crawled out of his selfish shell far enough to grace the occasion, he took another step when Nancy asked him to dance. It was pretty to see her curtsey when she put the question, pretty to see the air of triumph with which she led him to the head of the line, and positively delightful to the onlookers to see Hen Lord doing right and left, ladies' chain, balance to opposite and cast off, at a girl's beck and call. He was not a bad dancer, when his sluggish blood once got into circulation; and he was considerably more limber at the end of Money Musk, considerably less like a wooden image, than at the beginning of it.

In the interval between this astounding exhibition and the Rochester Schottisch which followed it, Henry Lord went up to Mrs. Carey, who was sitting in a corner a little apart from her guests for the moment.

"Shall I go to South America, or shall I not?" he asked her in an undertone. "Olive seems pleasantly settled, and Cyril tells me you will consent to take him into your family for six months; still, I would like a woman's advice."

Mother Carey neither responded, "I should prefer not to take the responsibility of advising you," nor "Pray do as you think best"; she simply said, in a tone she might have used to a fractious boy:

"I wouldn't go, Mr. Lord! Wait till Olive and Cyril are a little older. Cyril will grow into my family instead of into his own; Olive will learn to do without you; worse yet, you will learn to do without your children. Stay at home and have Olive come back to you and her brother every week end. South America is a long distance when there are only three of you!"

Prof. Lord was not satisfied with Mrs. Carey's tone. It was so maternal that he expected at any moment she might brush his hair, straighten his necktie, and beg him not to sit up too late, but his instinct told him it was the only tone he was ever likely to hear from her, and so he said reluctantly, "Very well; I confess that I really rely on your judgment, and I will decline the invitation."

"I think you are right," Mrs. Carey answered, wondering if the man would ever see his duty with his own eyes, or whether he had deliberately blinded himself for life.



XXXV

The Crimson Rambler


While Mrs. Carey was talking with Mr. Lord, Nancy skimmed across the barn floor intent on some suddenly remembered duty, went out into the garden, and met face to face a strange young man standing by the rose trellis and looking in at the dance through the open door.

He had on a conventional black dinner-coat, something never seen in Beulah, and wore a soft travelling cap. At first Nancy thought he was a friend of the visiting fiddler, but a closer look at his merry dark eyes gave her the feeling that she had seen him before, or somebody very like him. He did not wait for her to speak, but taking off his cap, put out his hand and said: "By your resemblance to a photograph in my possession I think you are the girl who planted the crimson rambler."

"Are you 'my son Tom'?" asked Nancy, open astonishment in her tone. "I mean my Mr. Hamilton's son Tom?"

"I am my Mr. Hamilton's son Tom; or shall we say our Mr. Hamilton's? Do two 'mys' make one 'our'?"

"Upon my word, wonders will never cease!" exclaimed Nancy. "The Admiral said you were in Boston, but he never told us you would visit Beulah so soon!"

"No, I wanted it to be a secret. I wanted to appear when the ball was at its height; the ghost of the old regime confronting the new, so to speak."

"Beulah will soon be a summer resort; everybody seems to be coming here."

"It's partly your fault, isn't it?"

"Why, pray?"

"'The Water Babies' is one of my favorite books, and I know all about Mother Carey's chickens. They go out over the seas and show good birds the way home."

"Are you a good bird?" asked Nancy saucily.

"I'm home, at all events!" said Tom with an emphasis that made Nancy shiver lest the young man had come to Beulah with a view of taking up his residence in the paternal mansion.

The two young people sat down on the piazza steps while the music of The Sultan's Polka floated out of the barn door. Old Mrs. Jenks was dancing with Peter, her eighty-year-old steps as fleet as his, her white side-curls bobbing to the tune. Her withered hands clasped his dimpled ones and the two seemed to be of the same age, for in the atmosphere of laughter and goodwill there would have been no place for the old in heart, and certainly Mrs. Jenks was as young as any one at the party.

"I can't help dreading you, nice and amiable as you look," said Nancy candidly to Tom Hamilton; "I am so afraid you'll fall in love with the Yellow House and want it back again. Are you engaged to be married to a little-footed China doll, or anything like that?" she asked with a teasing, upward look and a disarming smile that robbed the question of any rudeness.

"No, not engaged to anything or anybody, but I've a notion I shall be, soon, if all goes well! I'm getting along in years now!"

"I might have known it!" sighed Nancy. "It was a prophetic instinct, my calling you the Yellow Peril."

"It isn't a bit nice of you to dislike me before you know me; I didn't do that way with you!"

"What do you mean?"

"Why, in the first letter you ever wrote father you sent your love to any of his children that should happen to be of the right size. I chanced to be just the right size, so I accepted it, gratefully; I've got it here with me to-night; no, I left it in my other coat," he said merrily, making a fictitious search through his pockets.

Nancy laughed at his nonsense; she could not help it.

"Will you promise to get over your foolish and wicked prejudices if I on my part promise never to take the Yellow House away from you unless you wish?" continued Tom.

"Willingly," exclaimed Nancy joyously. "That's the safest promise I could make, for I would never give up living in it unless I had to. First it was father's choice, then it was mother's, now all of us seem to have built ourselves into it, as it were. I am almost afraid to care so much about anything, and I shall be so relieved if you do not turn out to be really a Yellow Peril after all!"

"You are much more of a Yellow Peril yourself!" said Tom, "with that dress and that ribbon in your hair! Will you dance the next dance with me, please?"

"It's The Tempest; do you know it?"

"No, but I'm not so old but I may learn. I'll form myself on that wonderful person who makes jokes about the Admiral and plays the fiddle."

"That's Ossian Popham, principal prop of the House of Carey!"

"Lucky dog! Have you got all the props you need?"

Nancy's hand was not old or strong or experienced enough to keep this strange young man in order, and just as she was meditating some blighting retort he went on: -- 

"Who is that altogether adorable, that unspeakably beautiful lady in black? -- the one with the pearl comb that looks like a crown?"

"That's mother," said Nancy, glowing.

"I thought so. At least I didn't know any other way to account for her."

"Why does she have to be accounted for?" asked Nancy, a little bewildered.

"For the same reason that you do," said the audacious youth. "You explain your mother and your mother explains you, a little, at any rate. Where is the celebrated crimson rambler, please?"

"You are sitting on it," Nancy answered tranquilly.

Tom sprang away from the trellis, on which he had been half reclining. "Bless my soul!" he exclaimed. "Why didn't you tell me? I have a great affection for that rambler; it was your planting it that first made me -- think favorably of you. Has it any roses on it? I can't see in this light."

"It is almost out of bloom; there may be a few at the top somewhere; I'll look out my window to-morrow morning and see."

"At about what hour?"

"How should I know?" laughed Nancy.

"Oh! you're not to be depended on!" said Tom rebukingly. "Just give me your hand a moment; step on that lowest rung of the trellis, now one step higher, please; now stretch up your right hand and pick that little cluster, do you see it? -- That's right; now down, be careful, there you are, thank you! A rose in the hand is worth two in the morning."

"Put it in your button hole," said Nancy. "It is the last; I gave your father one of the first a month ago."

"I shall put this in my pocket book and send it to my mother in a letter," Tom replied. ("And tell her it looks just like the girl who planted it," he thought; "sweet, fragrant, spicy, graceful, vigorous, full of color.")

"Now come in and meet mother," said Nancy. "The polka is over, and soon they will be 'forming on' for The Tempest."

Tom Hamilton's entrance and introduction proved so interesting that it delayed the dance for a few moments. Then Osh Popham and the master fiddler tuned their violins and Mrs. Carey assisted Susie Bennett at the piano, so that there were four musicians to give fresh stimulus to the impatient feet.

Tom Hamilton hardly knew whether he would rather dance with Nancy or stand at the open door and watch her as he had been doing earlier in the evening. He could not really see her now, although he was her partner, his mind was so occupied with the intricate figures, but he could feel her, in every fibre of his body, the touch of her light hand was so charged with magnetism.

Somebody swung the back doors of the barn wide open. The fields, lately mown, sloped gently up to a fringe of pines darkly green against the sky. The cool night air stirred the elms, and the brilliant moon appeared in the very centre of the doorway. The beauty of the whole scene went to Tom Hamilton's head a little, but he kept his thoughts steadily on the changes as Osh Popham called them.

To watch Nancy Carey dance The Tempest was a sight to stir the blood. The two head couples joined hands and came down the length of the barn four abreast; back they went in a whirl; then they balanced to the next couple, then came four hands round and ladies' chain, and presently they came down again flying, with another four behind them. The first four were Nancy and Tom, Ralph Thurston and Kathleen, the last two among the best dancers in Beulah; but while Kitty was slim and straight and graceful as a young fawn, Nancy swept down the middle of the barn floor like a flower borne by the breeze. She was Youth, Hope, Joy incarnate! She had washed the dishes that night, would wash them again in the morning, but what of that? What mattered it that the years just ahead (for aught she knew to the contrary) were full of self-denial and economy? Was she not seventeen? Anything was possible at seventeen! What if the world was to be a work-a-day world? There was music and laughter in it as well as work, and there was love in it, too, oceans of love, so why not trip and be merry and guide one's young partner safely through the difficult mazes of the dance and bring him out flushed and triumphant, to receive mother's laughing compliments?

Everybody was dancing The Tempest in his or her own fashion, thought the Admiral, looking on. Mrs. Popham was grave, even gloomy from the waist up, but incredibly lively from the waist down, moving with the precision of machinery, while her partner, a bricklayer from Beulah Centre, engaged the attention of the entire company by his wonderful steps. She was fully up to time too, you may be sure, as her rival, Mrs. Bill Harmon, was opposite her in the set. Lallie Joy, clad in one of Kathleen's dresses, her hair dressed by Julia, was a daily attendant at the Vacation School, but five weeks of steady instruction had not sufficed to make her sure of ladies' grand chain. Olive moved like a shy little wild thing, with a bending head and a grace all her own, while Gilbert had great ease and distinction.

There was a brief interval for ice cream, accompanied by marble cake, gold cake, silver cake, election cake, sponge cake, cup cake, citron cake, and White Mountain cake, and while it was being eaten, Susie Bennett played The Sliding Waltz, The Maiden's Prayer, and Listen to the Mocking Bird with variations; variations requiring almost supernatural celerity.

"I guess there ain't many that can touch Sutey at the piano!" said Osh Popham, who sat beside the Admiral. "Have you seen anybody in the cities that could play any faster'n she can? And Jo you ever ketch her landin' on a black note when she started for a white one? I guess not!"

"You are right!" replied the Admiral, "and now there seems to be a general demand for you. What are they requesting you to do, -- fly?"

"That's it," said Osh. "Mis' Carey, will you play for me? Maria, you can go into the carriage house if you don't want to be disgraced."

"Come, my beloved, haste away, Cut short the hours of thy delay. Fly like a youthful hart or roe Over the hills where spices grow."

At length the strains of the favorite old tune faded on the ears of the delighted audience. Then they had The Portland Fancy and The Irish Washerwoman and The College Hornpipe, and at last the clock in the carriage house struck midnight and the guests departed in groups of twos and threes and fours, their cheerful voices sounding far down the village street.

Osh Popham stayed behind to cover the piano, put out the lanterns, close the doors and windows, and lock the barn, while Mrs. Carey and the Admiral strolled slowly along the greensward to the side door of the house.

"Good-night," Osh called happily as he passed them a few minutes later. "I guess Beulah never see a party such as ourn was, this evenin'! I guess if the truth was known, the State o' Maine never did, neither! Good-night, all! Mebbe if I hurry along I can ketch up with Maria!"

His quick steps brushing the grassy pathway could be heard for some minutes in the clear still air, and presently the sound of his mellow tenor came floating back: -- 

"Come, my beloved, haste away, Cut short the hours of thy delay. Fly like a youthful hart or roe Over the hills where spices grow."

Julia had gone upstairs with the sleepy Peter-bird, who had been enjoying his first experience of late hours on the occasion of Nancy's coming out; the rest of the young folks were gathered in a group under the elms, chatting in couples, -- Olive and Ralph Thurston, Kathleen and Cyril Lord, Nancy and Tom Hamilton. Then they parted, Tom Hamilton strolling to the country hotel with the young school teacher for companion, while Olive and Cyril walked across the fields to the House of Lords.

It was a night in a thousand. The air was warm, clear, and breathlessly still; so still that not a leaf stirred on the trees. The sky was cloudless, and the moon, brilliant and luminous, shone as it seldom shines in a northern clime. The water was low in Beulah's shining river and it ran almost noiselessly under the bridge. While Kathleen and Julia were still unbraiding their hair, exclaiming at every twist of the hand as to the "loveliness" of the party, Nancy had kissed her mother and crept silently into bed. All night long the strains of The Tempest ran through her dreams. There was the touch of a strange hand on hers, an altogether new touch, warm and compelling. There was the gay trooping down the centre of the barn in fours, -- some one by her side who had never been there before, -- and a sensation entirely new and intoxicating, that whenever she met the glance of her partner's merry dark eyes she found herself at the bottom of them.

Was she a child when she heard Osh Popham cry: "Take your partners for The Tempest!" and was she a woman when he called: "All promenade to seats!" She hardly knew. Beulah was a dream; the Yellow House was a dream, the dance was a dream, the partner was a dream. At one moment she was a child helping her father to plant the crimson rambler, at another she was a woman pulling a rose from the topmost branch and giving it to some one who steadied her hand on the trellis; some one who said "Thank you" and "Good-night" differently from the rest of the world.

Who was the young stranger? Was he the Knight of Beulah Castle, the Overlord of the Yellow House, was he the Yellow Peril, was he a good bird to whom Mother Carey's chicken had shown the way home? Still the dream went on in bewildering circles, and Nancy kept hearing mysterious phrases spoken with a new meaning, -- "Will you dance with me?" "Doesn't the House of Carey need another prop?" "Won't you give me a rose?" and above all: "You sent your love to any one of the Hamilton children who should be of the right size; I was just the right size, and I took it!"

"Love couldn't be sent in a letter!" expostulated Nancy in the dream; and somebody, in the dream, always answered, "Don't be so sure! Very strange things happen when Mother Carey's messengers go out over the seas. Don't you remember how they spoke to Tom in 'The Water Babies'? -- Among all the songs that came across the water one was more sweet and clear than all, for it was the song of a young girl's voice.... And what was the song that she sung?... Have patience, keep your eye single and your hands clean, and you will learn some day to sing it yourself, without needing any man to teach you!"

<eob>

The Moving Picture Girls In War Plays

Or

The Sham Battles At Oak Farm

By

Laura Lee Hope



Chapter I

The Old Newspaper


"There, I think I have everything in that I'll need at Oak Farm."

"Everything! Good gracious, Ruth, how quickly you pack! Why, I've oceans and oceans of things yet to go into my trunk! Oh, there are my scout shoes. I've been looking everywhere for them. I'll need them if I do any hiking in those war scenes," and Alice DeVere dived under a pile of clothing, bringing to light a muddy, but comfortable, pair of walking shoes. "I don't know what I'd do without them," she murmured.

"Alice!" cried Ruth, her sister, and the shocked tone of her voice made the younger girl look up quickly from the contemplation of the shoes.

"Why, what have I done now?" came in rather injured accents. "I'm sure I didn't use any slang; and as for not having all my things packed as quickly as you, why, Ruth, my dear, you must remember that you are an exception -- the one that proves the rule."

"I didn't say you used any slang, Alice dear. Nor did I intimate that you were behind in your packing. I'll gladly help you. But it --  --  Those shoes!" and she pointed a finger dramatically at the "brogans," as Alice sometimes called them.

"Those shoes? What's the matter with them? They're a perfectly good pair, as far as I can see; and they're mighty comfortable."

"Oh, Alice -- mighty?"

"Well, I can't get over using such words, especially since we heard so many strong expressions from the sailors when we were in those sea films. Mine sound weak now. But what's the matter with the shoes, Ruth?"

"They're so muddy, dear. They will soil all your pretty things if you put them in your trunk in that condition. You don't want that, do you?"

"I should say not -- most decidedly! Especially since pretty things with me last about one day. I don't see how it is you keep yours so nice and fresh, Ruth."

"It's because I'm careful, dear."

"Careful! Bosh! Care killed a cat, they say. I'm sure I'm careful, too --  --  Oh, here's that lace collar I've been looking everywhere for!"

She made a sudden reach for it, there was a ripping, tearing sound, and Alice was gazing ruefully at a rent in the sleeve of her dress.

"Oh, for the love of trading stamps!" she ejaculated.

"Alice!" gasped Ruth.

"Well, I don't care! I had to say something. Look at that rip! And I wanted to wear this dress to-day. Oh --  -- "

"That's just it, Alice," interrupted Ruth, in a gentle, chiding voice. "You are too impulsive. If you had reached for that lace less hurriedly you wouldn't have torn your dress. And if you took care of your things and didn't let your laces and ribbons get strewn about so, they would last longer and look fresher. I don't want to lecture --  -- "

"I know you don't, you old dear!" and Alice leaned over -- they were both sitting on the floor in front of trunks -- and made a motion as though to embrace her sister. But a warning rip caused her to desist, and, looking over her shoulder, she found her skirt caught on a corner of the trunk.

"There! Did you ever?" she cried. "I can't even give you a sisterly hug without pulling myself to pieces. I'm all upset -- excited -- unstrung -- Wellington Bunn doing Hamlet isn't to be compared to me. I must get straightened out."

"I guess that's it -- you're all tangled up in your packing," said Ruth, with a laugh. "Truly, I don't mean to lecture, Alice, but you must go a bit slower."

"Not with this packing -- I can't, and be ready in time. Why! you are all prepared to go. I'll just throw the things into my trunk and --  -- "

"Now, don't do that. Don't throw things in. You can put in twice as much if you lay the things in neatly. I'll help you. But -- oh, dear --  -- !"

Ruth made a gesture of despair.

"What's the matter now? What are you registering?" and Alice used the moving picture term for depicting one of the standard emotions. The girls were both moving picture actresses.

"I'm trying to register dismay at the muddy state of those scout shoes, as you call them, Alice. They may be nice and comfortable, as you say, and really they do look so. And I have no doubt you will find them useful if we have to do much tramping over the hills of Oak Farm. But --  -- "

"Oh, we'll have to do plenty of hiking, as Russ Dalwood warned us," Alice put in. "You know, there are to be several Civil War plays filmed, and they didn't have automobiles or motor cycles to get about on in those days. So we'll have to walk. And it will be over rough ground, so I thought these shoes would be just the thing."

"They will, Alice. I must get a pair myself, I think. But I was just wondering how you got them so terribly muddy. How did you?"

"Oh, Paul Ardite and I were in that Central Park scene the other day. You know, 'A Daughter of the Woods,' and some of the scenes were filmed in the park. It was muddy, and I didn't get a chance to have the brogans cleaned, for I had to jump from the park into the ballroom scene of 'His Own Enemy,' and there was no time. We had to retake in that scene because one of the extras was wearing white canvas shoes instead of ballroom slippers, and the director didn't notice it until the film was run out in the projection room.

"So that accounts for the mud on the shoes, Ruth. But I suppose I can 'phone down to the janitor and have him send them out to the Italian at the corner. He'll take the mud off."

"No, I don't know that you can do that, Alice. We haven't any too much time. If I had an old newspaper, I could wrap the shoes up in that for you, and pack them in the bottom of your trunk. Then the mud wouldn't soil your clothes."

"An old newspaper? Here's a stack of them. Daddy just brought them from his room. Guess he's going to throw them away."

Alice reached up to a table and lifted the top paper from a pile near the edge. She opened it with a flirt of her hand and was about to wrap the muddy shoes in it when some headlines on one page caught her attention. She leaned eagerly forward to read them, and spent more than a minute going over the article beneath.

"Well," remarked Ruth finally, with a smile, "if you're going to do that, Alice, you'll never get packed. What is it that interests you?"

"This, about a missing girl. Why, look here, Ruth, there's a reward of ten thousand dollars offered for news of her! Why, I don't remember seeing this before. Look, it's quite startling. A San Francisco girl -- Mildred Passamore -- mysteriously disappears while on a train bound for Seattle -- can't find any trace of her -- parents distracted -- they've got detectives on the trail -- going to flood the country with photographs of her -- all sorts of things feared -- but think of it! -- ten thousand dollars reward!"

"Let me see," and in spite of the necessity for haste in the packing, Ruth DeVere forgot it for the moment and came to look over her sister's shoulder to read the account of the missing California girl.

"It is strange," murmured Ruth. "I don't remember about that. I wonder if she could be around here? The New York police are wonderful in working on mystery cases."

"But the funny part of it is," said Alice, "that I haven't noticed anything about it in the New York papers. Have you? This is a San Francisco paper. Naturally they'd have more about it than would the journals here. But even the New York papers would have big accounts of such a case, especially where such a large reward is offered."

"That's so," agreed Ruth. "I wonder why we haven't seen an account of it in our papers. I read them every day."

"What's that? An account of what? Have the papers been missing anything?" asked a deep, vibrating voice, and an elderly man came into the girls' room and regarded them smilingly.

"Oh, hello, Daddy!" cried Alice, blowing him a kiss. "I'm almost ready."

"Hum, yes! You look it!" and he laughed.

"It's this, Daddy," went on Ruth, holding out the paper. "We were going to wrap Alice's muddy shoes in this sheet, when we happened to notice an account of the mysterious disappearance of a Mildred Passamore, of San Francisco, for whom ten thousand dollars reward is offered. There has been nothing in the New York papers about it."

Mr. DeVere, an old-time actor, and now employed, with his daughters, by a large motion picture concern, reached forth his hand for the paper. He gave one look at the article, and then his eyes went up to the date-line. He laughed.

"No wonder there hasn't been anything in the New York papers of to-day about this case," he said. "This paper is four years old! But I remember the Passamore case very well. It created quite a sensation at the time."

"Poor girl! Was she ever found?" asked Ruth.

"Why, yes; I believe she was," said Mr. DeVere, in rather dreamy tones. He was looking over other articles in the paper.

"Who got the reward?" asked Alice.

"Eh? What's that?" Her father seemed to come back from a mental journey to the past.

"I say, who got the reward?"

"What reward?"

"Why, Daddy! The one offered for the finding of Miss Passamore. The girl we just told you about -- in the paper -- ten thousand dollars. Don't you remember?"

"Oh, yes. I was thinking of something else I just read here. Oh, the reward! Well, I suppose the police got it. I don't remember, to tell you the truth. I know that her disappearance at the time created quite a sensation."

"And are you sure she was found?"

"Oh, yes, quite sure. Look here!" and with a smile on his face he leaned forward, one rather fat finger pointing to the article he had just been reading. "I was wondering how you girls got hold of this old back-number paper, but I see it's one of several I saved because they had printed notices of my acting. This is a very good and fair criticism of my work when I was appearing in Shakespearian drama -- a very fair notice, ahem!" and Mr. DeVere leaned back in his chair, a gratified smile on his face.

"A fair notice! I should say it was!" laughed Alice. "It does nothing but praise you, and says the others offered you miserable support."

"Well, it was fair to me," said Mr. DeVere. "Yes, I remember that tour very well. We were in California at the time of this Miss Passamore's disappearance. Helen Gordon was my leading lady then. Ah, yes, that was four years ago."

"No wonder there wasn't anything in to-day's New York papers," said Alice. "Well, let me wrap up my shoes, and I'll try to have this packing done in time to get out to Oak Farm."

"Yes, I just stopped in to see how you were coming on," put in her father. "Mr. Pertell wants to get started, and it won't do to disappoint him. There are to be several thousand men and horses in the production, and the bill for extras will be heavy."

"I'll hustle along, Daddy!" cried Alice. "Do you want that paper?"

"No, you may take it. I'll just tear out this page with the theatrical notice of myself."

He handed the remainder of the paper to his daughter, who, with the help of her sister, wrapped up the muddy shoes.

Then the girls proceeded with the putting in of other articles and garments that would be needed during their stay at Oak Farm.

"I wonder --  -- " began Alice, when there came a knock on their door, and a voice demanded:

"I say, girls! -- are you there?"

"Yes, Russ. Come on in!" answered Alice.

"Oh, and with the room looking the way it is!" remonstrated Ruth.

"Can't be helped. Russ knows what packing is," Alice declared, as a tall, good-looking young man entered.

"Come on!" he cried. "No time to lose."

"What's the matter? Is the place on fire?" asked Ruth.

"No. But there's got to be a retake in that last scene of 'Only a Flivver,' and Mr. Pertell sent me to get you. It won't take long, but they're in a hurry for it. Come on! Paul is waiting outside in the machine and I've got the camera. Hustle!"



Chapter II

Off For Oak Farm


"What's that, Russ? A retake?" asked Alice.

"Yes, of that auto scene in the park."

"Is that the one I'm in?" Ruth inquired.

"Yes. You're both in it, and so is Paul. It's the scene where Mr. Bunn is struck by the auto mud-guard -- not hurt, you know, and you, Ruth, jump out to give first aid."

"What's the matter with the scene?" asked Alice. "I certainly struck him all right with the mud-guard."

"Yes, that part was all right," Russ admitted. Alice had been running the automobile in the scene.

"And didn't I do my first aid business well?" Ruth demanded.

"Yes," Russ acknowledged. "Your part came out perfect. But just at the critical moment -- you know, where Mr. Bunn was supposed to think he was dying and wanted to right the wrong he had done in cutting his daughter off in his will with only a dollar -- some boys got in the way of the camera. They were outsiders, butting in, the way they always do when we film stuff in the park. It wouldn't have been so bad, only one of the youngsters began to pull off some funny stuff right in range of Mr. Bunn's agonized face. I didn't see him at the time, or I'd have stopped the running of the film. It was only when we got it in the projection room that we discovered it.

"So Mr. Pertell ordered a retake of that one scene, and it's got to be done in a hurry. It won't take long. Mr. Bunn will meet us in the park. Be sure and wear the same things you had on that day. It won't do to have you get out of the auto in one dress, Ruth, and, a second later, kneel down beside Mr. Bunn in a gown entirely different."

"All right, Russ, I'll be careful."

"Oh, dear! But my packing!" sighed Alice. "I'll never get it done, and we must start for Oak Farm --  -- "

"Mr. Pertell will have to make allowances," said Russ, quickly. "Come on -- move the boat! You won't be needed in the real war scenes for a couple of days, anyhow, though I suppose there'll be rehearsals. But it can't be helped. This retake is holding up the whole film, and it's to be released next week."

Delaying only long enough to put on the proper dresses and to tell their father where they were going, Ruth and Alice DeVere were soon on their way to Central Park, where the scene was to be filmed, or photographed over again -- a "retake," as it is called, the bane alike of camera men and directors.

And while the girls -- the moving picture girls -- are on their way to do over a bit of work, I shall take the opportunity of telling my new readers something about Ruth and Alice DeVere.

I have called them just what they are: "The Moving Picture Girls," and that is the title of the first volume of this series, which depicts them and their adventures.

Their mother had died some years previously, leaving them to the care of their father, Hosmer DeVere, at one time a talented actor in the legitimate drama. But a throat affection forced him to give up his acting and, at the opening scene in the first volume, we find him and his daughters in rather straitened circumstances, living in a second-rate apartment house in New York.

Across the hall dwelt Russ Dalwood, with his mother. Russ was a "camera man." That is, he took moving pictures in the big studios and out of doors for the Comet Film Company, of which Mr. Frank Pertell was manager and director.

It was Russ who suggested to Mr. DeVere a way out of his troubles. He could not act in the "legitimate," as his voice was gone; but no voice is needed to appear on the films for the movies, since a mere motion of the lips suffices, when any speaking is to be done. The "silent drama" has been the salvation of many an actor who, if he had to declaim his lines, would be a failure.

At first Mr. DeVere would not hear of acting before the camera, but he soon came to know that greater actors than he had fallen in line with the work, especially since the pay was so large, and finally he consented. An account of his success and of the entrance of his daughters into the field is given in the initial book.

Ruth, the elder girl, was, like her father, of a romantic turn. Also she was rather tall and willowy, as Mr. DeVere had been before he had taken on flesh with the passing of the years; and she was cast for parts that suited her type. She was deliberate in her actions, and in "registry."

Alice, like her late mother, was warm-hearted and impulsive, plump, vivacious and full of fun. Both girls were excellent movie actresses. In the company they had joined was Mr. Wellington Bunn, an old actor, who hoped, some day, to appear in Hamlet -- Hamlet in the legitimate.

Paul Ardite, who played light parts, had become very fond of Alice. Russ Dalwood had a liking for Ruth, and the four had many pleasant hours in each other's company.

Pearl Pennington was the leading lady at times, and was rather disposed to domineer over our girls, as was her chum, Laura Dixon. Mrs. Maguire was the "mother" of the film company. She portrayed old lady parts, and her two grandchildren, Tommie and Nellie, the orphans, were cast for characters suitable to them.

Carl Switzer, a German-American, did comedy parts and was a good fellow, though occasionally he would unconsciously say some very funny things. His opposite in character was Pepper Sneed, the grouch of the company. But Pepper could do valuable work, especially as a villain, and so he was kept on. As for Pop Snooks, the company could not have got along without him. It was Pop, the property man of the company, who made many of the devices used when the company went to "Oak Farm," as told in the second volume, where scenes for farm dramas were filmed. Pop could use a drawbridge in one scene, and, in the next, convert it into a perfectly good cow-barn. Pop was a valuable man.

There were other members of the company, of more or less importance, whom you will meet as this story progresses.

It was in the third volume of the series, "The Moving Picture Girls Snowbound," that Ruth and Alice succeeded in getting "the proof on the film" that saved Mr. DeVere from an unjust charge.

From the cold and frostiness of Deerfield the girls went to Florida, where "Under the Palms," many stirring acts were filmed. It was here that Alice and Ruth helped find two girls who were lost in the wilds of the Everglades.

"The Moving Picture Girls at Rocky Ranch" gave Ruth and Alice a taste of cowboy life, and though rivals tried to spoil some of the valuable films, they were not altogether successful, even though a prairie fire figured in their schemes.

The girls, with their father, had recently returned from a perilous trip. This is told about in the volume immediately preceding the one you are reading -- "The Moving Picture Girls at Sea." In that Alice and Ruth proved, not only their versatility as actresses, but also that they could be brave and resourceful in the face of danger. And they more than repaid the old sailor, Jack Jepson, who saved their lives, by doing him a good turn.

"Well, life at Oak Farm will be vastly different from that on the Mary Ellen," remarked Alice, as she looked from the automobile as it swung along through the New York streets on the way to the park.

"Yes," agreed her sister. "But I like it up there."

"There are going to be some strenuous times," said Paul. "We've got to do some hustling work."

"All the better," declared Russ. "I like to keep the film running. This sitting about all day and reeling off only ten feet makes me tired."

"You like action!" laughed Ruth.

"Yes; and plenty of it."

Oak Farm was the property of the Apgars. There was Mr. Belix Apgar, the father, Nance, his wife, and Sandy, an energetic son. The farm was located in New Jersey, about forty miles from New York, and it provided a picturesque background for the scenes evolved by Mr. Pertell and his company. It was during a scene on the farm, some time before, that a valuable discovery had been made, which endeared the moving picture girls and their chums to the Apgars.

"How did Mr. Pertell come to pick out Oak Farm for the war plays?" asked Ruth, as the automobile bounced along.

"Well, I suggested it to him," answered Russ. "I remembered the background, and I felt sure we could get all sorts of settings there to make the proper scenes. There are hills, mountains, valleys, streams, bridges, waterfalls, cliffs and caves. Everything needed for perfectly good war dramas."

"How did they come to want that sort of stuff?" asked Paul.

"Oh, war stuff is going big now," Russ answered. "All this talk of preparedness, you know, the war in Europe, and all that. The public is fairly 'eating up' war pictures."

"I hope we don't have to fire any guns!" exclaimed Ruth, with a shudder.

"You'll see and hear plenty of 'em fired," Russ told her. "There are to be some big battle scenes and cavalry charges. But one of you will be back of the firing line, I believe."

"How is that?" asked Alice.

"Well, one of you girls is to be cast for an army nurse, and the other will be a spy. The spy has to carry a revolver."

"I'm going to be the spy!" cried Alice, impetuously. "I know how to shoot a gun."

"I'd rather be the nurse," murmured Ruth, and truly she was better fitted for that part.

"'A Girl in Blue and A Girl in Gray' is to be the title of the war play -- or at least one of them," went on Russ. "There will be some lively scenes, and I'll be on the jump most of the time."

"Are you going to film them all?" asked Paul.

"Oh, no. I'm to have several assistants, but I'll be in general charge of the camera squad. So, girls, look your prettiest."

"They always do that," said Paul.

"Thank you!" came in a feminine duet.

A little later the place where the retake was to be made was reached. Mr. Bunn was on hand, wearing his air of "Hamletian gloom," as Alice whispered, and the work of retaking the scenes was soon under way.

This time all went well. Alice drove her "flivver" at Mr. Bunn, who was properly knocked down and looked after by Ruth. No small boys, with an exaggerated sense of humor, got in the way, and the girls were shortly back in their apartment. They had moved to a more pretentious home since their success in moving pictures, and the Dalwoods had taken an apartment in the same building.

"And now to get on with my packing!" sighed Alice. "All I am sure of is that I have my 'brogans' in."

"I'll help you," offered Ruth.

Two days later the Comet Film Company, augmented for the occasion, was at the depot in Hoboken, ready to take the Lackawanna train out to Oak Farm, New Jersey, where it nestled in the hills of Sussex County.

"I don't see how they are going to take battle scenes with just this company," observed Alice, as she surveyed her fellow workers. "And where are the guns and horses?"

"They'll come up later," Russ informed her. "There are to be two big companies and a couple of batteries, but they won't be on hand until they are really needed. It costs too much to keep them when they are not working."

"Are you all here?" asked Mr. Pertell hurrying along the seats with a handful of tickets -- "counting noses," so to speak.

"All here, I think," answered Russ.

"Where is Carl Switzer?" asked the manager.

"He was here a minute ago," Alice said.

"Well, he isn't here now," remarked Mr. Bunn.

"And almost time for the train to start!" exploded the director. "We need him in some of the first scenes to-morrow. Get him, somebody!"

"Hey, Mister! Does yer mean dat funny, moon-faced man what talks like a pretzel?" asked a newsboy in the station.

"Yes, that's Mr. Switzer," was the answer. "Where is he?"

"I jest seen him go out dat way," and the boy pointed toward the doors leading to the street in front of the ferry. This street led over to the interned German steamships at the Hoboken piers.



Chapter III

Hard At Work


"Great Scott!" ejaculated Mr. Pertell. "I might have known that if Switzer came anywhere near his German friends he'd be off having a confab with them. Go after him, somebody! It's only five minutes to train time, and it will take those Germans that long to say how-de-do to one another, without getting down to business."

"I'll get him," offered Paul, hurrying off toward the swinging doors.

"I'll go wit' youse," said the newsboy. "I likes t' listen t' him talk. Does he do a Dutch act?"

"Sometimes," laughed Paul.

"Youse is actors, ain't youse?" the boy asked.

"Movies," answered Paul, hurrying along toward the entrance to the shipyards.

"I wuz in 'em onct," went on the lad. "Dey wuz a scene where us guys wuz sellin' papes, an' anudder guy comes along, and t'rows a handful of money in de street -- he had so much he didn't know what t' do wit' it -- dat wuz in de picture," he explained. "I wuz in de scene."

"Was it real money?" asked Paul.

"Naw -- nottin' but tin," and the tone expressed the disappointment that had been experienced. "But we each got a quarter out of it fer bein' in de picture, so we didn't make out so worse. Dere's your friend now," and the newsboy pointed to the comedian standing at the entrance to one of the piers, talking to the watchman. Both had raised their voices high, and were using their hands freely.

"Hey, Mr. Switzer, come along!" cried Paul. "It's time for the train."

"Ach! Der train! I t'ought der vos plenty of time. I vant to see a friend of mine who is living on vun of dese wessels. Haven't I got der time?"

"No, not a minute to spare. You can see him when you come back."

"Ach! Maybe I neffer comes back. If I get in der war plays I may be shotted."

"Oh, come on!" laughed Paul, while the newsboy went into amused contortions at the exaggerated language and gestures of Mr. Switzer.

"See you later, Hans!" called the comedian to the watchman at the pier.

"Ach, Himmel! Vot I care!" the latter cried. "I don't care even if you comes back neffer! You can't get on dose ship!" and he waved his hand at the big vessels, interned to prevent their capture by the British warships.

"I was having quite an argument with him," said Mr. Switzer, speaking "United States," as he walked back to the station with Paul.

"Wouldn't he let you go on board?"

"No. Took me for an English spy, I guess. But I know one of der officers, and I thought I'd have time for a chat with him."

"Mr. Pertell is in a hurry," said the young actor.

"Well, if we miss this train there's another."

"Not until to-morrow, and he wants to start the rehearsals the first thing in the morning."

"Ach! Den dat's differunt alretty yet again, wasn't it so?" and Mr. Switzer winked at the admiring newsboy, and tossed him a quarter, with the advice to get a pretzel and use it for a watch charm. Whereat the boy went into convulsive laughter again.

"What do you mean, Switzer, by going off just at train time?" demanded the indignant director and manager.

"Train time is der time to go off -- so long as you don't go off der track!" declared the German. "But I vanted to go on -- not go off -- I vanted to go on der ships only dey vouldn't let me. However, better late than be a miss vot's like a bird in der hand," and with a shrug of his shoulders and a last wink at the newsboy, Mr. Switzer went out to the waiting train with the others.

It was a long and rather tedious ride to Oak Farm, which lay some miles back in the hills from the railroad station, and it was late afternoon when the company of moving picture actors and actresses arrived, to be greeted by Sandy Apgar and his father and his mother.

"Well, I am glad to see you all again!" cried Sandy, shaking hands with Mr. DeVere, the girls and the others. "It seems like old times!"

"We're glad dot you are glad!" declaimed Mr. Switzer. "Haf you any more barns vot need burning down?"

"Not this time," laughed Sandy. "One barn-burning is enough for me." A barn, an old one, had been destroyed on the occasion of the previous visit of the moving picture company -- a burning barn being called for in one of the scenes.

Oak Farm was a big place, and, in anticipation of the war plays to be enacted there, several buildings had been built to accommodate the extra actors and actresses, where they could sleep and eat. The DeVere girls and the other members of the regular company would board at the farmhouse as they had done before.

Hard work began early the next day. There was much to do in the way of preliminary preparation, and Pop Snooks, the property man, with a corps of assistants, was in his element. While Ruth, Alice and the others were going through a rehearsal of their parts without, of course, the proper scenic background, the property man was setting up the different "sets" needed in the various scenes.

While they were working on one piece, Sandy Apgar came along on his way to look after some of the farming operations.

"Hello!" he cried. "Say! you fellows did that mighty quick."

"Did what?" asked Alice, who stood near, not being engaged for the time being.

"Why, dug that well. I didn't know you could strike water so soon," and he pointed to an old-fashioned well with a sweep, which stood not far from the house. "What'd you use -- a post-hole digger?" he asked. "What sort of water did you strike?"

Before any one could answer him he strode over to the well, and, as he looked down into it, a puzzled look came over his face.

"Well, I'll be jiggered!" he cried. "'Tain't a well at all! Only an imitation!"

And that was what it was. Some canvas had been stretched in a circle about a framework, and painted to represent stones. The well itself stood on top of the ground, not being dug out at all. It made a perfectly good water-scene, with a sweep, a chain, a bucket and all.

"I'm supposed to stand there and draw water for the thirsty soldiers," explained Ruth, coming up at this point.

"Huh! How are you goin' to git water out of there?" demanded Sandy. "It's as dry as a bone. Why, I've got a good well over there," and he pointed to a real one, under an apple tree.

"That's in the shade -- couldn't get any pictures there," explained Russ. "The well has to be out in the open."

"But what about water?" asked Sandy. "Hang me if I ever heard of a well without water!"

"We'll run a hose up to this one," explained Pop Snooks. "A man will lie down behind the well-curb, where he won't show in the camera. As fast as Ruth lowers her bucket into the well the man'll fill the pail with water for the soldiers to drink. It'll be quicker than a real well, and if we find we don't like it in one place we can move it to another. This is a movable well."

"Well, I'll be --  -- " began Sandy, but words failed him. "This is sure a queer business," he murmured as he strode off.

The hard work of preparation continued. All about the farm queer parts of buildings were being erected, extra barns, out-houses, bits of fence, and the like.

In what are called close-up scenes only a small part of an object shows in the camera, and often when a magnificent entrance to a marble house is shown, it is only a plaster-of-Paris imitation of a door with a little frame around it.

What is outside of that would not photograph; so what is the use of building it? Of course in many scenes real buildings figure, but they are not built for the purpose.

In one of the war plays a small barn was to be shown, and a soldier was supposed to jump through the window of this to escape pursuit. As none of the regular buildings at Oak Farm was in the proper location, Pop Snooks had been ordered to build a barn.

He did. That is, he built one side of it, propping it up with braces from behind, where they would not show. The window was there, and some boards; so that, seen through the camera, it looked like a small part of a big out-building.

Some hay was piled on the ground to one side, away from the camera, and it was on this hay that the escaping soldier would land. Then Ruth was to come to him, and go through some scenes. But these would be interior views, which would be taken in the improvised studio erected on the farm for this purpose.

Mr. Switzer was to be the soldier, and would plunge through the barn window head first. He was called on to rehearse the scenes a few days after the semblance of a barn had been put in position and the hay laid out to make his landing safe.

"Are you ready?" asked Mr. Pertell, who was directing the scene. "All ready, there, Switzer?"

"Sure, as ready as I ever shall be."

"All right, then. Now, you understand, you come running out of those bushes over there, and when you get out you stop for a minute and register caution. Look on all sides of you. Then you see the barn and the open window. Register surprise and hope. You say, 'Ah, I shall be safe in there!'

"Then you run, look back once or twice to see if you are pursued, and make a dive, head first, through the open window on to the hay. All ready now?"

"Sure, I'm ready!"

"How about you, Russ?"

"Let her go."

"All ready, then! Camera!"

Russ began to grind away at the film. Mr. Switzer had taken his place in the clump of bushes, his ragged Union garments flapping in the wind. He came out, looked furtively around, and then, giving the proper "registration," he advanced cautiously toward the barn.

"Go on now -- run!" cried Mr. Pertell through his megaphone.

The German actor ran. He made a beautiful leap through the window, and the next moment there came from him howls of dismay.

"Donner vetter! Ach Himmel! Ach! My face! My hands! Hey, somebody! bring a pail of water! Quick!"



Chapter IV

A Rehearsal


Mingled in German and English came the shouts of dismay from Herr Switzer inside the dummy shed, through the window of which he had leaped on to the hay.

"Oh, what is it?" cried Ruth, clasping her hands and registering "dismay" unconsciously.

"He must have fallen and hurt himself," ejaculated Alice. "Do, Paul, go and see what it is."

"Stop the camera!" yelled Mr. Pertell through his megaphone. "Don't spoil the film, Russ. You got a good scene there. He went through the window all right, and his yells won't register. Stop the camera!"

"Stopped she is," reported Russ.

Then those of the players who had been looking on and wondering at Mr. Switzer's cries could hurry to his rescue.

For it is a crime out of the ordinary in the annals of moving pictures for any one not in the scene to get within range of the camera when an act is being filmed. It means not only the spoiling of the reel, perhaps, but a retaking of that particular action. When Russ ceased to grind at the camera crank, however, it was the same as when the shutter of an ordinary camera is closed. No more views can be taken. It was safe for others to cross the field of vision.

"What's the matter?" cried Paul, who, with Ruth and Alice and some of the others trailing after him, was hurrying toward the false front of boards that represented a shed.

"Did a cow critter or a sheep step on you?" Russ questioned.

"Ach! My face! My clothes! Ruined!" came in accents of deep disgust from the actor. "Never again will I leap through a window without knowing into what I am going to land. Ach!"

"What happened?" asked Paul, trying to keep from laughing, for the player's voice was so funnily tragic.

"What happened? Come and see!" cried Mr. Switzer. "I have into a chicken's home invaded myself already!"

"Invaded himself into a chicken's home!" exclaimed Mr. Pertell. "What in the world does he mean?"

"I guess he means he sat down in a hen's nest!" chuckled Paul, and this proved to be the case.

Going around to the other side of the erected boards, the players and others saw a curious sight.

Seated on the hay, his face, his hair, his hands, and his clothing a mass of the whites and yellows of eggs, was Carl Switzer. He held up his fingers, dripping with the ingredients of half a dozen omelets.

"The chicken's home was right here, in the hay -- where I jumped. I landed right in among the eggs -- head first. Get me some water -- quick!" implored the player.

"Didn't you see the eggs before you jumped among 'em?" asked Mr. Pertell.

"See them? I should say not! Think you I would have precipitated myself into their midst had I done so?" indignantly demanded Mr. Switzer, relapsing into his formally-learned English. "I have no desire to be a part of a scrambled egg," he went on. "Some water -- quick!"

While one of the extra players was bringing the water, Sandy Apgar strolled past. He was told what had happened.

"Plumped himself down in a hen's nest, did he?" exclaimed the young proprietor of Oak Farm. "Wa'al, now, if you folks go to upsettin' the domestic arrangements of my fowls that way I'll have t' be charging you higher prices," and he laughed good-naturedly.

"Ach! Dat is better," said Mr. Switzer, when he had cleansed himself. "How came it, do you think, Mr. Apgar, that the hen laid her eggs right where I was to make my landing when escaping from the Confederates?"

"Huh! More than one hen laid her eggs there, I reckon," the farmer said. "There must have been half a dozen of 'em who had rooms in that apartment. You see, it's this way. Hens love to steal away and lay their eggs in secret places. After you folks built this make-believe shed and put the hay in, I s'pose some of my hens seen it and thought it would be a good place. So they made a nest there, and they've been layin' in it for the last few days."

"More as a week, I should say!" declared Mr. Switzer in his best German comedian manner. "There were many eggs!"

"Yes, you did bust quite a few!" said Sandy, critically looking at the disrupted nest. "But it can't be helped."

"Well, the film wasn't spoiled, anyhow," observed Mr. Pertell. To him that was all that counted. "You got him all right as he went through the window, didn't you, Russ?"

"Oh, yes. It wasn't until he was inside, down behind the boards and out of sight, that the eggs happened."

"No more eggs for me!" declared the comedian. "I shall never look a chicken in the face again."

"Go on with the scene," ordered the director. "You are supposed to steal out to the barn to give the hidden soldier food," he said to Ruth. "You come out from the house, and are astonished to see a man's head sticking out of the shed window. You register surprise, and start to run back to the house, but the soldier implores you to stay, and you reluctantly listen to him. Then he begs for food --  -- "

"But don't bring me a hard-boiled egg, whatever you do!" called Mr. Switzer.

"No funny business now," warned the director, with a laugh. "Go on now, and we'll see how you do it."

After one or two trials Mr. Pertell announced himself as satisfied and the filming of that part of the war drama went on.

So many details in regard to the taking of moving pictures have been given in the previous books of this series that they need not be repeated here. Suffice it to say that the pictures of the players in motion are taken on a long celluloid strip of film, just as one picture is taken on a square of celluloid in a snap-shot camera.

This long reel of film, when developed, is a "negative." From it a "positive" strip of film is made, and this is the one that is run through the projection machine throwing the pictures on the white screen in the darkened theatre. The pictures taken are very small, and are greatly magnified on the screen.

So much for the mechanical end of the business. It may interest some to learn that the photo-play, as seen in the theatre, is not taken all at once, nor in the order in which the scenes are seen as they are reeled off.

When a play is decided on, the director or one of his helpers goes over the manuscript and picks out all the scenes that take place in one location. It may be in a parlor, in a hut, on the side of a mountain, in a lonely wilderness, on a battlefield, on a bridge -- anywhere, in fact. And several scenes, involving several different persons, may take place at any one of these places.

It can be understood that it would involve a great deal of work to follow the logical sequence of the scenes. That is to say, if the first scene was in an office showing a girl taking dictation from her employer, and the next showed the same girl and her employer on a ferryboat, and the third scene went back to the office, where some papers were being examined, it would mean a loss of time to photograph, or film, the first office scene, then take every one involved in the act to the ferryboat, and then back to the office again.

Instead, the two office scenes, and possibly more, are taken at one time, on the same film, one after the other, without regard to whether they follow logically or not. Afterward the film is cut apart, and the scenes fitted in where they belong.

So, too, all the scenes pertaining to a hut in the wilderness, on a bridge, in the woods, in a parlor -- it makes no difference where -- are taken at the same time. In this way much labor and expense are saved.

But it makes a queer sort of story to an uninitiated person looking on; and sometimes the players themselves do not know what it is all about.

So Mr. Pertell wanted to get all the scenes centering around the shed at the same time, though they were not in sequence. And Ruth and Mr. Switzer and the others in the east went through their parts with the shed as a background.

In one scene Ruth had to discover the hidden soldier. Then she had to steal out to him with food. Later, at night, she was to help him to escape. Then, a week later, she was to go out to the same shed and discover a letter he had hidden in the hay. That ended the scenes at the shed, and it could be taken away to make room for something else.

"Oh, Ruth, you did that splendidly!" exclaimed Alice, as her sister finished her work and went up on the shady porch to rest.

"Did you like it? I'm glad."

"Like it? It was great! Where you discovered that letter in the hay, your face showed such natural surprise."

"I'm glad it didn't register merriment."

"Why?"

"Because, as I picked up the letter, I found a big blot of the yellow from the hens' eggs on it. I hope it doesn't show in the picture. I had all I could do to keep from laughing when I thought of Mr. Switzer in the omelet scene."

"Oh, well, you know they want all white stuff yellow when they make pictures."

"In the studio, but not outdoors."

This is a fact. As the scenes in the studio are taken in the glare of a special kind of electric light, all white objects, even the collars and cuffs of the men, are yellow in tone, though in the picture they show perfectly white. This is due to the chemical rays of the lights used. Out of doors, under sunlight, colors are seen in their own hues.

"You did very well in that funny little scene with Paul," said Ruth to her sister.

"You mean in the swing under the apple tree?"

"Yes."

"I was so afraid he would swing me too high," Alice went on. "He was cutting up so. I told him to stop, but he wouldn't."

"It was very natural. I think it will show well. Hark! what's that?" cried Ruth, leaping to her feet.

"Thunder," suggested Alice, as a distant, rumbling noise came to their ears.

"Sounds more like big guns."

"Oh, that's what it is!" agreed Alice. "They are going to rehearse one of the battle scenes this afternoon, I heard Mr. Pertell say. The soldiers must have come, and they're practising over in the glen. Come on over and watch. We're in on the scenes later, but we can watch now."

"All right," agreed Ruth. "Wait until I get my broad-brimmed hat, the sun is hot up here."

Presently the two sisters, with Paul Ardite and some other members of the company, were strolling over the fields toward the scene of the distant firing. As they came in sight of several hundred men and horses, they saw the smoke of cannon and heard the shouting of the director and his assistants who were using big megaphones. It was the rehearsal of one of the many battle scenes that were to take place about Oak Farm.

"Oh, look at that girl ride!" suddenly exclaimed Alice, pointing to a young woman who dashed past on a spirited horse. "Isn't she a wonder?"

"She is indeed," agreed Ruth. "I wonder who she is?"

"One of the extras," said Paul. "A number of them have just arrived. We'll begin active work soon, and film some big scenes with you girls in them."

Alice gazed across the fields toward the figure of the girl on horseback. There was something spirited in her riding, and, though she had never seen her before, Alice felt strangely drawn toward the new player.



Chapter V

A Daring Rider


"Come on now, Confederates!"

"No, you Union chaps hold back there in ambush. You're not to dash out until you get the signal. Wait!"

"Keep that horse out of the way. He isn't supposed to dash across, riderless, until after the first volley."

"Put in a little more action! Fall off as though you were shot, not as though you were bending over to see if your horse had a stone under his shoe! Fall off hard!"

"And you fellows that do fall off -- lie still after you fall! Don't twitch as though you wanted to scratch your noses!"

"If some of 'em don't stay quiet after they fall off they'll get stepped on!"

"All ready now! Come with a rush when the signal's given!"

Mr. Pertell and his men were stationed near a "battery" of camera men, who were ready to grind away; and the director and his assistants were calling their instructions through big megaphones. To reach the soldiers in the more distant parts of the field recourse was had to telephones, the wires of which were laid along the ground in shallow trenches, covered with earth so that the trampling of the horses would not sever them.

"Get that battery farther back among the trees!" cried Mr. Pertell to one of his helpers. "It's supposed to be a masked one, but it's in plain sight now. Even the audience would see it, let alone the men it's supposed to fire on. Get it back!"

"Yes, sir," answered the man, and he telephoned the instructions to the assistant director in charge of a battery of field guns that had been thundering away -- the sound which had brought Ruth and Alice to the scene.

"Do we have any part in the battle scenes?" asked Ruth.

"Yes, quite big parts," Paul informed her. "But you don't go on to-day. This is only a rehearsal."

"But they've been firing real powder," remarked Alice, "and it looks as though they were going to fire more," and she pointed to where men of the masked battery were ramming charges down the iron throats of their guns.

"Yes, they're firing, and charging, and doing all manner of stunts, and the camera men are grinding away, but they aren't using any film," went on Paul. "It's just to get every one used to working under the excitement. They have to fire the guns so the horses will get so they don't mind them when the real time comes."

Hundreds of extra players had been engaged to come to Oak Farm for these battle scenes in the drama, "A Girl in Blue and A Girl in Gray," and some of them were already on hand with their mounts. As has been said, special accommodations had been erected where they were to stay during the weeks they would be needed. There were more men than women among the extra people, though a number of women and girls were needed in the "town" scenes.

Most of the men were former members of the militia, cowboys and adventurers, all of whom were used to hard, rough riding. This was necessary, for when battle scenes are shown there must be some "killed," and when a man has a horse shot from under him, or is shot himself, riding at full speed, even though the cartridges are blank, the action calls for a heavy fall, sudden and abrupt, to make it look real. And this is not easy to do, nor is it altogether safe with a mob of riders thundering along behind one.

Yet the men who take part in these battle scenes do it with scarcely a thought of danger, though often many of them are hurt, as are the horses.

In brief the story of the play in which Ruth was to take the part of a girl in Blue, and Alice of a girl in Gray, was this. They were cousins, and Ruth was visiting Alice's home in the South when the war broke out. Alice, of course, sided with her people, and loved the gray uniforms, while Ruth's sympathies were with the North.

Ruth determined to go back North and become a nurse, while Alice, longing for more active work, offered her services as a spy to help the Confederacy. Though on opposite sides, the girls' love for one another did not wane.

Then came the scenes of the war. Battles were to be shown, and there were plots and counter-plots, in some of which Ruth and Alice had no part. Mr. DeVere was cast for a Northern General, and the character became him well. Later on Alice and Ruth were to meet in a hospital among the wounded. Alice was supposed to get certain papers of value to her side from a wounded Union officer. As she was escaping with them Ruth was to intercept her, and the two were to have a "strong" scene together.

Alice, ignoring the pleadings of her cousin and about to depart with the papers, learns that the officer from whom she took them was the same one that had saved her father's life on the battlefield. She decides to forego her mission as a spy, even though it may mean the betrayal of her own cause, when the news comes in of Lee's surrender, and her sacrifice is not demanded. Then "all live happily for ever after."

That is but a mere outline of the play, which was to be an elaborate production. And it was the rehearsal for the preliminary battles and skirmishes that the girls were now witnessing.

"Tell that battery to get ready to fire!" cried Mr. Pertell, and this word went over the telephone.

"Come on now with that Union charge!" was the next command.

Then hundreds of horses thundered down the slopes of Oak Farm, while the hidden guns thundered. Down went horses and men while the girls screamed involuntarily, it all seemed so real.

"It's a good thing we didn't plant no corn in that there field this season," observed Belix Apgar, Sandy's father, as he saw the charge.

"That's right," agreed his wife. "There wouldn't have been 'nuff left to make a hominy cake."

"Do it over again!" ordered the manager. "Some of you fellows ride your horses as if you were going to a croquet game. Get some action into it!"

Once more the battery thundered its harmless shots and the men charged. This time the scene was satisfactory, and preparations were made to film it. Again the men thundered down the slope, and when they were almost at the battery a single rider -- a girl -- dashed out toward the approaching Union soldiers.

"Oh, she'll be killed!" cried Ruth. "They'll ride right over her!"

It did seem so, for she was headed straight toward the approaching horsemen.

"She's all right," said Paul. "She's quite a rider, I believe. Her part, as a Union sympathizer, is to rush out and warn them of the hidden battery, but she is delayed by a Southerner until it is too late, and she takes a desperate chance. There go the guns!"

Horses and riders were lost in a cloud of smoke. This time the film was being taken. When that charge was over, and men and horses, some limping, had gone back to their quarters, Mr. Pertell signaled to the daring woman rider to come to him.

"That was very well done, Miss Brown," he said. "You certainly showed nerve."

"I am glad you liked it," was the answer in a quiet, well-bred voice. "Shall you want me again to-day?"

"Not until later, and it will be an interior. Is your horse all right?"

"Oh, yes. I am in love with him!" and she patted the arching neck of the handsome creature. "He is so speedy."

"He sure is speedy, all right," agreed Paul, and the girl -- she was scarcely more than that -- who had been addressed as Miss Brown by the director smiled at the young actor. Then she let her friendly gaze rest on Ruth and Alice.

"Isn't she fine!" murmured Alice.

"Like to meet her?" whispered Paul.

"Yes!" exclaimed Alice eagerly, paying no attention to Ruth's plucking of her sleeve.

"Miss Brown, allow me to present --  -- " and Paul introduced the two DeVere girls.

"That was a daring ride of yours!" remarked Alice, with enthusiasm.

"Indeed it was," agreed Ruth, more quietly.

"Do you think so? I'm glad you like it. I have been riding ever since I was a little girl."

"Did you learn in the West?" asked Alice.

"Why, yes -- that is I -- I really -- oh, there goes that wild black horse again!" and Miss Brown turned to point to an animal ridden by one of the Confederate soldiers. The horse seemed unmanageable, and dashed some distance across the field before it was brought under control.

Then the talk turned to moving picture work, though Ruth could not help wondering, even in the midst of it, why Miss Brown had not been more certain of where she had learned to ride.

"It isn't something one would forget," mused Ruth.



Chapter VI

A Needed Lesson


Rehearsals, the filming of scenes, retakes and the studying of their parts kept busy not only the moving picture girls, but all the members of Mr. Pertell's company. There was work for all, and from the smallest girls and boys, including Tommie and Nellie Maguire, to Mr. DeVere himself, little spare time was to be had.

Ruth and Alice had important parts, and they were given a general outline of what was expected of them. They would be in many scenes, and a variety of action would be required. In order that they do themselves and the film justice, since they were to be "featured," the girls spent much time studying in their rooms and practising to get the best results from the various registerings.

"That is going to be a very strong scene for you and Alice," said Mr. DeVere to Ruth one day. "I refer to that scene where Alice takes the paper and afterwards discovers the identity of the man to whom she owes so much -- the life of her father. Now let me see how you would play it, Alice."

Alice did so, and she did well, but her father was not satisfied. The stage traditions meant much to him, and though he had been forced to give up many of them when he went into the motion pictures, still he knew what good dramatic action was, and he knew that it would "get over" just as certainly in the silent drama as it did in the legitimate. So he made Alice go over the scene again, and Ruth also, until he was satisfied.

"Now, when the time comes, you'll know how to do it," he said. "Don't be satisfied with anything but the best you can do, even if it is only a moving picture show. I am convinced, more and more, that the silent drama is going to take a larger place than ever before the public."

It was on one afternoon following a rather hard day's work before the cameras, that Ruth and Alice, with Miss Pennington and Miss Dixon, sat on the porch of the farmhouse, waiting for the supper bell. Russ and Paul were off to one side, talking, and Mr. DeVere and Mr. Bunn were discussing their early days in the legitimate. Mr. Pertell came up the walk, a worried look on his face, seeing which Mr. Switzer called out:

"Did a cow step on some of the actors, Herr Director, or did one of our worthy farmer's rams knock over a camera after it had filmed one of the battle scenes?"

"Neither one, Mr. Switzer," was the answer. "This is merely a domestic trouble I have on my mind."

"Domestic!" exclaimed Alice. "You don't mean that some of your pretty extra girls have eloped with some of your dashing cowboy soldiers, do you? I wouldn't blame them if they --  -- "

"Alice!" chided her sister.

"Oh, well, you know what I mean!"

"No, it isn't quite that," laughed the director, "though you have very nearly hit it," and he took a chair near Alice and her sister, and near where Pearl Pennington and Laura Dixon were rocking and chewing gum.

"Tell us, and perhaps we can help you," Alice suggested.

"Well, maybe you can. It's about Miss Estelle Brown, the young lady who made that daring ride in front of the masked battery the other day."

"What! Has she left?" asked Ruth. "She was such a wonderful rider!"

"No, she hasn't left, but she threatens to; and I can't let her go, as she's in some of the films and I'd have to switch the whole plot around to explain why she didn't come in on the later scenes."

"Why is she going to leave?" Alice queried.

"Because she has been subjected to some annoyance on the part of a young man who is one of the extras. You know the extras all live down in the big bungalow I had built for them. I have a man and his wife to look after them, and I try to make it as nearly like a happy family as I can. But Miss Brown says she can't stay there any longer. This young man -- a decent enough chap he had seemed to me -- is pestering her with his attentions. He is quite in love with her, it seems."

"Oh, how romantic!" gurgled Miss Dixon.

"Miss Brown doesn't think so," said the manager dryly. "I don't know what to do about it, for I have no place where I can put her up alone."

"Bring her here!" exclaimed Alice, impulsively.

"Indeed, no!" cried Miss Pennington. "We actresses were told that none of the extra people would be quartered with us! If that had not been agreed to I would not have come to this place."

"Nor I!" chimed in Miss Dixon. "We professionals are not to be classed with these extras -- and amateurs at that!"

"I know I did promise you regulars that you would be boarded by yourselves," said Mr. Pertell, scratching his head in perplexity, "and I don't blame you for not wanting, as a general run, to mix with the others. For some of them, while they are decent enough, have a big idea of their own importance. I wouldn't think of asking you to let one of the extra men come here, but this young lady --  -- "

"She is perfectly charming!" broke in Alice. "And she certainly can ride!"

"She did seem very nice," murmured Ruth.

"Pooh! A vulgar cowgirl!" sneered Miss Dixon.

"There is a nice room near mine," went on Alice. "She could have that, I should think. The Apgars don't use it, and it is certainly annoying to be pestered by a young man!" and she looked with uptilted nose at Paul, who said emphatically:

"Well, I like that!"

"If I could bring her here --  -- " began Mr. Pertell.

"By all means!" exclaimed Ruth. "We will try to make her happy and comfortable -- if she is an amateur."

"She has no right to come here!" burst out Miss Dixon.

"No, indeed!" added Miss Pennington. "If she comes, I shall go! I will not board in the same place with an amateur cowgirl doing an extra turn in the pictures."

"Nor I!" snapped Miss Dixon.

"All right -- all right!" said Mr. Pertell quickly. "I know it's contrary to my promise, and I won't insist on it. Only it would have made it easier --  -- "

"Let Miss Brown come," quickly whispered Alice in the director's ear. "They won't leave. They're too comfortable here, and they get too good salaries. Let Miss Brown come!"

"Will you stand by me if I do?"

"Yes," said Alice.

"So will I," added Ruth.

Then the supper bell rang and the discussion ended for the time being. Later Mr. Pertell explained privately to Ruth and her sister that Miss Brown was a quiet and refined young lady about whom he knew little save that she had answered his advertisement for an amateur who could ride. She had made good and he had engaged her for the war scenes.

"But she tells me that among the young men in the same boarding bungalow is one who seems quite smitten with her. He is impudent and exceedingly persistent, and she does not desire his attentions. She said she thought she would have to leave unless she could get a quiet place where he could not follow. It is all right during the day, as he can not come near her, but after hours --  -- "

"Do bring her!" urged Alice. "We'll try to make her comfortable. And don't fear what they will do," and she nodded toward the two other actresses, who had been in vaudeville before going into motion pictures.

So it was that, later in the evening, Miss Brown brought her trunk to the Apgar farmhouse and was installed in a room near Alice and Ruth.

"Oh, it is so much nicer here!" sighed Estelle Brown, as she admitted Ruth and Alice, who knocked on her door. "I could not have stood the other place much longer. Though every one -- except that one man -- was very nice to me."

"Let us be your friends!" urged Alice.

"You are very kind," murmured Estelle, and the more the two girls looked at her, the prettier they thought her. She had wonderful hair, a marvelous complexion, and white, even teeth that made her smile a delight.

"Have you been in this business long?" asked Ruth.

"No, not very -- in fact, this is my first big play. I have done little ones, but I did not get on very well. I love the work, though."

"Were your people in the profession?" asked Alice.

"I don't know -- that is, I'm not sure. I believe some of them were, generations back. Oh, did you hear that?" and she interrupted her reply with the question.

"That" was the voice of some one in the lower hall inquiring if Miss Brown was in.

"It's that -- that impertinent Maurice Whitlow!" whispered Estelle to Ruth and Alice. "I thought I could escape him here. Oh, what shall I do?"

"I'll say you are not at home," returned Ruth, in her best "stage society" manner, and, sweeping down the hall, she met the maid who was coming up to tell Miss Brown there was a caller for her below.

"Tell him Miss Brown is not at home," said Ruth.

"Very well," and the maid smiled understandingly.

"Ah! not at home? Tell her I shall call again," came in drawling tones up the stairway, for it was warm, and doors and windows were open.

"Little -- snip!" murmured Estelle. "I'm so glad I didn't have to see him. He's a pest -- all the while wanting to take me out and buy ice-cream sodas. He's just starting in at the movies, and he thinks he's a star already. Oh! but don't you just love the guns and horses?" she asked impulsively.

"Well, I can't say that I do," answered Ruth. "I like quieter plays."

"I don't!" cried Alice. "The more excitement the better I like it. I can do my best then."

"So can I," said Estelle. Then they fell to talking of the work, and of many other topics.

"Did Estelle Brown strike you as being peculiar?" asked Ruth of her sister when they were back in their rooms, getting ready for bed.

"Peculiar? What do you mean?"

"I mean she didn't seem to know whether or not her people were in the profession."

"Yes, she did side-step that a bit."

"Side-step, Alice?"

"Well, avoid answering, if you like that better. But my way is shorter. Say, maybe she has gone into this without her people knowing it, and she wants to keep them from bringing her back."

"Maybe, though it didn't strike me as being that way. It was as though she wasn't quite sure of herself."

"Sure of herself -- what do you mean?"

"Well, I can't explain it any better."

"I'll think it over," said Alice, sleepily. "We've got lots to do to-morrow," and she tumbled into bed with a drowsy "good-night."

Miss Laura Dixon and Miss Pearl Pennington most decidedly turned up their noses at the breakfast table when they saw Estelle sitting between Ruth and Alice. And their murmurs of disdain could be plainly heard.

"She here? Then I'm going to leave!"

"The idea of amateurs butting in like this! It's a shame!"

Fortunately Estelle was exchanging some gay banter with Paul and did not hear. But Ruth and Alice did, and the latter could not avoid a thrust at the scornful ones. To Ruth, in an unnecessarily loud voice, Alice remarked:

"Do you remember that funny vaudeville stunt we used to laugh over when we were children -- 'The Lady Bookseller?'"

"Yes, I remember it very well," answered Ruth. "What about it, Alice?" for she did not catch her sister's drift.

"Why, I was just wondering how many years ago it was -- ten, at least, since it was popular, isn't it?"

"I believe so!"

"It's no such a thing!" came the indignant remonstrance from Miss Pennington. It was in this sketch that she had made her "hit," and as she now claimed several years less than the number to which she was entitled, this sly reference to her age was not relished. "It was only six years ago that I starred in that," she went on.

"It seems much longer," said Alice, calmly. "We were quite little when we saw you in that. You were so funny with your big feet --  -- "

"Big feet! I had to wear shoes several sizes too large for me! It was in the act. I -- I --  -- "

"They're stringing you -- keep still!" whispered her chum, and with red cheeks Miss Pennington subsided.

But Alice's remarks had the desired effect, and there were no more references, for the present, directed at pretty Estelle. Miss Dixon and Miss Pennington had a scene with Mr. Pertell, though, in which they threatened to leave unless Estelle were sent back to the bungalow where the other extra players boarded. But the manager remained firm, and the two vaudeville actresses did not quit the company.

Hard work followed, and Estelle made some daring rides, once narrowly escaping injury from the burning wad of a cannon, which went off prematurely as she dashed past the very muzzle. But she put spurs to her horse, who leaped over the spurt of fire and smoke. A few feet of film were spoiled; but this was better than having an actor hurt.

Alice was sitting on the farmhouse porch one afternoon, waiting for Estelle and Ruth to come down, for they were going for a walk together, not being needed in the films. Estelle had been taken into companionship by the two girls, who found her a very charming companion, though little disposed to talk about herself.

Alice, who was reading a motion picture magazine, was startled by hearing a voice saying, almost in her ear:

"Is Miss Brown in?"

"Oh!" and Alice looked up to see Maurice Whitlow smirking at her. He had tiptoed up on the porch and was standing very close to her. She had never been introduced to him, but that is not absolutely insisted on in moving picture circles, particularly when a company is on "location."

"Is Miss Brown in?" repeated Whitlow.

"I don't know, I'm sure," replied Alice.

"Ah, well, I'll wait and find out. I'll sit down here by you and wait," went on the young man, drawing a chair so close to that of Alice that it touched. "Fine day, isn't it? I say! you did that bit of acting very cleverly to-day."

"Did I?" and Alice went on reading.

"Yes. I had a little bit myself. I carried a message from the field headquarters to the rear -- after more ammunition, you know. Did you notice me riding?"

"I did not."

"Well, I saw you, all right. If Miss Brown isn't home, do you want to go over to the village with me?"

"I do not!" and Alice was very emphatic.

"Then for a row on the lake?"

"No!"

"You look as though you would enjoy canoeing," went on the persistent Whitlow. "You have a very strong little hand -- very pretty!" and he boldly reached up and removed Alice's fingers from the edge of the magazine. "A very pretty little hand -- yes!" and he sighed foolishly.

"How dare you!" cried Alice, indignantly. "If you don't --  -- "

"See how you like that pretty bit of grass down there!" exclaimed a sharp voice behind Alice, and the next moment Mr. Maurice Whitlow, eye-glasses, lavender tie, socks and all, went sailing over the porch railing, to land in a sprawling heap on the sod below.



Chapter VII

Estelle's Leap


"Oh!" murmured Alice, shrinking down in her chair. "Oh -- my!"

She gave a hasty glance over her shoulder, to behold Paul Ardite standing back of her chair, an angry look on his face. Then Alice looked at the sprawling form of the extra player. He was getting up with a dazed expression on his countenance.

"What -- what does this mean?" he gasped, striving to make his tones indignant. But it is hard for dignity to assert itself when one is on one's hands and knees in the grass, conscious that there is a big grass stain on one's white cuff, and with one's clothing generally disarranged. "What does this mean? I demand an explanation," came from Mr. Maurice Whitlow.

"You know well enough what it means!" snapped Paul. "If you don't, why, come back here and try it over again and I'll give you another demonstration!"

"Oh, don't, Paul -- please!" pleaded Alice in a low voice.

"There's no danger. He won't come," was the confident reply.

By this time Whitlow had picked himself up and was brushing his garments. He settled his collar, straightened his lavender tie and wet his lips as though about to speak.

"You -- you -- I --  -- " he began. "I don't see what right you had to --  -- "

"That'll do now!" interrupted Paul, sternly. "It's of no use to go into explanations. You know as well as I do what you were doing and why I pitched you over the railing. I'll do it again if you want me to, but twice as hard. And if I catch you here again, annoying any of the ladies of this company, I'll report you to the director. Now skip -- and stay skipped!" concluded Paul significantly. "Perhaps you can't read that notice?" and he pointed to one recently posted on the main gateway leading to the big farmhouse. It was to the effect that none of the extra players were allowed admission to the grounds without a permit from the director.

"Huh! I'm as good an actor as you, any day!" sneered Whitlow, as he limped down the walk.

"Maybe. But you can't get over with it -- here!" said Paul significantly.

The notice had been posted because so many of the cowboys and girls had fairly overrun the precincts of Mr. Apgar's home. He and his family had no privacy at all, and while they did not mind the regular members of Mr. Pertell's company, with whom they were acquainted, they did not want the hundreds of extra men, soldiers, cowboys and horsewomen running all over the place.

So the rule had been adopted, and it was observed good-naturedly by those to whom it applied. Whitlow must have considered himself above it.

"Did he annoy you much, Alice?" asked Paul.

"Not so very. He was just what you might call -- fresh. He asked for Miss Brown, and when she wasn't here to snub him he turned the task over to me. Ugh!" and Alice began to scrub vigorously with her handkerchief the fingers which Whitlow had grasped. "I'm sorry you had that trouble with him, Paul," she went on. "But really --  -- "

"It was no trouble -- it was a pleasure!" laughed Paul. "I'd like to do it over again if it were not for annoying you. I happened to come up behind and heard what he was saying. So I just pitched into him. I don't believe he'll come back. He'll be too much afraid of losing the work. Mr. Pertell has had a great many applications from players out of work who want to be taken on as extras, and he can have his pick. So those that don't obey the regulations will get short notice. You won't be troubled with him again."

And Alice was not, nor was Miss Brown. That is, as regards the extra player's trespassing on the grounds about the farmhouse. But he was of the kind that is persistent, and on several occasions, when the duties of the girls brought them near to where Whitlow was acting, he smiled and smirked at them.

Alice wished to tell Paul about it and have him administer another and more severe chastisement to Whitlow, but Ruth and Estelle persuaded the impulsive one to forego doing so.

"I can look after myself, thank you, Alice dear," Estelle said. "Now that I don't have to board in the bungalow with him it is easier."

"Don't make a scene," advised Ruth.

"Oh, but I just can't bear to have him look at me," Alice said.

Several of the scenes in the principal drama had been made, but most of the largest ones, those of the battles, of Alice's spy work, and of Ruth's nursing, were yet to come.

The making of a big moving picture is the work not of days, but of weeks, and often of months. If every scene took place in a studio, where artificial lights could be used, the filming could go on every day the actors were on hand, or whenever the director felt like working them and the camera men. Often in a studio, even, the director will be notional -- "temperamental," he might call it -- and let a day go by, and again the glare of the powerful lights may so affect the eyes of the players that they have to rest, and so time is lost in that way.

But the time lost in a studio is as nothing compared to the time lost in filming the big outdoor scenes. There the sun is a big factor, for a brilliant light is needed to take pictures of galloping horses, swiftly moving automobiles and locomotives, and every cloudy day means a loss of time. For this reason many of the big film companies maintain studios in California, where there are many days of sunshine. They can take "outdoor stuff" almost any time after the sun is up.

But at Oak Farm there were times when everything would be in readiness for a big scene, the camera men waiting, the players ready to dash into their parts, and then clouds would form, or it would rain, and there would be a postponement. But it was part of the game, and as the salaries of the players went on whether they worked or not, they did not complain.

One morning Alice, on going into Estelle's room, found her busy "padding" herself before she put on her outer garments.

"What in the world are you doing?" Alice asked.

"Getting ready for my big jump," was the answer.

"Your big jump?"

"Yes, you know there is a scene where I carry a message from headquarters to one of the Union generals at the front. Your father plays the latter part."

"Oh, yes, now I remember. And Daddy is sure no one can do quite as well as he can in the tent scene, where he salutes you and takes the message you have brought through with such peril."

"Yes, that's nice. Well, I'm to ride along and be pursued by some Confederate guerrillas. It's a race, and I decide to take a short cut, not knowing the Confederates have burned the bridge. I have to leap my horse down an embankment and ford the stream. I'm getting ready for the jump now -- that's why I'm padding myself. For Petro -- that's my horse -- might slip or stumble in jumping down that embankment, and I want to be ready to roll out of the way. It's much more comfortable to roll in a padded suit -- like a football player's -- than in your ordinary clothes. Your friend, Russ Dalwood, told me to do this, and I think it is a good idea."

"It's sure to be if Russ told you, isn't it, Ruth?" asked Alice, with a mischievous look at her sister, who had just come in.

"How should I know?" was the cool response. "I suppose Mr. Dalwood knows what he is doing, though."

"Oh, how very formal we are all of a sudden," mocked Alice. "You two haven't quarreled, have you?"

"Silly," returned Ruth, blushing.

"Are you really going to jump your horse down a cliff?" asked Alice.

"I really am," was the smiling answer. "There is to be no fake about this. But really there is little danger. I am so used to horses."

"Yes, and I marvel at you," put in Ruth. "Where did you learn it all?"

"I don't know. It seems to come natural to me."

"You must have lived on a ranch a long time," ventured Ruth.

"Did I? Well, perhaps I did. Say, lace this up the back for me, that's a dear," and she turned around so that Alice or Ruth could fasten a corset-like pad that covered a large part of her body. It would not show under her dress, but would be a protection in case of a fall.

Alice and Ruth were so greatly interested in the coming perilous leap of Estelle's that they did not pursue their inquiries about her life on a ranch, though Alice casually remarked that it was strange she did not speak more about it.

The two DeVere girls had no part in this one scene, and they went to watch it, safely out of range of the cameras. For there were to be two snapping this jump, to avoid the necessity of a retake in case one film failed.

"All ready now!" called Mr. Pertell, when there had been several rehearsals up to the actual point of making the jump. Estelle had raced out of the woods bearing the message. The Confederate guerrillas had pursued her, and she had found the bridge burned -- one built for the purpose and set fire to.

"All ready for the jump?" asked the director.

"All ready," Estelle answered, looking to saddle girths and stirrups.

"Then come on!" yelled the director through his megaphone.

Estelle urged her horse forward. With shouts and yells, which, of course, had no part in the picture, yet which served to aid them in their acting, the players who were portraying the Confederates came after her, spurring their horses and firing wildly. On and on rushed the steed bearing the daring girl rider.

She reached the place of the burned bridge, halted a moment, made a gesture of despair, and then raced for the bank, down which she would leap her horse to the ford.

"Come on! Come on!" yelled Mr. Pertell. "That's fine! Come on! You men there put a little more pep in your riding. Turn and fire at them, Miss Brown! Fire one shot, and one of you men reel in his saddle. That's the idea!"

Estelle had quickly turned and fired, and one man had most realistically showed that he was hit, afterward slumping from his seat.

Now the girl was at the edge of the bank. She was to make a flying jump over its edge and come down in the soft sand, sliding to the bottom -- in the saddle if she could keep her seat, rolling over and over if, perchance, she left it.

"That's the idea! Get every bit of that, Russ! That's fine!" yelled Mr. Pertell.

"There she goes!" cried Alice, grasping her sister's arm, and as she spoke Estelle spurred her horse and it leaped full and fair over the edge of the embankment. Estelle had made her big jump. Would she come safely out of it?



Chapter VIII

A Massed Attack


While Russ Dalwood and his helper were grinding their cameras, reeling away at the film on which was being impressed the shifting vision of Estelle Brown taking her hazardous leap, Alice, Ruth, and the others were watching to see how the daring young horsewoman would come out of it.

"She's going to land in a minute!" exclaimed Miss Dixon.

"In a minute? In a half second!" cried Alice. "But don't talk!"

"There -- she's fallen!" gasped Miss Pennington.

With his feet gathered under him, Petro had come down straight on the sliding, shifting sand of the embankment. For a moment it looked as though he had stumbled and that Estelle would be thrown.

But she held a firm rein, and leaned far back in the saddle. The horse stiffened and then, keeping upright with his forelegs straight out in front of him and his hind ones bunched under him, he began to slide.

Down the embankment he slid, as the Italian cavalrymen sometimes ride their horses, with Estelle firm in the saddle. And, as a matter of fact, the girl said afterward it was from having seen some moving pictures of these Italian army riders that she got the idea of doing as she did.

"She won't fall!" murmured Paul.

"Oh, I'm so glad! The picture will be a success, won't it?"

"I should think so," Paul said. "It certainly was a daring ride."

"I wouldn't mind doing it if I had her horse," put in Maurice Whitlow, smirking at the girls. "I think you could do that, Miss DeVere," and he looked at Alice.

She turned away with only a murmured reply, but, nothing daunted, the "pest" went on:

"Estelle is certainly a fine rider. I think she must have been a cowgirl on a ranch at one time, though she won't admit it."

"She wouldn't to you, at any rate," said Paul, significantly.

"Why not?"

"Oh, if you don't know it's of no use to tell you. Look! Now she goes into the water!"

The action called for the halting at the top of the embankment of the Confederate riders, who dared not make the jump. They fired some futile shots at Estelle, then rode around to a less dangerous descent to try to catch her. But Estelle was to ford the stream and continue on to the Union lines with her message.

Reaching the bottom of the slope, her horse gathered himself together for another bit of moving picture work. At the edge of the stream another camera man was stationed, for Estelle and her horse were by this time too far away from Russ and his helper to make good views possible.

Into the water splashed the girl, urging on her spirited horse, that was none the worse for his jump and his long slide.

"Good work! Good work!" cried an assistant director, who was stationed near the stream to see that all went according to the scenario. "Keep on, Miss Brown!"

Estelle bent low over her horse's neck, to escape possible bullets from the Confederate guns, and on and on she raced until she pulled up at the tent of "General" DeVere. Here her mission ended, after the father of Alice and Ruth, in a dusty uniform of a Union officer, had come out in response to the summons from his orderly.

Estelle slipped from her saddle, registered exhaustion, saluted and held out the paper she had brought through the Confederate lines at such risk. Nor was the risk wholly one of the play, for she might have been seriously hurt in her perilous leap.

But, fortunately, everything came out properly and a fine series of pictures resulted.

"I'm so glad!" Estelle exclaimed, when it was all over, and, divested of her padding, she sat in her room with Ruth and Alice. "I want to 'make good' in this business, and riding seems to be my forte."

"Do you like it better than anything else?" asked Alice.

"Yes, I do. And I just love moving pictures, don't you?"

"Indeed we do," put in Ruth. "But we were never cut out for riders."

"I'd like it!" exclaimed Alice. "I'd like to know how to ride a horse as well as you do."

"I'll show you," offered Estelle. "I'll be very glad to, and it's easy. It's like swimming -- all you need is confidence, and to learn not to be afraid of your horse but to trust him. Let me show you some day."

"I believe I will!" decided Alice, with flashing eyes. "It will be great."

"Better ask father," suggested Ruth.

"Oh, he'll let me, I know. We've ridden some, you know; but I would like to ride as well as Estelle," and Alice and Estelle began to talk over their plans for taking and giving riding lessons. In the midst of the talk the return of the boy who went daily to the village for mail was announced.

"Oh, I hope my new waist has come!" Alice exclaimed, for she had written to her dressmaker to send one by parcel post. There was a package for her -- the one she expected -- and also some letters, as well as one for Ruth. Estelle showed no interest when the distribution of the mail was going on.

"Don't you expect anything?" asked Alice.

"Any what?"

"Letters."

"Why, no, I don't believe I do," was the slowly given answer. "I don't write any, so I don't get any, I suppose," and both girls noticed that there was a far-away look in Estelle's eyes. Perhaps it was a wistful look, for surely all girls like to get letters from some one.

"I believe she is estranged from her family," decided Alice to her sister afterward. "Did you see how pathetic she looked when we got letters and she didn't?"

"Well, I didn't notice anything special," Ruth replied. "But there is something queer about her, I must admit. She is so absent-minded at times. This morning I asked her if she wanted to go for a walk, and she said she had no ticket."

"No ticket?"

"Yes, that's what she said. And when I laughed and told her one didn't need a ticket to walk around Oak Farm, she sort of 'came to' and said she was thinking about a boat."

"A boat -- what boat?"

"That was all she said. Then she began to talk about something else."

"Do you know what I think?" asked Alice, suddenly.

"No. But then you think so many things it isn't any wonder I can't keep track of them."

"I think, as I believe I've said before, that she has run away from some ranch to be in moving pictures. That's why she doesn't write or receive letters. She doesn't want her folks to know where she is."

"I can hardly believe that," declared Ruth. "She is too nice and refined a girl to have done anything like that. No, I just think she is a bit queer, that is all. But certainly she doesn't tell much about herself."

However, further speculation regarding Estelle Brown was cut short, as orders came for the appearance of nearly the entire company in one of the plays.

The first scene was to take place in a Southern town, and for the purpose a street had been constructed by Pop Snooks and his helpers. There was a stately mansion, smaller houses, a store or two and some other buildings. True, the buildings were but shells, and, in some cases, only fronts, but they showed well in the picture.

Ruth, Alice, and a number of the girls and women and men were to be the inhabitants of this village, and were to take part in an alarm and flee the place when it was known that the Confederate forces were being driven back and through the place by the Unionists.

"Come on -- get dressed!" cried Alice, and soon she, her sister, Estelle and the other women were donning their Southern costumes, wide skirts, with hoops to puff them out, and broad-brimmed hats, under which curls showed.

There was to be a massed attack by the Unionists on the town, through which the Confederates were to flee, and it was the part of Ruth and Alice to rush from their father's "mansion" bearing a few of their choice possessions.

All was in readiness. The Southern defenders were on the outskirts of the town, drawn up to receive the Unionists. Toward these Confederates, their enemies came riding. This was filmed separately, while other camera men, in the made street, took pictures of the activities there. Men, women and children went in and out of the houses. Though, as Mr. Belix Apgar said, "If you call them houses you might as well call the smell of an onion a dinner. There ain't nothin' to 'em!"

Suddenly an excited rider dashed into the midst of the peaceful activities of the Southern town.

"They're coming! They're coming!" he cried, waving his hat. "The Yankees are coming!" This would be flashed on the screen.

Then ensued a wild scene. Colored mammies rushed here and there seeking their charges. Men began to look to their arms. Then came the advance guard of the retreating Confederates, turning back to fire at their enemies.

"Come on now, Ruth -- Alice! This is where we make our rush -- just as the first of the Union soldiers appear!" called Paul, who was acting the part of a Southern youth. "Grab up your stuff and come on!"

Ruth was to carry a bandbox and a case supposed to contain the family jewels. Alice, who played the part this time of a frivolous young woman, was to save her pet cat.

"Here they come!" yelled Paul, as the first of the Unionists came into view at the head of the street. "Hurry, girls!"

Out they rushed, down the steps of the mansion, fleeing before the mounted Union soldiers, who laughed and jeered, firing at the Confederates, who were retreating.

Ruth and Estelle, with some of the other women, were in the lead. Alice had lingered behind, for the cat showed a disposition to wiggle out of her arms, and she wanted to keep it to make an effective picture.

Finally the creature did make its escape, but Alice was not going to give up so easily. She started in pursuit, and then one of the Union soldiers, Maurice Whitlow, spurred his horse forward. He wanted to get in the foreground of the picture and took this chance.

"Get back where you belong!" yelled the director angrily. "Who told you to get in the spotlight? Get back!"

But it was too late. Alice, in pursuit of the cat, was running straight toward Whitlow's horse, and the next moment she slipped and went down, almost under the feet of the prancing animal.



Chapter IX

Miss Dixon's Loss


"Look out!" shouted Paul, and, dropping what he was carrying, he made a leap toward the animal Whitlow was riding.

"Roll out of the way of his feet!" cried the director.

"Shall I keep on with the film?" asked the camera man, for his duty was to turn until told to stop, no matter what happened.

"Let it run!" Alice cried. "I can get out of the way. Don't stop on my account!"

She had been in motion pictures long enough to know what it meant to spoil a hundred feet or more of film in a spirited picture, necessitating a retake. She had seen her danger, and had done her best to get out of harm's way.

The cat had leaped into some bushes and was out of sight.

Whitlow, his face showing his fear and his inability to act in this emergency, had instinctively drawn back on the reins. But it was to the intelligent horse itself, rather than to the rider, that Alice owed her immunity from harm. For the horse reared, and came down with feet well to one side of the crouching girl, who had partly risen to her knees.

At the same moment Paul sprang for the steed's bridle and swerved him to one side. Then, seeing that Alice was practically out of danger, Paul's rage at the carelessness of Whitlow rose, and he reached up and fairly dragged that young man out of the saddle.

"You don't know enough to lead a horse to water, let alone ride one in a movie battle scene!" he cried, as he pushed the player to one side. "Why don't you look where you're going?"

Whitlow was too shaken and startled to reply.

"Go on. Help her up and keep on with the retreat!" cried the director. "That's one of the best scenes of the picture. Couldn't have been better if we had rehearsed it. Never mind the cat, Miss DeVere. Run on. Paul, you land a couple of blows on Whitlow and then follow Alice. Hold back, there -- you Union men -- until we get this bit of by-play."

Paul, nothing loath, gave Whitlow two hard blows, and the latter dared not return them for fear of spoiling the picture, but he muttered in rage.

Then Paul, shaking his fist at the Unionists, hurried on after Alice, and the retreat continued. What had threatened to be a disaster, or at least a spoiling of the scene, had turned out well. It is often so in moving pictures.

In the remainder of the scene the girls had little part. They had been driven from their home, and, presumably, were taken in by friends. The rest of the scenes showed the Union soldiers making merry in the Southern town they had captured.

"My! That was a narrow escape you had!" exclaimed Ruth, when she and her sister were at liberty to return to the farmhouse. "Were you hurt?"

"No; I strained one arm just a little. But it will make a good scene, so Russ said."

"Too good -- too realistic!" declared Paul. "When I get a chance at that Whitlow --  -- "

"Please don't do anything!" begged Alice. "It wasn't really his fault. If I hadn't had the cat --  -- "

"It was his fault for pushing himself to the front the way he did," said the young actor. "Only the best riders were picked to lead the charge. He might have known he couldn't control his horse in an emergency. That's where he was at fault."

"He is a poor rider," commented Estelle. "But you showed rare good sense, Alice, in acting as you did. A horse will not step on a person if he can possibly avoid it. Mr. Whitlow's horse was better than he was."

"Just the same, I got in two good punches!" chuckled Paul, "and he didn't dare hit back."

"He may make trouble for you later," Alice said.

"Oh, I'm not worrying about that. I'm satisfied."

There was a spirited battle scene later in the day between the Union and Confederate forces; the latter endeavoring to retake the village.

A Confederate battery in a distant town was sent for, and the Union position was shelled. But as by this time the Union cannon had come up and were entrenched in the town, an artillery duel ensued.

Views were shown of the Union guns being manned by the men, who wore bloody cloths around their foreheads and who worked hard serving the cannon. Real powder was used, but no balls, of course, and now and then a man would fall dead at his gun.

Similar views with another camera were taken of the Confederate guns and the scenes alternated on the screen afterward, creating a big sensation.

Then came an attack of the Confederate infantry under cover of the Southern battery. This was spirited, detachments of men rushing forward, firing and then seeking what cover they could. At times a man would roll over, his gun dropping, sometimes several would drop at the same time. These were those who were detailed to be shot.

The Unionists replied with a counter charge, and for a time the battle waged fiercely on both sides. Then came a lull in the fighting, with the Confederates ready to make a last charge in a desperate attempt to recapture the town.

"I know what would make a good scene," said Maurice Whitlow, during the lull when fresh films were being loaded into the cameras. "If we had an airship now some of us Union fellows could go for reinforcements in that. It would make a dandy scene."

"An airship!" cried Russ. "Say! remember that these scenes are supposed to have taken place in 1863. The only airships then were those the inventors were dreaming about or making in their laboratories. No airships in Civil War plays! I guess not! Balloons, maybe, but no airships."

"More fighting! Camera!" called Mr. Pertell, and again the spirited action was under way. Cannon boomed; rifles spat fire and smoke; men fought hand to hand, often rolling over dead; riderless horses dashed here and there. Now and then a man would narrowly escape being run down. As it was, several were burned from being too near the cannon or the guns, and one man's leg was broken in a fall from his horse.

But it was part of the game, and no one seemed to mind. A real hospital was set up at Oak Farm, not a mere shell of a building, and here the injured, as well as those who simulated injury, were attended.

Ruth and some of the women made up as nurses, though this was not the big scene in which Ruth and Alice were to take part.

"Confederates retreat!" directed Mr. Pertell, and the Southern forces, having been defeated, were forced to withdraw. Their attempt to recapture their town had failed.

"Whew! that was hot work!" cried Paul, as he came back to the farmhouse, having played his part as a Confederate soldier.

"It certainly was," agreed Mr. DeVere, who had been the directing Union General. Now that the "war" was over Northerners and Southerners mingled together in friendly converse, their differences forgotten.

"I just can't bear the smell of powder!" complained Miss Dixon. "I wish I had my salts."

"I'll get them for you, dear," offered Miss Pennington. "I'm going up to our rooms." The former vaudeville actresses, with Ruth, Alice, and some of the others, were resting on the farmhouse porch.

Miss Dixon smelled the salts and declared she felt much better.

"There's to be a dance in the village to-night," Paul remarked at the supper table.

"Let's go!" proposed Alice. "Will you take me, Paul?"

"Of course I will."

"May I have the pleasure?" asked Russ, of Ruth.

"Why, yes, if the rest go."

"We'll all go!" chimed in Miss Dixon. "Some of the extra men are good dancers. They proved it in the ballroom scene the other day. We can get a man, Pearl."

"All right, my dear, just as you say."

The little party was soon arranged.

"Estelle might like to go," suggested Alice.

"I'll go to ask her," offered Ruth, for Miss Brown had quit the supper table early and gone to her room.

As Ruth mounted the stairs she heard Miss Dixon and Miss Pennington talking in the hall outside their rooms.

"I can't see where it can be," Miss Dixon was saying.

"It was on your dresser when I went up for the salts," said her chum. "Are you sure you didn't take it after that?"

"Positive! It's gone -- that's all there is to it."

"What's gone?" asked Ruth.

"One of my rings," was Miss Dixon's answer. "I left it on my dresser and my door was open. It was there when I went down to supper, and we were all at the table together --  -- "

"Except Estelle Brown!" said Miss Pennington quickly.



Chapter X

Lieutenant Varley


For a moment Ruth stood looking with wide-open eyes at the two former vaudeville actresses. On their part they stared boldly at Ruth, and then Miss Dixon turned and slightly winked at Miss Pennington.

"That was one of your valuable rings, wasn't it, dear?" asked Miss Pennington, in deliberate tones.

"It certainly was -- the best diamond I had. I simply won't let it be lost -- or taken. I'm going to have it back!"

She spoke in a loud tone, and the door of Estelle's room, farther down the hall, opened. Estelle looked out. She was in negligée, and she seemed to be suffering.

"Has anything happened?" she asked.

"Yes," answered Miss Dixon. "Something has happened. Some one has stolen my diamond ring!"

"Oh!" gasped Ruth, "you shouldn't say that!"

"Say what?"

"Stolen. It's such a -- such a harsh word."

"Well, I feel harsh just now. I'm not going to lose that ring. It was on my dresser when I went down to supper, and now it's gone. It was stolen -- or taken, if you like that word better. Perhaps you want me to say it was -- borrowed?" and she looked scornfully at Ruth.

"It may have slipped down behind your dresser."

"I've looked," said Miss Pennington. "You came up here from the table before we did," she went on, addressing Estelle. "Did you see anything of any one in Miss Dixon's room?"

"I? No, I saw no one." Estelle was plainly taken by surprise.

"Did you go in yourself," asked Miss Dixon brusquely. "Come, I don't mind a joke -- if it was a joke -- but give me back my ring. I'm going into town, and I want to wear it."

"A joke! Give you back your ring! Why, what do you mean?" and Estelle, her face flashing her indignation, stepped out into the hall.

"I mean you might have borrowed it," went on Miss Dixon, not a whit daunted. "Oh, it isn't anything. I've often done the same thing myself when we've been playing on circuit. It's all right -- if you give things back."

"But I haven't taken anything of yours!" cried Estelle. "I never went into your room!"

"Perhaps you have forgotten about it," suggested Miss Pennington coldly. "You seem to have a headache, and sometimes those headache remedies are so strong --  -- "

"I am tired, but I have no headache," said Estelle simply, "nor have I taken any strong headache remedies, as you seem to suggest. I haven't been walking in my sleep, either. And I certainly was not in your room, Miss Dixon, nor do I know anything about your ring," and with that she turned and entered her room, whence, presently, came the sound of sobbing.

For a moment Ruth stood still, looking at the two rather flashy actresses, and wondering if they really meant what they had insinuated. Then Alice's voice was heard calling:

"I say, Ruth, are you and Estelle coming? The boys have the auto and they'll take us in. Come on."

Ruth did not answer, and Alice came running up the stairs. She came to a halt as she saw the trio standing in the hall.

"Well, for the love of trading stamps! what's it all about?" she asked. "Are you posing for Faith, Hope and Charity?"

"Certainly not Charity," murmured Ruth.

"And I certainly have lost what little faith I had, though I hope I do get my ring back," sneered Miss Dixon.

"Your ring? What's the matter?" asked Alice. "Have you lost something?"

"My diamond ring was taken off my dresser," said the actress.

"And that Estelle Brown was up here ahead of us, and all alone," said Miss Pennington. "She may have borrowed it and forgotten to return it."

"That's what one gets for leaving one's valuable diamond rings around where these extra players are allowed to have free access," sneered Miss Dixon.

"You mean that little chip diamond ring of yours with the red garnets around it?" asked Alice.

"It isn't a chip diamond at all!" fired back Miss Dixon. "It was a valuable ring."

"Comparatively, perhaps, yes," and Alice's voice was coolly sneering, though she rarely allowed herself this privilege. "I'm sorry it is lost --  -- "

"Why don't you say taken?" asked Miss Pennington.

"Because I don't believe it was," snapped Alice. "Either you forgot where you laid it or it has dropped behind something. As for thinking Estelle Brown even borrowed it, that's all nonsense! I don't believe a word of it."

"Nor I!" exclaimed Ruth.

"Did you speak to her about it?" asked Alice, and then as the sound of sobbing came from Estelle's room she burst out with:

"You horrid things! I believe you did! Shame on you!" and she hurried to the closed door.

"It is I -- Alice," she whispered. "Let me in. It's all a terrible mistake. Don't let it affect you so, Estelle dear!"

Then Alice opened the unlocked door and went in. Ruth paused for a moment to say:

"I think you have made a terrible mistake, Miss Dixon," and then she followed her sister to comfort the crying girl.

"Humph! Mistake!" sneered Miss Dixon.

"That's what we get for mixing in with amateurs," added her chum. "Come on, we'll speak to Mr. Pertell about it."

But, for some reason or other, the director was not told directly of the loss of the ring, nor was Estelle openly accused. She felt as badly, though, as if she had been, even when Ruth and Alice tried to comfort her.

Estelle had left the table early, but though she had passed Miss Dixon's room, she said she had seen no one about.

"Don't mind about the old ring!" said Alice. "It wasn't worth five dollars."

"But that I should be accused of taking even five dollars!"

"You're not!" said Ruth, quickly. "They don't dare make an open accusation. I wouldn't be surprised if Miss Dixon found she had lost her ring and she's ashamed to acknowledge it."

"Oh, but it is dreadful to be suspected!" sighed Estelle.

"You're not -- no one in his senses would think of even dreaming you took so much as a pin!" cried Alice. "It's positively silly! I wouldn't make such a fuss over such a cheap ring."

But Miss Dixon did make a "fuss," inasmuch as she talked often about her loss, though she still made no direct accusation against Estelle. But Miss Dixon and her chum made life miserable for the daring horsewoman. They often spoke in her presence of extra players who did not know their places, and made sneering references to locking up their valuables.

At times Estelle was so miserable that she threatened to leave, but Ruth and Alice would not hear of it and offered to lay the whole matter before Mr. Pertell and have him settle it by demanding that the loser of the ring either make a direct accusation or else keep quiet about her loss.

Mr. DeVere, who was appealed to by his daughters, voted against this, however.

"It is best not to pay any attention to those young ladies," he advised. "The friends of Estelle know she would not do such a thing, and no one takes either Miss Dixon or Miss Pennington very seriously -- not half as seriously as they take themselves. It will all blow over."

There were big times ahead for the moving picture girls and their friends. Some of the most important battle scenes were soon to be filmed, those that had already been taken having been skirmishes.

"I have succeeded in getting two regiments of the state militia to take part in a sham battle for our big play," said Mr. Pertell one day. "They are to come to this part of the country for their annual manoeuvers under the supervision of the regular army officers, and by paying their expenses I can have them here for a couple of days.

"They will come with their horses, tents, and everything, so we shall have some real war scenes -- that is, as real as can be had with blank cartridges. It will be a great thing for my film."

"And will they work in with our players?" asked Mr. DeVere.

"Oh, yes, indeed! I intend to use your daughters in the spy and hospital scenes, and you as one of the generals. In fact, Mr. DeVere, I depend on you to coach the militia men. For though they know a lot about military matters, they do not know how best to pose for the camera. So I'll be glad if you will act as a sort of stage manager."

"I shall be pleased to," answered the old player. And he was greatly delighted at the opportunity.

About a week after Mr. Pertell had mentioned that two regiments of militia were coming to Oak Farm, Ruth and Alice awakened one morning to see the fields about them dotted with tents and soldiers moving about here and there.

"Why, it does look just like a real war camp!" exclaimed Alice, who, in a very becoming dressing gown, was at the window. "Oh, isn't it thrilling! How dare you?" she exclaimed, drawing hastily back.

"What was it?" asked Ruth from her room.

"One of the officers had the audacity to wave his hand at me."

"You shouldn't have looked out."

"Ha! A pity I can't look out of my own window," and to prove that she was well within her rights Alice looked out again, and pretended not to see a young man who was standing in the yard below.

There was a bustle of excitement at the breakfast table. All the players were eager to know what parts they would have, for this was the biggest thing any of them had yet been in -- with two regiments taking the field one against the other, with many more cannon and guns than Mr. Pertell had hitherto used.

"I'll be able to throw on the screen a real battle scene," he said.

"The only trouble," declared Pop Snooks, "is that their uniforms aren't like those of the days of sixty-three." Pop was a stickler for dramatic correctness.

"It won't matter," said Mr. Pertell. "The views of the battle will be distant ones, and no one will be able to see the kind of uniforms the men wear. Those who are close to the camera will wear the proper Civil War uniforms we have on hand. The officers of the Guard have agreed to that."

Considerable preparation was necessary before the big film of the battle could be taken, and to this end it was necessary to have several conferences among the officers and Mr. Pertell and his camera men and assistants, including Mr. DeVere. A number of the Guard officers were constantly about the farmhouse, arranging the plans.

One afternoon Alice was sitting on the porch with Estelle, waiting until it was time for them to take their parts in a side scene of the production. A nattily attired young officer came up the walk, doffing his cap.

"I beg your pardon," he said. "I am Lieutenant Varley, and I was sent here to ask for Mr. Pertell. Perhaps you can tell me where I can find him?"

Alice looked and blushed. He was the one who had audaciously waved to her beneath her window, but now he showed no sign of recognition. As his gaze rested on the face of Estelle Brown, however, he started.

"Excuse me!" he began, "but did you reach your destination safely?"

"My destination!" exclaimed Estelle. "What do you mean? I don't know you!"

"Perhaps not by name. But are you not the young lady whom I met some years ago in Portland, Oregon, inquiring how to get to New York?"

"You are mistaken," said Estelle, and her voice was frigid in tone. "I have never been in Portland in my life," and she turned aside.



Chapter XI

Wonderings


For a moment Lieutenant Varley seemed to hesitate, and Alice felt sorry for him. He was distinctly not of the type that would try to make an acquaintance in this way just because Estelle was a pretty girl. He seemed embarrassed and ill at ease. But he was not the sort of young man to give up, once he thought he was right, as he obviously did in this case. To do so, Alice felt sure he reasoned, would have been to acknowledge that he was just the sort he seemingly was not.

"I really beg your pardon," he went on, in a firm but respectful tone. "I am sure I have met you before. I do not wonder that you do not remember me, but I cannot forget you. Yours isn't a face one easily forgets," and he smiled genially, and in a manner to disarm criticism.

"But I never was in Portland," insisted Estelle, and it was plain that she was puzzled by his persistence but not offended by it. "And I don't remember ever having seen you before."

"Perhaps if I recall some of the circumstances to you it may bring back the memory," suggested the lieutenant. "Believe me, I do not do it out of mere idle curiosity, but you seemed in such distress at the time, and so uncertain of where you wanted to go, that I really wished after I had directed you that I had placed you in charge of the conductor of your train."

"But I never was in Portland," said Estelle again, "and though I have been in New York, I went there from Boston. Surely you have confused me with some one else."

The young officer shook his head.

"I couldn't do that," he said with a smile that showed his white, even teeth. "It was just about this time three -- no, four years ago. I was in Portland on business, and as I entered the railroad station you were standing there --  -- "

Estelle shook her head, smiling.

"Well, for the sake of argument," admitted the lieutenant, "say it was some one who looked like you."

"All right," agreed Miss Brown, and she and Alice drew near the porch railing, on the other side of which stood the officer with doffed hat.

"A young lady was standing there, and she seemed quite bewildered," went on Lieutenant Varley. "I saw that she was in some confusion, and asked if I could be of any service to her. She said she wanted to get to New York, but did not know which train to take. I asked her if she had her ticket, and she replied in the negative. I asked her if she wanted to buy one, and she said she did, showing a purse well filled with bills --  -- "

"Then surely it could not have been I!" exclaimed Estelle with a merry laugh. "I never had a purse well-filled with bills. We moving picture players -- at least in my class -- don't go about like millionaires. Gracious! I only wish I did have a well-filled purse, don't you, Alice?"

"Surely. But what else happened? I'm interested in the story."

"And I was interested in the young lady," went on the officer. "I bought her ticket for her with the money she handed me, and put her on the train. She was quite young -- about as old as you" -- and he smiled at Estelle, "and I asked her if some one was going to meet her. She said she thought so, but was not sure, at any rate she felt that she could look after herself. I left her, and meant to speak to the conductor about her, but did not have time.

"I have often wondered since whether she arrived safely, and when I saw you sitting here I felt that I could ascertain. For I certainly took you for that young lady."

"I am sorry to spoil your romance," said Estelle, "but I am not the one. I never was farther West than Chicago, and then only for a little while, filling a short engagement in the movies."

"Well, I won't insist on your identity," said the lieutenant, "but I'm sure I'm not mistaken. However, I won't trouble you further --  -- "

"Oh, it has been no trouble," interrupted Estelle. "I'm sure I hope you will find that young lady some day."

"I hope so, too," and the lieutenant bowed. But, judging from his face, Alice thought, it was plain that he was sure he had already found the young lady in question.

At that moment Mr. Pertell came out on the porch and saw the lieutenant.

"Ah, I'm glad you are here," observed the manager. "I want to ask you a great many things. This staging of sham battles is not as easy as I thought it would be."

"We can have the sham battles all right," answered the officer, with a smile. "But I can imagine it is not easy to get good moving pictures of them. We have to operate over a large area, and we can't always tell what the next move will be. Though, of course, for the purpose of making views we can ignore military regulations and strain a point or two."

"That's just what I want to talk about," remarked Mr. Pertell. "In the attack, for instance, the way the plans have been made the sun is wrong for getting good views. Can't we switch the two armies around?"

"Well, I suppose we can. I'll speak to the colonel about it," and then the two went inside, where Mr. Pertell had his office in the parlor of the farmhouse.

"What do you think of him, Estelle?" asked Alice.

"Why, I think he's very nice, but he's altogether wrong about me."

"And yet he seemed so positive."

"Yes, that is what makes it strange. But I never saw him before -- that is, as far as I know; and I'm certain I was never in Portland. He must be mistaken, but it was nice of him to admit it. I thought at first he was using the old method to get acquainted."

"So did I. But he isn't that kind."

"He doesn't seem to be."

Russ Dalwood came around the corner of the porch with Paul Ardite and Hal Watson, a young man lately engaged to play juvenile roles. Hal had become very friendly with the little group that circled around Ruth and Alice.

"You girls have an hour yet before you go on," Russ informed them. "We haven't anything to do until then, either. Want to take a run in to town? I've got to call at the express office for some extra film, and the auto is ready. Where's Ruth?"

"Up in her room. I'll go for her," offered Alice. "Shall we have time?"

"Plenty. You can even buy yourself some candy -- or let us do it for you," laughed Paul.

"We'll let you do it!" said Estelle, as Alice hastened to summon her sister.

"Ruth! Ruth! where are you?" called Alice, as she ran upstairs -- Alice seldom walked.

"Here, just reading over my new part. What's the matter?"

"We're going for an auto ride with the boys. Come along. You can study in the car."

"Yes, a lot of studying I could do under those circumstances. But I'll come -- I want a bit of diversion. Who else is going?"

Alice told her, and then spoke about the young lieutenant.

"Wasn't it queer he should be mistaken?" she asked.

Ruth did not reply for a moment.

"Wasn't it?" repeated her sister.

"I was just wondering," said Ruth, slowly. "Was it?"



Chapter XII

An Interruption


While Alice was putting on her hat Ruth looked at her in some surprise.

"Was it?" she repeated.

"Was what?" asked her sister.

"Was it a mistake?"

"Of course it was, Ruth! Didn't I tell you Estelle said he must have taken her for some one else, as she had never been in Portland in her life? Of course, it was a mistake. What makes you think it wasn't?"

"Because, Alice, I am beginning to have doubts regarding Estelle."

"Doubts! You don't mean about the ring?"

"Of course not! But I am beginning to think she is not altogether what she seems to be."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, nothing serious, of course. And if she has done what I think she has it isn't any worse than many girls have done, and have gained by it, rather than lost, though it was risky."

"You mean?"

"I mean that I believe she isn't telling us all she knows. She is hiding something about her past. And I believe it is that she has run away from home because her family would not let her go into moving pictures. You know we sort of suspected that before. Now, in that case, she would have every reason to deny that she had seen that young lieutenant in Portland."

"Why should she, providing I grant that you are right?"

"Because he might know her friends and would tell them where she was. And she doesn't want that known until she has made a reputation. I don't blame her. If ever I ran away --  -- "

"Ruth! you are not thinking of it, are you?"

"Silly! Of course not. But if I should I wouldn't want to run back home until I had something to show for my efforts. It may be that way in Estelle's case. She doesn't want to return like the prodigal son."

"I believe you're entirely wrong," declared Alice. "What I think is that she perhaps comes of good people. When I say that I don't mean that they were any better than we are, but that they so regarded themselves, and would look askance at motion picture players. Well, Estelle doesn't want to bring any annoyance on her family, and that may be the reason she doesn't tell much about herself. But as for that young officer's having seen her, I believe Estelle when she says he is mistaken. Don't you?"

"I don't know what to believe," returned Ruth. "But I'm not going to worry over it."

"And you won't tell her you don't believe she is what she seems to be?"

"Of course not, you little goose! But I'm going to keep my eyes open. You know we may be able to give her some good advice. You and I, Alice, don't meet with near the temptations that assail other girls in this business, and it's because father is with us all the while. Now Estelle isn't so fortunate; so I propose that we sort of look after her."

"Oh, I'm very willing to do that."

"And if we see anything that is likely to cause her trouble, we must shield her from it. That is what I mean by sort of keeping watch over her. At the same time, I believe that she is not altogether what she seems. She is hiding something from us -- even though we are trying to be so kind to her. But she doesn't really mean to do it. She is just afraid, I think."

"And you really believe that lieutenant knows her?"

"He may. At least I think, from what you said, that he is honest in his belief. But we will watch and wait. We must try to help Estelle in the hour of trial."

"Of course we will. Now hurry, for they are waiting for us."

"Such a funny thing just happened to me!" cried Estelle to the party of young folks when they were in the automobile and on the way to the village. "I was mistaken for some one else."

"What -- again?" asked Alice.

"No, the same incident that you witnessed," and she related the episode of the lieutenant as Alice had detailed it to Ruth.

"That was queer," commented Hal Watson.

"I should say so!" exclaimed Russ.

"Was he at all fresh?" Paul asked, and his air was truculent.

"Not in the least!" Estelle hastened to assure him. "He was honestly mistaken about it, that was all," and she enlarged on the incident, and seemed so genuinely amused by it that Alice nudged her sister as much as to say:

"See how much in error you are."

But Ruth only smiled, and Alice noticed that she regarded Estelle more closely than ever.

The party made merry in the town, going into the "Emporium," for ice-cream sodas; and even the presence of Maurice Whitlow at the other end of the counter, where he was imbibing something through a straw, could not daunt Alice's high spirits. Whitlow smiled and smirked in the direction of his acquaintances, but he received no invitation to join them.

As Estelle was going out in the rear of the party, the extra player slid up to her and asked:

"Mayn't I have the pleasure of buying you some more cream?"

"You may not!" exclaimed Estelle, not turning her head, and there were snickers from the other patrons in the place. Maurice turned the shade of his scarlet tie, and slid out a side door.

"You're getting too popular," chided Alice to her friend. "First it's the young lieutenant, and now it's your former admirer."

"I can dispense with the admiration of both!"

"Even the lieutenant?" asked Ruth, meaningly.

"Oh, he wasn't so bad," and Estelle either was really indifferent, or she assumed indifference in a most finished manner that would have done credit to a more experienced actress than she was.

"What's the matter -- are we late?" asked Paul, as, on the way back to Oak Farm, he saw Russ look at his watch and then speed up the car a bit.

"Yes, a little. Mr. Pertell said he wanted to begin that skirmish scene at eleven exactly, and it's ten minutes to that now. We can just about make it. The sun will be in just the right position for making the film. It's in a thicket you know, and the light isn't any too good. That's the scene you girls are in," he went on.

"Speed along," urged Paul. "I've got to get into my uniform and make up a bit."

There is very little "make up" done for moving pictures taken in the open, and not as much done for studio work as there is on the regular stage. The camera is sharper than any eye, and make-up shows very plainly on the screen. Of course, eyes are often darkened and lips rouged a bit to make them appear to better advantage. Even the men make up a little but not much. For close-up views, though, where the faces are more than life size, artistic make-up is very essential. The camera, in this case, is a magnifying glass, and the most peach-blow complexion would look coarse unless slightly powdered.

"We'll be all right if we don't get a puncture," said Hal.

No sooner were these words out of his mouth than there came a hiss of escaping air.

"There she goes!" cried Paul. "Stop, Russ!"

"No, we haven't time. I'm going to keep on. It's better to get in on the rims and cut a shoe to ribbons than to spoil the film."

They sped along in spite of the flat tire. And it was well they did, for Mr. Pertell was anxiously waiting for his players when they arrived at Oak Farm.

"You cut it pretty fine," was his only comment. "Don't do it again. Now get ready for that skirmish scene."

This was one little incident in the big war play. In it Ruth and Alice were to be shown driving along a country road. There was to be an alarm, and a body of Confederate cavalry was to encounter one of the outposts of the Union army. There was to be a skirmish and a fight, and the Union men were to be driven off, leaving some dead and wounded. The girls, though shocked, were to look after the wounded.

All was in readiness. The soldiers, some drawn from the newly-arrived National Guards, were posted in their respective places. Lieutenant Varley was to play the part of one of the wounded Unionists.

"All ready -- come on with the carriage!" called Mr. Pertell to Ruth and Alice, who were waiting out of range of the camera. They had rehearsed the direction they were to take. "Go on!" called the director to Russ. "Camera!"

The grinding of the film began, and Ruth and Alice acted their parts as they drove along in the old-fashioned equipage. Suddenly, in front of them the bushes crackled.

"There they come!" cried Ruth, pulling back the horses as called for in the play. "The soldiers!"

But instead of a band of men in blue breaking out on the road, there came a herd of cows, that rushed at the carriage, while the horses reared up and began to back.

"Stop the camera! Stop that! Cut that out!" frantically cried Mr. Pertell through his megaphone. "Hold back those men!" he added to his assistant who had signaled for the Confederates to rush up.



Chapter XIII

Forgetfulness


Ruth and Alice for the moment were not quite certain whether or not this was a part of the scene. Very often the director would spring some unexpected effect for the sake of causing a natural surprise that would register in the camera better than any simulated one.

But these were real cows, and they did not seem to have rehearsed their parts very well, for they rushed here and there and surrounded the carriage, to the no small terror of the horses, which Ruth had all she could do to hold in.

"Oh, what shall we do?" cried Alice. "I'm going to jump out!"

"You'll do nothing of the sort!" exclaimed her sister. "Sit where you are! Do you want to be trampled on or pierced with those sharp horns, Alice?"

"I certainly do not!"

"Then sit still! This must be a mistake."

It did not take much effort on Ruth's part to make Alice remain in the carriage with all those cows about. For she had learned on Rocky Ranch that while a crowd of steers will pay no attention to a person on a horse, once let the same person dismount, and he may be trampled down.

These, of course, were not wild steers -- Alice could see that. But she thought the same rule, in a measure, might hold good.

More cows crashed through the bushes until the road was fairly blocked, and then came another rush of many feet and the Union skirmish party came galloping along. They had received no orders to hold back, and so dashed up.

At the same moment a ragged boy with a long whip came rushing up. Evidently, he was in charge of the cows, but when he saw the soldiers in their uniforms, a look of fear spread over his face.

"I didn't do nothin', Mister Captain! Honest I didn't!" he yelled. "These is pap's cows, an' I'm drivin' 'em over to the man he sold 'em to. I didn't do nothin'."

"Nobody said you did!" laughed Lieutenant Varley with a bow to Ruth and Alice in the carriage. "But why did you drive them in here to spoil the picture?"

"I didn't know nothin' about no picture -- honest I didn't! I took this road because it was shorter. Don't shoot pap's cow-critters. I'll take 'em away."

"Well, that's all we want you to do," said Mr. Pertell, coming up with a grim smile. "You nearly got yourself and your cow-critters in trouble, my boy. Drive 'em back now, and we'll go on with the film. Did any of 'em get in, Russ?" he asked.

"Just a few, on the last inch or so of the reel. I can cut that out and go on from there. Hold the carriage where it is, Ruth," he called.

"All right," she answered, for she had now quieted the restive horses.

"Don't be afraid, boy," said Alice to the lad. "You won't be hurt."

"And won't they hurt pap's cow-critters, neither?"

"No, indeed. It was all a mistake."

"I -- I didn't know there was no war goin' on," remarked the lad, as he sent an intelligent dog he had with him after the straying animals. "Me an' pap we lives away over yonder on t'other side of the mountain. An' we don't never hear no news. I was plum skeered when I seen all them ossifers. Thought sure I was ketched, same as I've heard my grandpap tell about bein' ketched in the army. He was a soldier with Sherman, and I've heard him tell about capturin' cow-critters when they was on the march."

"Well, this would be like old times to him, I suppose," said Mr. Pertell. "But this is only in fun, my boy -- to make motion pictures. So take your cows away and we'll go on with the work. Drive 'em on," and the boy did so with a curious, backward look at the girls in the carriage, and at the Union soldiers, who were going back to their places to get ready anew for the skirmish charge.

"And this time we'll have it without cows," said Mr. Pertell. "They might go all right in a film of Sherman's march, but not in this skirmish fight. All ready now. Take your places again."

The preliminary advance of the carriage, containing Ruth and Alice had been filmed all right. Very little need be cut out. Once the cows were beyond the camera range, Russ again began grinding away at the film.

"Now come on -- Union soldiers!" cried the director.

From their waiting place Lieutenant Varley led his men; and as they swept on past the carriage, Alice and Ruth registering fear, the Confederates rushed out to meet them.

Then began the skirmish. Guns popped. Horses reared, some throwing their riders unexpectedly, but this made it all the more realistic. Men fought hand to hand with swords, using only the flats, of course. Horses collided one with another, and the animals seemed to enter into the spirit of the conflict fully as much as did the men. There was a rattle of rifles, but no cannon were used in this scene.

Russ and his helpers filmed it, and, standing behind them watching the mimic fight, was the director, shouting orders through his megaphone and, when he could not make himself heard in this way, using a field telephone, calling his instructions to helpers stationed out of sight in the bushes, where they could relay the commands to those taking part in the skirmish.

"A little livelier now!" yelled Mr. Pertell. "Give way, you Union fellows, as though you were beaten, and then drive them back to the fight, Mr. Varley. That's the way!"

The conflict raged and the cameras clicked away. It was all one to the camera men -- a parlor drama or a sanguinary conflict. So long as the shutter worked perfectly, as long as the focus was correct and the film ran freely, the camera men were satisfied.

"Now you Confederates pretend to be overwhelmed, and then rally with a rush and sweep the Unionists out of the thicket!" ordered the director.

This was done, and, all the while, at one side of the picture crouched Ruth and Alice, as two Southern girls. They had leaped from their carriage and were waiting the outcome of the conflict, stooping down out of the way of flying bullets.

This was a side scene in the war play, and did not involve the main story. Ruth and Alice, as did the other main characters, assumed various roles at times.

"Come on now! You Unionists are beaten. Retreat!" called the director, and Lieutenant Varley's men rode off, leaving him and some others injured on the field of the conflict.

It was here that Alice and Ruth took an active part again. Ruth rushed up to the fallen lieutenant and felt his pulse. No sooner had she done so than the director cried:

"Stop the camera! That won't do, Miss DeVere!"

"Why not?" she asked.

"Because you felt his pulse with your thumb. No nurse would do that. The pulse in the thumb itself is too strong to allow any one to feel the pulse in another's wrist. Use the tips of your first and second fingers. Now try again. Ready, Russ!"

This time Ruth did it right. It was characteristic of Mr. Pertell to notice a little detail like that.

"Not one person in a hundred would object to the pulse being felt with the thumb," he explained afterward; "but the hundredth person in the audience would be a doctor, and he'd know right away that the director was at fault. It is the little things that count."

Ruth and Alice busied themselves ministering to the wounded who were made prisoners by the Confederates. The lieutenant was put in their carriage and driven away. That ended the scene at the place of the skirmish.

"Very well done!" Mr. Pertell told the girls, as they prepared for the next act, which was in a room of a Southern house, whither the wounded had been carried.

These were busy days at Oak Farm. With the arrival of the two regiments of the National Guard, pictures were taken every day, leading up to the big battle scene, which had been postponed. When they were not posing for the cameras, the guardsmen were drilling in accordance with the regulations of the annual state encampment under the direction of the regular army officers.

"Well, have you quite recovered from your wounds?" asked Alice of Lieutenant Varley one day, as she met him outside the farmhouse.

"Oh, yes, thanks to the care of your sister and yourself. By the way, I hope your friend Miss Brown is not angry with me."

"Why should she be?"

"Well, because I thought I had seen her before."

"I don't believe she is. I haven't heard her say. But here she comes now. You can ask her," and Estelle came around the turn of the path. Seeing Alice talking with the lieutenant, she hesitated, but Alice called:

"Come on -- we were just speaking about you."

"I wondered why my ears burned," laughed Estelle.

"Perhaps you two are going somewhere," said the officer, preparing to take his leave.

"Oh, to no place where you are not welcome," answered Alice, graciously, with a side look at her companion to see if Estelle objected. But the latter gave no sign, one way or the other.

"Thank you!" exclaimed the guardsman. "I have to take part in a little scene in about an hour, but I would enjoy a walk in the meanwhile. You are both made up, I see?"

"Yes, we are Southern belles to-day," laughed Alice.

"Belles every day," returned the lieutenant with a bow.

"Nicely said!" laughed Estelle. "You are improving!"

She and Alice wore the costumes of generations ago, big bonnets and hoopskirts.

"Let's go over and see what they're filming there," suggested Alice, pointing to where a crossroads store had been put up.

The scene at the store was one to represent a dispute among some Southerners and some Northern sympathizers. It was to end in a fight in which one man was to draw his revolver.

All went well up to the quarrel, and then it became too realistic, for, by some chance, there was a bullet in the revolver instead of a blank cartridge, and it entered the leg of one of the disputants. He fell and bled profusely.

"Get Dr. Wherry!" yelled Mr. Pertell.

"Dr. Wherry went into the village this morning to get some stuff," Russ said, "and he hasn't come back yet."

"Then somebody will have to go after him!" cried the director.

"I'll go!" offered Alice. "I can take this horse and carriage!" for a rig was hitched outside the "store."

"I'll go with you!" cried Estelle, and then, in costume and made up for the pictures as they were, they got into the vehicle and drove off.



Chapter XIV

In The Smoke


"Do you think he'll die?" asked Estelle, as she took the reins and flicked the horse lightly with the whip.

"I hope not," answered Alice.

"Did it make you faint to see the blood?"

"A little. Did it you?"

"Yes. I can't bear it! It makes me --  --  Oh, it makes me --  -- "

Estelle closed her eyes, and Alice was surprised to see her turn pale, even under her rouge, and shudder.

"That's queer," Alice said. "I should have thought, being on a ranch as you were, you might have become used to accidents and scenes of violence."

"Who said I was on a ranch?"

"Why, you did!"

"I did?"

"Yes; don't you remember? That day when we were talking about branding cows --  -- "

"Oh, maybe I did. I'd forgotten. Oh, dear! here comes an auto, and I'm not sure about this horse. I'm afraid he'll start to rear."

At this intimation that there might be trouble, Alice's face took on a worried look, and she fore-bore to press the questions she had been asking Estelle.

The horse showed some signs of fear as he passed the automobile in the road, but the man driving the car was considerate enough to stop his machine and motion to the girls to pass. They did so, the horse getting as far to one side of the road as he could, his nostrils distended and his ears pricked forward.

"There! Thank goodness that's over!" sighed Estelle. "Now to make speed and get that doctor. I hope the man doesn't die."

"I do too," acquiesced Alice. "Did you see how sharply the man looked at us?"

"Who, the man that was shot?"

"No, the one in the auto. He stared and stared!"

"Probably he wondered where in the world we got a horse in these days that was afraid of an auto. I wonder myself where this steed has been in hiding. There are so many cars now that it is a wonder horses aren't using gasoline as perfume."

"No, he wasn't looking at the horse," persisted Alice. "He was looking at us. Perhaps he knew you, Estelle."

"Why do you say that? I'm sure I never saw him before. Maybe it was you he was staring at."

"No, it was you he was staring at, but I don't blame him. You are very striking looking to-day."

"It's this dress. Isn't it quaint?"

"And pretty! Oh, but we mustn't talk so frivolously when that poor man may be dying. We must drive faster."

"Talking isn't going to make the horse go any slower. In fact, I think maybe he'll go quicker to get the trip over with sooner so he can be rid of our chatter. But I don't think the poor man is badly hurt. He may bleed a lot, but they can hold that in check until we get the doctor."

They drove on, and were presently in the village. They had been told where Dr. Wherry had gone -- to a drugstore to get some medical supplies -- and thither they made their way.

"Do you notice how every one is staring at us?" asked Alice, as they drove along the streets.

"They do seem to be," admitted Estelle, looking for the drugstore. "I guess it's the horse; he is so bony he has many fine points about him, as Russ said. And we're queer looking in these costumes ourselves."

When they alighted at the pharmacy and started in, they became aware of the growing sensation they were creating. For a little throng had gathered in front of the store, and more men and boys came running up, to form in two lines -- a living lane -- through which Alice and Estelle had to pass.

"We certainly are creating a sensation," gasped Alice, growing embarrassed.

"Look! a regular bridal crowd," said Estelle in a low voice.

Though they undeniably presented a pretty picture in their paint, powder, curls and hoopskirts, they were also an unusual one for that little country village.

"Look at the society swells!" cried one boy.

"Dat's de new fashion -- makin' your nose look like a flour barrel!" added another.

"Aren't those dresses sweet?" sighed a girl.

"They must be the latest New York style," added a companion. "I heard that full skirts were coming in again."

"Well, ours are certainly full enough," murmured Alice, looking down at her swaying hoops.

And then some one guessed the truth.

"They're actresses -- the movie actresses!" came the cry, and this attracted more attention than ever, for if there is one person about whom the American public is curious, it is the actor.

"Oh my!" exclaimed Estelle, "now we are in for it. Hurry inside the store!"

The girls fairly ran into the friendly shelter, and some of the crowd attempted to follow, but the drug clerks barred the way, guessing what the excitement was about.

"Dr. Wherry!" gasped Alice. "Is he here?"

"Right back there -- in the prescription department," a clerk said. "Which of you is ill?"

"Neither one!" cried Estelle. "We want him for a man out at Oak Farm. He's been shot -- an accident in the play. Tell him to hurry, please, and then show us some way of getting out through a side door. I can't face that crowd -- this way," and she looked down at her elaborate hoop-skirted costume, which might have been all right in the days of sixty-three, but which was unique at the present time.

"What's the trouble?" asked Dr. Wherry, coming from behind the ground-glass partition. "Oh, Miss DeVere and Miss Brown!" he went on as he recognized the moving picture girls. "Is some one hurt?"

They told him quickly what the trouble was, and he cried:

"I'll go at once. You'd better come back with me in the auto if you don't want to run the gauntlet of the staring crowd. I'll bring my machine around to the side door."

"What about the horse we drove over?" asked Alice.

"I'll have Mr. Pertell send a man for that."

The girls, in their curiosity-exciting costumes, managed to slip out the side door and into the doctor's automobile without attracting the attention of the crowd. Then they made the trip back in good time and comfort.

"And to think we never for a moment thought of changing our things!" cried Alice, when they were at Oak Farm again.

"Or even of rubbing off some of the make-up," added Estelle. "But we were so excited -- at least I was -- when I saw the poor fellow hurt. I hope it is not serious."

"No, he's lost a little blood, that's all," said Dr. Wherry. "But I thought you were used to such scenes, Miss Brown, coming from the West, as you did."

"I from the West? Oh, yes, I have been there. Come on, Alice, let's see if they still want us for anything, and, if they don't, we'll change our clothes," and Estelle seemed glad of a chance to hurry away.

"I wonder," said Alice to her sister afterward, "whether she is really so squeamish as she pretends, or if she doesn't want it known that she is from the West?"

"It's hard to say. Estelle is acting more and more queerly every day, I think."

"So do I. Though I am quite in love with her. She has such a sweet disposition."

"Yes, she is a lovely girl. I only wish there wasn't that bit of mystery about her."

"And it is a mystery," went on Alice. "Every once in a while I catch Lieutenant Varley looking at her, when he thinks he isn't observed, and he shakes his head as though he could not understand it at all."

"Then you think he still feels sure she is the girl he met in Portland?"

"I'm positive he does, and he isn't doing it to further his own ends and force an acquaintance with her, either. He honestly believes he has met her before."

"Well, it is very strange. But she doesn't seem to want to talk about anything connected with her past."

"No, and I suppose we should not try to force matters."

The man who was shot was soon out of danger, and, meanwhile, the taking of the war scenes went on with some one else in his place. A number of sham engagements had been fought, all working up to the big final battle, in which Ruth would play her part as an army nurse, and Alice would act as the spy. Estelle, too, had been given a rather important part, much to the annoyance of Miss Dixon, who had been expecting it.

The vaudeville actress made sneering and cutting remarks about "extra players butting in," and there were veiled insinuations concerning the missing ring, but Estelle took no notice, and Alice, Ruth and her other friends stood loyally by her.

"We'll film that burning barn scene to-day," said Mr. Pertell one morning at the breakfast table, when he had ascertained that the atmospheric conditions were right. "That's the one where you two DeVere girls are surprised on your little farm by the visit of some Union soldiers. You have been caring for a wounded cousin, who has escaped through the Union lines, and at the news that the Yankees are coming you hide him in the barn. Then the Unionists set fire to it, and you girls have to drag him out.

"There'll be no danger, of course, for the fire won't be near you -- in fact, the barn won't burn at all -- only a shack nailed to it. And the smoke will be from the regular bomb. You have plenty of them, haven't you, Pop Snooks?"

"Oh yes, plenty of smoke bombs, Mr. Pertell."

All was soon in readiness for the burning-barn scene. Ruth and Alice received the wounded cousin (an inside scene this) and then, when an old colored mammie (Mrs. Maguire) came panting with the news that the Yankees were coming, the wounded Confederate was carried out to the barn. Then came the visit of the Yankees, who, suspecting the presence of the escaped prisoner, made diligent search, but without success.

"Fire the barn, anyhow!" cried the captain.

Then came the spirited scene where Ruth and Alice got their wounded relative out. He was a slim young man, and they could easily carry him, for he was supposed to be overcome by the smoke.

"Ready, Alice?" asked Ruth, as they went through the action called for in the script.

"Yes, ready. You take his head and I'll take his heels. Don't be too stiff," Alice admonished the young man. "We can carry you better if you're limp."

"I'll be limp enough if I swallow any more of that smoke," choked the actor. "It's fierce!"

Indeed, Pop Snooks had been very liberal in the matter of smoke bombs. Great clouds of the black vapor swirled here and there, and Ruth and Alice had to get free breaths whenever they could.

"Come on!" yelled the director through his megaphone. "Lively!"

Alice and Ruth, half carrying, half dragging, the wounded soldier, staggered out, Russ clicking away at the camera.

"Good! That's good! It's fine!" exclaimed the enthusiastic director.

Ruth was conscious that she was suddenly dragging more of the weight of the man's body than at first. But she thought one of Alice's hands had possibly slipped off, and she did not want to call a halt to get a better hold.

"My! But this is choking!" gasped Ruth.

Finally, she staggered out into the open, dragging the soldier by his shoulders. She slumped down on the ground, in a place free from smoke, and registered exhaustion.

"Where's Alice?" cried Paul, who was holding back in readiness for his appearance in the scene. "Where's Alice?"

"Isn't she there?" gasped Ruth, rising on her elbow.

"No, she isn't. She must be --  -- "

"Hold that pose, Ruth! Don't stir or you'll spoil the scene!" yelled the director. "We'll get your sister!"



Chapter XV

The Hospital Tent


"The show must go on!" This is the motto of circus and theatrical performers the world over. No matter what happens, under what strain or pain the player labors, no matter what occurs short of death itself, the public must not be allowed to guess that anything is wrong. And sometimes even death itself has been no barrier -- for players have gone through with their parts on the stage when, but the act previous, they have learned that some loved one had passed away.

And more than one clown has bounded into the sawdust ring with merry quip and jest, with a smile on his painted face, while his heart was breaking with grief.

And so it was with Ruth DeVere. As she staggered out of the smoke clouds and saw that Alice had not followed, at once the dreadful thought came to her that her sister had been overcome by the fumes. And, although the smoke bombs were harmless as regards fire, the breathing of the chemical fumes for any length of time might mean death.

Thus, as Ruth was about to stagger to her feet to go back into the murky cloud to look for Alice, there came the director's orders to "hold that pose!"

The show must go on! That meant it would not do to spoil the scene, ruin the film, and necessitate a retake if, by any possibility, it could be avoided.

"Stay where you are, Ruth! Stop the camera, Russ! Hold the pose -- both of you. We'll go on from there when we get Alice out!"

And Ruth, her heart torn with anguish, must remain. She was glad her father was not present.

"Get in there and get the girl!" cried Pop Snooks who was busy lighting more smoke bombs. "Get that girl, some of you fellows!" For he had guessed in an instant what had happened. It was not the first time one of the players had been overcome by the heavy fumes.

Into the cloud dashed some of the head property man's helpers. Russ and Paul, who could leave their posts while the camera was not in motion, also penetrated the murkiness.

Fortunately, Alice had been overcome when within a few feet of the clear atmosphere, and it was the work of but an instant for Paul to carry her outside, where she could breathe pure air.

"The poor dear!" cried Mrs. Maguire. "Here, give her this ammonia and water."

"Don't come too close to her, Mrs. Maguire!" warned the director. "Your black make-up will come off on her face, and it will show in the film."

The director had to think of all those things, though it might seem a bit heartless.

"I'll be careful," promised the motherly old woman. "I'll be careful."

Alice sipped the aromatic spirits of ammonia, and felt better.

"Did I faint?" she asked. "How silly of me!"

"Are you all right?" asked Ruth, still in her place by the side of the soldier, who was supposed to be unconscious.

"Yes, Ruth dear. I'm all right now. Oh, and did I leave you to carry him all alone? I'm so sorry!"

"It was all right. I dragged him."

"Yes, the scene is all right," said Mr. Pertell. "Now, Alice, I don't want to be heartless, but will you be ready to go on in this, or shall we abandon it and make a retake?"

"Oh, I'll go on. Just a moment, and I'll be all right."

After a minute or two the plucky girl recovered from the effects of the smoke, and, though she was weak and wan, managed to go through her part. She and Ruth carried their "cousin" out of the burning barn which was then allowed to fall to ruins. Or rather, the extra part, built on for the purpose, was, Pop Snook's smoke bombs effectually concealing from the audience the fact that the real barn was not in the least harmed.

"Well, I'm glad that's over," said Alice with a sigh, as a little later she washed off her make-up and donned her ordinary clothes.

"Do you feel bad?" her sister asked.

"Yes, sort of choked."

"Then let's take a walk up on the hill where there is always a breeze."

On the grassy eminence with the fresh breezes blowing about them, Alice soon felt much better. But Mr. Pertell called off some of the scenes set down for next day, so that she might have a rest.

"We'll soon be ready for the big hospital scene, Ruth, and also for the one where you try to get away with the papers, Alice," said Mr. Pertell to the two girls one day. "And, in order that everything may run smoothly I've made a little change in the scenario. I'm going to have a preliminary hospital scene. In that you will be a sort of orderly, or assistant nurse, Ruth. And there comes an emergency in which you do so well that you are sent for to be a nurse in one of the big hospitals maintained near the front. That will make the story more logical.

"So we'll have one of those hospital scenes to-day. I'll stage a small engagement, and have a number of men wounded. They'll be brought in, and there will be a night scene. The doctors and other nurses go off duty, and you are in charge. An emergency occurs -- maybe a bandage slips from an artery and you sit and hold the wound until a doctor can come and tie the artery again. We'll work it out as we go along."

"Is there anything for me?" asked Alice.

"No, your part will stand all right as it is until you get to the big hospital scene. Come on now, Ruth; we'll have a rehearsal."

The rehearsal went off well, and the little change promised to strengthen the story of the war play. The hospital was set up near Mr. Apgar's corn-crib.

"And maybe that'll be a good thing," he said. "If you folks use enough of them there disinfectants and carbolic acid, you may scare away all the rats and mice that eat my corn in the winter."

"Oh! will there be rats and mice?" asked Ruth, apprehensively.

"Not in the hospital," said Mr. Pertell with a laugh. "It will be strictly sanitary -- as much so as things were in the days of sixty-three."

The fight between the two forces was staged some distance away from the hospital, and the guns soon began to rattle and to roar again. The girls did not mind them by this time, however.

This skirmish had no particular part in the general story, but it was filmed just the same, as it could be spliced in with the other fighting scenes.

"And you can't get too much of that," Mr. Pertell said.

Russ, with some helpers, was taking the fighting pictures preliminary to the hospital act. He was nearing the end of the reel in his machine when, to his dismay, he found he had forgotten to bring a spare one.

"Here, you!" he called to one of the extra soldiers lying lazily on the grass near the camera, "hop over and ask Pop Snooks to give you an extra reel for me."

The man did not answer.

"Don't you hear me?" yelled Russ, grinding away at the film which was being quickly used up. "Go and get me that reel!"

Still no response.

"Are you deaf?" shouted Russ, and then he thought perhaps the discharge of so many cannon had made the man unable to hear.

"Go over and punch that fellow!" cried Russ to Paul. "Wake him up, and tell him to get me that extra reel."

"All right," Paul assented. "I'd go myself only I have to carry a message to headquarters in a minute or two."

He ran over and kicked the soldier, who seemed to be asleep.

"Hi! What's the idea?" demanded the rudely awakened one.

"The camera man wants you to go to get him some film."

"Who -- me?"

"Yes -- you! Skip!"

"I can't go get no film!"

"You can't? Why not?"

"'Cause I'm dead, that's why! I was told to be killed, and I was. I fell off my hoss dead, an' I'm deader'n a door nail. I dassn't git up to git no film for nobody. I'm dead!"

And the man rolled over and closed his eyes.



Chapter XVI

A Retake


"What's the matter over there?" called Russ to Paul. "Is he going to get my film?"

"He says he can't."

"Can't? Why not? Has he lost his legs?"

"No. But he's dead. This is carrying realism to the extreme."

"Oh, good-night!" cried Russ. "I haven't but a few feet left. Make him go."

"I won't go I tell you," the man cried. "I was told to play dead, and I'm goin' to," and he stuck to the instructions he had received.

Fortunately, one of Russ' helpers was free a moment later, and he went for the extra roll of film, while the dead man enjoyed his part to his satisfaction.

"Well, he did just right," said Mr. Pertell, when told of the incident afterward. "I wish more performers would do exactly as they are told. Of course, I don't mean to say a player must slavishly do just as I tell him. But in some cases a dead man's coming to life might spoil a big scene."

Matters were now in readiness for the preliminary hospital scene. A ward had been fitted up in a shed where electric lights could be used to get the necessary illumination, the current being brought from town. In the shed were ranged white beds, in which a number of wounded men were reposing. Other men were in wheeled chairs, while still others sat up as if recovering from a long and dangerous siege from wounds. All were picturesquely bandaged.

The preliminary scenes had been taken. The doctor had made his rounds of the wounded on the cots. He had taken their temperature and had felt their pulses, while the other women of the company, as nurses, accompanied the surgeon on his journey. Other wounded were brought in.

Night settled down in the hospital. The big, hissing electric lights were turned off, and from outside a window "moonlight" streamed in. The moonlight, of course was made by another electric light, properly shaded.

"Now, I think we're ready for you, Ruth," said the director. "You are on duty alone in the ward when the emergency occurs."

In the glow of the beams of light from the window Ruth, on duty alone, took her place.

"All ready now!" called Mr. Pertell, from where he was standing behind Russ, who was grinding away at the camera. "You start from your half-doze, Ruth, and listen. Then you approach one of the cots and discover that the bandage has slipped and that the man is bleeding to death. You press on the artery, and finally rouse another of the hospital patients -- one not badly wounded -- and send him for the surgeon."

Ruth carried out the instructions perfectly. Her acting was so very natural that afterward, when the film was shown, more than one person found himself holding his breath lest Ruth should remove her thumb from the severed artery.

The slightly wounded man limped out to get the surgeon, who came rushing in, and the artery was tied. Then followed words of praise for Ruth. This laid the foundation for her summons to a larger hospital when the proper time came.

The next day more battle views were the order of the day. In one of these Estelle had to do some fast riding, to leap her horse across a ditch and speed away from pursuing troopers.

"Aren't you nervous for fear you'll fall?" asked Ruth, as the young horsewoman was making ready.

"Well, no. I don't think about that part. All I am afraid of is that I may get out of range of the camera. You see I'm not very old at this business."

"Just how did you come to get into it?" asked Alice.

"Why, it was a sort of accident. I was on a boat one day, leaning over the rail looking at the water, when a gentleman came up, begged my pardon for speaking without being introduced, and asked me if I had ever been in the movies.

"I hadn't, though I had often thought I would like to be, and I told him so. He asked me to call at his studio, and I did. They gave me a 'try out,' found I photographed well, and they cast me for small parts. Then they found out I could ride and they let me do some outdoor stuff. From then on I did very well, and when I heard your company was going to make a big war play, I applied to Mr. Pertell. He took me, I'm glad to say."

"And we're glad you're here," ejaculated Alice.

"We'll go out and watch you jump; it fascinates me, though it makes me afraid," Ruth declared. "My sister and I did some riding while we were at Rocky Ranch, but it was nothing to what you do."

"Oh, it takes practice, that's all," answered Estelle.

There were some animated scenes previous to the one in which Estelle took part. There was a fight over the possession of a bridge, and the Confederates, having driven off their enemies, prepared to blow it up to prevent the Union army from using it.

Estelle was to try to reach the bridge before it was destroyed, but, failing in that, she was to ride her horse to a narrow part of the stream and leap over.

All went well, and the time came for her to take her swift ride to try to reach the bridge. On and on she galloped, until she was met by a colored man who warned her of the fact that in another moment the bridge would be destroyed.

"She's going pretty close!" murmured Mr. Pertell, as he stood near Russ, who was filming the scene. "Some of those timbers may fall pretty near her."

But Estelle seemed to know no fear. She rode straight for the bridge, and she was only a short distance away when it blew up, the planks and rails flying high into the air.

Then she turned her horse to reach, ahead of her pursuers, the place she was to jump the stream. So near was she to the bridge that she had to swerve her horse quickly to avoid being struck by a fragment of the falling wood.

"Plucky girl, that!" murmured Mr. DeVere.

While Estelle was being filmed down by the stream, one of the assistant camera men, a new hand, prepared to take a scene where a Southern farmer rides up to warn the Confederate cavalry of Estelle's escape, so they may take after her. Maurice Whitlow was the farmer.

"Here, you!" cried Mr. Pertell to Whitlow, "ride down there and deliver the message -- that's your part in this scene."

There was a small automobile which Mr. Pertell had been using standing near, and Maurice leaped into this and started across the field toward a detachment of the Southern cavalry.

Away rattled Maurice in the car, and the camera man ground away, showing the farmer on his way to give the warning. Suddenly Mr. Pertell turned and saw what was going on.

"For the love of gasoline, stop!" he cried. "The whole scene is spoiled. There'll have to be a retake! Of all the stupid pieces of work this is the worst! Stop that camera!"



Chapter XVII

Estelle's Story


"What's the matter?" cried Russ Dalwood, running back from the stream where he had been to see that an assistant was successfully getting the scene after Estelle had leaped to the other bank.

"Matter! Look!" cried the director, and he pointed to Maurice, speeding to carry his message in the small runabout.

"Good-night!" gasped Russ, who understood at once.

"Why, what's wrong with it?" asked Paul. "Isn't he running the machine all right?"

"Oh, he's running it all right," said Mr. Pertell in tones of disgust. "And that's just the trouble! I told him to jump on a horse with that dispatch, and he goes in the auto!"

"I suppose he thought it was quicker," commented Paul.

"Quicker! Yes, I should say it was! But I'll get him out of there quicker than he can shake a stick at a dead mule. The idea of riding in an auto to carry a message in Civil War days. Why, there wasn't a real auto in the whole world then. How would it look in a film to see an up-to-date runabout butting in on a scene of sixty-three. Get him back here and make him start over again on a horse as he ought to," went on the director. "An auto in sixty-three! Next he'll be sending wireless telephone messages about fifty years before they were ever dreamed of!"

Fortunately, not much of the film had been reeled off, and the scene was one that could easily be made over. Estelle's leap was not spoiled, nor was the blowing up of the bridge.

"Huh! I didn't think anything about there not being autos in those days," said Maurice, when he had been brought back and mounted on a horse.

"That's just it," commented Mr. Pertell. "You've got to think in these days of moving pictures. The audiences are more critical than you would suppose. Even the children now laugh at fake scenes and incongruities. And as for using a dummy in danger scenes, it's getting harder and harder every day to get by with it. You stick to horses or to Shank's mules, young man, when it comes to transportation in this war film. No autos where they are going to show in the film."

That was only one of the many details the director and his assistants had to look after. If eternal vigilance is the price of liberty, it is much more so the price of good films. The camera sees everything in a pitiless light. It exaggerates faults and it refuses to shut its eye to anything at which it is pointed. The absolute truth is told every time.

Of course, there are trick films, but even then the camera tells the truth fearlessly. It is only the on-lookers' eyes that are deceived. The camera can not be fooled. And though a man may be seen to be shaking hands with himself or cutting off his own head, it is done by double exposure, and could not be accomplished were it not for the fact that the camera and the film are so fearlessly honest and truth-telling.

"What's the matter, Estelle?" asked Alice of the rider that afternoon, when they were in Ruth's room resting after the work of the day. "You seem to be in pain."

"I am. I strained my side a little in that water jump. Petro slipped a bit on the muddy bank."

"Did you do much jumping out West?" asked Ruth, while Alice was getting a bottle of liniment.

"In the West? I don't know that I ever jumped there. I can't remember --  -- "

Estelle paused, and passed her hand across her eyes as though to shut out some vision.

"Are you faint?" asked Ruth.

"No -- no, it isn't that. It -- it is just that I -- that I --  --  Oh, I wonder if I can tell you?" and Estelle seemed in such distress that the two sisters hastened to her.

"What is it? Tell me, are you badly hurt?" asked Ruth. For she had known of performers who concealed injuries that they might not be laid off, and so lose a day's work. "What is the matter, Estelle?"

"It is my -- my head."

"Did you fall? I didn't hear them say anything about it!" exclaimed Alice.

"No, it isn't that," and the girl looked from one sister to the other. "Oh, I wonder if I dare tell you?"

"If there is anything in which we can help you, tell us, by all means!" answered Ruth, warmly -- sympathetically. "But we don't want to force ourselves --  -- "

"Oh, no! It isn't that. I'm only wondering what you will think of me afterward."

"We shall love you just the same!" cried impulsive Alice.

"Don't be too sure. But I feel that I must tell some one. I have borne all I can alone. It is getting to the point where I fear I shall scream my secret to the cameras -- or some one!"

Then Estelle had a secret!

"Do tell us. Perhaps we can help you -- or perhaps my father can," suggested Ruth.

"I don't believe any one can help me," said Estelle. "But at least it will be a relief to tell it. I -- I am living under false pretenses!" she blurted out desperately.

"False pretenses!" repeated Alice. At once her mind flashed back to Miss Dixon's ring. Was it the taking of this that Estelle was hinting at? The girl must have guessed what was in the mind of her hearers, for she hastened to add:

"Oh, it isn't anything disgraceful. It's just a misfortune. You remember you have been asking me where I learned to ride -- whether I didn't use to live on a ranch -- questions like that. Well, you must have noticed that I didn't answer."

"Yes, we did notice, and we spoke about it," said truthful Ruth.

"We thought you didn't wish to tell," added Alice.

"Wish to tell! Oh, my dears, I would have been only too glad to tell if I could."

"Why can't you?" asked Ruth. "Are you bound by some vow of secrecy? Is it dangerous for you to reveal the past?"

"No, it is simply impossible!"

"Impossible!" the two sisters exclaimed.

"Yes, I can no more tell you what life I lived, where I lived, who I was, or what I was doing, up to a time of about three or four years ago, than I can fly."

"Why not?" asked Alice, puzzled.

"Because the past -- up to the time I named -- is a perfect blank to me. My mind refuses absolutely to tell me who I was or where I lived -- who my people were -- anything of the past. My mind is like a blank sheet of paper. I can remember nothing. Oh, isn't it awful!" and she burst into tears.



Chapter XVIII

"What Can We Do?"


"You poor dear!" cried Alice, and she knelt down on the floor beside Estelle and put her arms about the weeping girl. Ruth, too, with an expression of sympathy, stroked the bowed head.

"We want so much to help you," Ruth murmured.

"Let me get you something," begged Alice. "Some smelling salts -- some ammonia -- shall I call any one -- the doctor --  -- ?"

"No, I -- I'll be all right presently," said Estelle in a broken voice. "Just let me alone a little while -- I mean stay with me -- talk to me -- tell me something. I want to get control of my nerves."

Ruth did not seem to know what to say, but Alice pulled a small bottle from her pocket, and held it under Estelle's nose.

"It's the loveliest new scent," she said. "I bought a sample in town."

Estelle burst into a laugh, rather a hysterical laugh, it is true, but a laugh nevertheless. It showed that the strain and tension were relaxing to some extent.

"Isn't it sweet?" Alice asked.

"It is, dear. Let me smell it again. It makes me feel better," and Estelle breathed in deep of the odorous scent.

"How silly I was to give way like that," she went on. "But I simply couldn't help it. This has been going on for so long, and it got so I couldn't stand it another minute. How would you like it not to know who you are?"

"Not very much, I'm afraid," said Ruth, softly.

"That, in a way, is why it has been such a relief to be in the moving pictures," Estelle went on. "I could be so many different characters, and, at times, I thought perhaps, by chance, I might be cast for the very part I have lost -- cast for my real self, as it were."

"You must have had a hard time," said Alice.

"I haven't told you half the story yet," Estelle went on. "Would you like to hear the rest?"

"Indeed we would!" exclaimed Ruth. "Not from any idle curiosity, but because we want to help you."

"And I do need some one to help me," murmured Estelle. "I am all alone in the world."

"You must have relatives somewhere!" insisted Alice.

"None that I ever heard of. But then, who knows what might have happened in the life that is a blank to me -- in the life that lies beyond that impenetrable wall of the past?

"But I mustn't get hysterical again. Just let me think for a moment, so I may tell you my story clearly. I shall be all right in a moment or two."

"Let me make you a cup of tea," proposed Ruth. "I'll make some for all of us," and presently the little kettle was steaming over the spirit lamp, and the girls were sipping the fragrant beverage.

"Thank you. That was good!" murmured Estelle. "I feel better now. I'll tell the rest of my miserable story to you."

"Don't make it too miserable," and Alice tried to make her laugh a gay one.

"I won't -- not any more so than I can help. I think it will do me good to let you share the mystery with me."

"Then it is a mystery?" asked Ruth.

"Somewhat, yes. You may think it strange, but I can not think back more than three years -- four at the most. I am not at all certain of the time. But go back as far as I can, all I remember is that I was on a large steamer."

"On the ocean?" asked Alice.

"No, on the Great Lakes. I was going to Cleveland, which I learned when I asked one of the officers."

"And didn't you know where you were going before you asked?" Ruth questioned.

"I hadn't the least idea, my dear. I might just as well have been going to Europe. In fact, when I first looked out and saw the water, I thought I was on the ocean."

"But where did you come from, what were you doing there, where were your people?" cried Ruth.

"That's it, my dear. Where were they? I didn't know. No one knew. All I could grasp was the fact that I was there on the boat."

"Alone?"

"Yes, all alone."

"But who bought your ticket -- who engaged your stateroom?" questioned Ruth.

"That is the queer part of it. I did it myself. When I first became conscious that I was in a strange place I was so shocked that I wanted to scream -- to cry out -- to ask all sorts of questions. Then I realized if I did that I might be taken for an insane person and be locked up. So I just shut myself in my stateroom and did some thinking.

"The first thing I wanted to know was how I got on the steamer, but how to find that out without asking questions that the steamship people would think peculiar, was a puzzle to me. Finally, I decided to pretend to want to change my room, and when I went to the purser I asked him if that was the only room to be had.

"'Why no, Miss,' he said, 'but when you came on board and I told you what rooms I had, you insisted on taking that one.' That was enough for me. I realized then that I had come on board alone, and of my own volition, though I had not any recollection of having done so, and I knew no more of where I came from than you do now."

"How very strange!" murmured Alice. "And what did you do?"

"Well, I pretended that I had been tired and had not made a wise choice of a room, and asked the purser to give me another.

"'I thought, when you picked it out, you wouldn't like that one,' he said to me, 'but you looked like a young lady who was used to having her own way, so I did not interfere.'

"That was another bit of information. Evidently, I looked prosperous, a fact that was borne out when I examined my purse. I had a considerable sum in it, and the large valise I found in my room was filled with expensive clothes and fittings. Yet where I had obtained it or my money or my clothes I could not tell for the life of me. All I knew was that I was there on board the ship."

"And did you change your stateroom?" asked Ruth.

"Yes; the purser gave me another one. And then I sat down and tried to puzzle it out. Why was I going to Cleveland? I knew no one there, and yet I had bought a ticket to that port -- or some one had bought it for me."

"Did that occur to you?" asked Alice. "That some one might have had an object in getting you out of the way."

"Well, if they had, they took a very public and expensive method of doing it," Estelle said. "I was on one of the best boats on Lake Erie, and I had plenty of money."

"Did you find in what name your room was taken?" asked Ruth. "That might have given you a clue."

"The name given was Estelle Brown," was the answer. "I gave that name myself, for I recognized my handwriting on the envelope in which I sealed some of my jewelry before handing it to the purser to put in his safe. Estelle Brown was the name I gave."

"And was it yours?" asked Alice.

"I haven't any reason to believe that it was not. In fact, as I looked back then, and as I look back now, the name Estelle Brown seems to be my very own -- it is associated closely with me. So I'm sure I'm Estelle Brown -- that is the only part I am sure about."

"But what did you do?" asked Ruth. "Didn't you make some inquiries?"

"I did; as soon as I reached Cleveland. At first I hoped that my memory would come back to me when I reached that place. I thought I might recognize some of the buildings. In fact, I hoped it would prove to be my home, from which I had, perhaps, wandered in a fit of illness.

"But it was of no help to me. I might just as well have been in San Francisco or New York for all that the place was familiar to me. So I gave that up. Then I began to look over the papers to see if any Estelle Brown was missing. But there was nothing to that effect in the news columns. All the while I was getting more and more worried.

"I went to a good hotel in Cleveland and stayed two or three days. Then I happened to think that perhaps my clothes might offer some clue. I examined them all carefully, and the only thing I found was the name of a Boston firm on a toilet set. At once it flashed on me that I belonged in Boston. I seemed to have a dim recollection of a big monument in the midst of a green park, of narrow, crooked streets and historical buildings.

"Then, in a flash it came to me -- I did belong in Boston. How I had come from there I could not guess, but I was sure I lived there. So I bought a ticket for there and went as fast as the train could take me.

"But my hopes were dashed. Even the sight of Bunker Hill monument did not bring the elusive memory, nor did viewing the other places of historic interest. Yet, somewhere in the back of my brain, I was sure I had been in that city before. I went to the place where my toilet set was bought, but the man had sold out and the new owner could give me no information.

"I did not know what to do. My money was running low, and I had not a friend to whom to turn. I happened to go in to see some moving pictures, and the idea came to me that perhaps I could act. I had rather a good face, so some one had hinted."

"You do photograph beautifully," said Alice.

"That's what one of the managers in Boston told me when I applied to him," said Estelle. "He gave me a small part, and then I learned that New York was really the place to go to get in the movies, so I came on, with a letter to a manager from the Boston firm.

"It must have been my face that got me my first engagement, for now I know I couldn't act. But, somehow or other, I made good, and then I got this engagement with Mr. Pertell.

"And that is my story. You can see what a strange one it is -- for me not to know who I am. I'm almost ashamed to admit it, and that is why I have been avoiding all references to my past. But now I have told you, what do you think?"

"I think it's just terrible!" cried Alice. "The idea! Not to know who you are."

"The question is," said Ruth, "what can we do to help you? This must not be allowed to go any further. Valuable time is being lost. We want to help you, Estelle. What can we do? We must try to find out who you are."

"Yes, but how can you?" asked the strange girl.



Chapter XIX

A Big Gun


Ruth did not answer for several seconds. She seemed to be thinking deeply, and Alice, who was fairly bursting with numberless questions she wanted to ask, respected her sister's efforts to bring some logical queries to the fore.

"Then your hopes that Boston would prove to be your home were not borne out?" asked Ruth, after a bit.

"No, but even yet I feel sure that I have lived at least part of my life in Boston, or near there. One doesn't have even shadowy memories of big monuments and historic places without some basis; and it was not the memory of having seen pictures of them. It was a real vision."

"And the name Estelle Brown?"

"Oh, I'm sure that belongs to me. It seems a very part of myself."

"Did you tell any of this to Mr. Pertell or to the other moving picture managers?" asked Alice.

"No. You are the first persons to whom I have told my secret," Estelle said. "I was afraid if I mentioned it they might make it public for advertising purposes, you know. They might make public the fact that a young actress was looking for herself and her parents. I never could bear that!"

"But you want to find your folks, don't you?" asked Alice.

"That's the queer part of it," Estelle replied. "I seem never to have had any relatives. The way I feel about it now, I would never know that I had had a father or a mother. I seem to have just 'growed,' the way poor Topsy did in Uncle Tom's Cabin. That is another strange part of my present existence. I seem to be in a world by myself, and, as far as I can tell, I have always been there."

"What about Lieutenant Varley?" inquired Alice.

"Lieutenant Varley?" and Estelle's voice showed that she was puzzled.

"The young officer who said he met you in Portland."

"Oh, yes. I had forgotten. Well, I have absolutely no recollection of that, and I'm sure I would remember if I had been in the West. I'm certain I never was there."

"And yet if you weren't in the West how did you learn to ride so well?" Ruth queried.

"That's another part of the puzzle, my dear. Riding seems to come as natural to me as breathing. I don't seem ever to have learned it any more than I learned how to dance. I seem always to have known how."

"There's only one way to account for that," Alice said.

"How?"

"From the fact that you must have started to learn to ride and to dance when you were very young -- a mere child."

"I suppose that would account for it. And yet, I can't remember ever being a child. I don't recall having played with dolls or having made mud pies. For me my existence begins about three or four years back, and goes on from there, mostly in moving pictures."

"It is a queer case," commented Ruth. "I don't know what to do to help you. Perhaps it would be a good thing to speak to Mr. Pertell about it. Often when children have been kidnapped, you know, their pictures are flashed on the screen in hundreds of cities, and sometimes persons in the audiences recognize them. That might be done with you, Estelle."

"No, I wouldn't dream of doing that. Perhaps something may turn up some day that will tell me who I really am. And perhaps I shall be sorry for having learned."

"No, you will not!" declared Alice. "You come of good people -- one can easily tell that."

"Thank you, dear. And now I have inflicted enough of my troubles on you. Let's talk about something pleasant."

"You haven't burdened us with your troubles, Estelle dear," insisted Ruth. "It is a strange story, and we are interested in the outcome."

"Indeed we are," said Alice. "We want very much to help you."

"That's good of you. But I don't see what you can do. I'm just a sort of Topsy, and Topsy I'll remain. Now please don't say anything about what I have told you to any one -- not even to your father -- unless I give you permission. I don't want to be the object of curiosity, as well as of suspicion."

"Suspicion!" cried Alice.

"Yes, about Miss Dixon's ring."

"Oh! no one in the world believes you took that -- not even Miss Dixon herself. I believe she has found the old paste diamond, and is too mean to admit it!" cried impulsive Alice.

"You mustn't say such things!" objected her sister.

"Well, neither must she, then. Oh, Estelle! Wouldn't it be great if you should prove to be the daughter of a millionaire!"

"Too great, my dear. Don't let's think about it. But I feel better for having unburdened some of my troubles on you. And if you will still be as nice to me as you always have been --  -- "

"Why shouldn't we be?" asked Ruth.

"Oh, I don't know, but I thought --  -- "

"Silly!" cried Alice, as she threw her arms about the strange girl and kissed her.

Suddenly, from a distant hill, came a dull, booming sound, that, low as it was, seemed to make the very ground tremble.

"What's that?" cried Alice.

"Thunder," suggested Ruth.

"It sounded more like an explosion," asserted Estelle.

"There it goes again!" exclaimed Alice.

"Look!" cried her sister.

She pointed through the open window, and as the girls peered out they saw the top of the hill fly upward in a shower of dirt and stones.

Once more the deep boom sounded.

"It's a big gun!" cried Alice. "I remember, now. Mr. Pertell said he wanted pictures of a siege of a fort, and he sent for a big gun to get explosive effects. Come on over!"

"And be blown to pieces?" objected Ruth. "Don't dare go, Alice DeVere!"

"Oh, come on! There's no danger. Russ is going to make the films. I guess they're just trying it now. It's too late to make good pictures. Come on."

"I'll go," offered Estelle. "I don't mind the noise."

Ruth declined to go, so the other two girls set off. On the porch they met Russ and Paul, who confirmed their guess that it was a big siege gun which Mr. Pertell had sent to New York to get, so he might show the effect of explosive shells.

"I'm going to film some to-morrow," Russ said.

"Be careful," urged Alice. "Don't get blown up!"

"I'm no more anxious for that than any one," laughed Russ, and together they set off toward the place where the big gun was being tried out.



Chapter XX

A Wrong Shot


The big gun which Mr. Pertell had secured to make more realistic the war play he was preparing for the films, was an old fashioned siege rifle, made toward the close of the Civil conflict. It had not been used more than a few times, and then it had been stored away in some arsenal. The director, hearing of it, had secured it to fire at a certain hill on Oak Farm.

This hill would, in the motion pictures, form a stronghold of the Southern forces and it would be demolished by shells from the large cannon, and then would follow a charge on the part of the Union soldiers.

Real shells, with large explosive charges in them, would be used, but it is needless to say that when the shots were fired at the hill the players taking the parts of the Southerners would be at a safe distance.

"They're just trying it out now," observed Russ, who with Paul, was walking over the fields with Alice and Estelle. "Mr. Pertell wants to get the range, and decide on the best places from which to make the pictures. I think we'll film some to-morrow if it's a good day."

"What's the matter with your eyes, Estelle?" asked Paul, as he looked at her. "Were you working in the studio to-day? I know those lights always affect my sight."

"Why, no, I wasn't in the studio," and then Estelle realized why her eyes were so inflamed -- it was from crying. She gave Alice a meaning glance, as though to enjoin silence, but she need have had no fears. Alice would not betray the secret.

The big gun had been mounted on a level piece of land, not far from the hill, and on this plain had been thrown up earthworks behind which the Union forces would take their stand in an effort to reduce the Confederate stronghold.

"They're going to fire!" cried Estelle as they came within sight of the gun, and saw, by the activities of the men about it, that a shot was about to be delivered.

Alice covered her ears with her hands, and Russ and Paul stood on their tiptoes and opened their mouths wide.

"What in the world are they doing that for?" asked Estelle.

"I can't hear a word you say!" called Alice, making her voice loud, to overcome her own hearing handicap.

"There she goes!" cried Russ.

The earth trembled as flames and smoke belched from the muzzle of the cannon, and the girls screamed.

Something black was seen for an instant in the air amid the swirl of smoke, and then another portion of the hill was seen to lift itself up into the air and dirt and stones were scattered about.

"A good shot!" observed Russ, letting himself down off his tiptoes. "That would make a dandy scene for the film."

"That's right," agreed Paul, also letting himself down and closing his opened mouth.

"Why did you do that?" asked Estelle, when the echoes of the firing had died away. "Why did you stand on your toes, and open your mouths?"

"To lessen the shock to our ear drums," answered Paul. "It is the concussion, that is, the rushing back of air into the vacuum caused by the shot, that does the damage. By opening your mouth you equalize the air pressure on the inside and the outside of your ear drums, just as you do when you go through a river tunnel. When there is a partial vacuum outside your ear, the air inside you presses the drum outward, and by opening your mouth -- or by swallowing you make the pressure equal. Sometimes the pressure outside is greater than the pressure inside, and you must also equalize that before you can be comfortable."

"But that wasn't why you stood on your toes," Alice said.

"No; we did that to have less surface of our bodies on the ground so the vibration would be less. If one could leap up off the earth at the exact moment a shot was fired it would be much better, but it is hard to jump at the right instant, and standing on one's toes is nearly as good. Then you present only a comparatively small point which the vibrations of the earth, caused by the explosion of the gun, can act upon."

"That's a good thing to remember," Estelle said. "Are they going to fire again?"

"It looks so," observed Russ. "But if they knock away too much of the hill there won't be any left for the pictures to-morrow."

"I believe they want to make the top of the hill flat," said Paul. "They are going to have some sort of hand-to-hand fight on it after the Unionists capture it," he went on. "I heard Mr. Pertell speaking of it."

"There goes another!" cried Alice, as she saw the same preparations as before and one man standing near the gun to pull the lanyard, which, by means of a friction tube, exploded the charge.

Once more the projectile shot out and, burying itself in the soft dirt of the hill, threw it up in a shower.

"That'll save me a lot of work!" exclaimed a voice behind the young people, and, turning, they saw Sandy Apgar smiling at them. "That's a new way of plowing," he went on. "It sure does stir up the soil."

"Won't it spoil your hill?" asked Alice.

"Not so's you could notice it. That hill isn't wuth much as it stands. It's too steep to plow, and only a goat could find a foothold on it to graze. So if you moving picture folks level it for me I may be able to raise some crops on it. Shoot as much as you like. You can't hurt that hill!"

The men at the gun signaled that they were going to fire no more that day, and then, as it was safe, the young folks made a trip to see the extent of damage caused by the shells.

Great furrows were torn in the earth and the stones, and the top of the hill, that had been rounding, was now quite flat, though far from being smooth.

The next day had been set for filming the scenes with the big gun in them. Contrary to expectations, no pictures could be taken, as the throwing up of the earthworks had not been finished. But a number of men from both "armies" were set to work, and as it afforded good practice for the militia they were called on to dig trenches, throw up ridges of earth, and go through other needful military tactics.

The girls had no part in the scenes with the big gun, except that, later on, they were to act as nurses in the hospital tent.

On top of the hill a force of Confederates would be stationed, and they were to reply to the fire of the big gun. Of course, when the projectiles struck the hill the soldiers would be a safe distance away, but by means of trick photography scenes would be shown just as if they were sustaining a severe bombardment.

"Is everything ready?" asked Mr. Pertell, a few days after the setting up of the big gun, during which interval a sort of fort had been constructed on the hill and a redoubt thrown up.

"I think so," answered Russ. "We couldn't have a better day, as far as sunshine is concerned. I'm ready to film whenever you are."

"I'll give the word in a minute. Paul, you're in charge of a detachment of Union soldiers that storms the hill as soon as the big gun has silenced the battery there."

"Very well, sir."

The big gun rattled out its booming challenge and was replied to by volleys from the rifles of the Confederates on the hill and by their field artillery, which they hurriedly brought up.

Shot after shot was fired, and one after another the Confederate cannon were disabled. They were blown up by small charges of powder put under them, set off by fuses lighted by the Confederates themselves, but this did not show in the picture, and it looked as though the Southern battery was blown up by shots from the big gun.

"All ready now, Paul! Lead your men!" yelled the director, who was standing near Russ and his camera. "Rush right up the hill. Stop firing here!" he called to those in charge of the big gun.

But something went wrong, or some one misunderstood. As Paul was charging up the hill at the head of his little band, Russ, turning his head for an instant, saw a man about to pull the lanyard of the big gun.

"Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" he yelled. "It's aimed right at Paul and his fellows!"

But Russ was too late. The man pulled the cord. There was a deafening roar, a cloud of smoke, a sheet of fire, and a black projectile was sent hurtling on its way against the hill, up the side of which Paul was climbing with his soldiers.



Chapter XXI

The Big Scene


Nothing could be done! No power on earth could stop that projectile now until it had spent itself, or until it had struck something and exploded.

Horror-stricken, those near the big gun looked across the intervening space. How many would survive what was to follow?

The man who had pulled the lanyard sank to the ground, covering his face with his hands.

For a brief instant Paul, leading his men, looked back at the sound of the unexpected shot. He had been told that no more were to be fired. Doubtless, this was an extra one to make the pictures more realistic. But when he saw, in a flash, something black and menacing leaping through the air toward him and his men, instinctively he cried:

"Duck, everybody! Duck!"

He fell forward on his face and those of his men who heard and understood did likewise.

Ruth, Alice and Estelle, who were watching the scene from a distant knoll, hardly understood what it was all about. They had thought no more shots would be fired when Paul began his charge, but one had boomed out, and surely that was a projectile winging its way toward the partly demolished hill.

"That is carrying realism a little too far," said Ruth. "I hope --  -- "

"Paul has fallen!" cried Alice. "Oh -- something has happened!"

One must realize that all this took place at the same time. The firing of the shot, the realization that it was a mistake, Paul's flash of the oncoming projectile, his command to his men and the vision had by the girls. All in an instant, for a shot from a big gun does not leave much margin of time between starting and arriving even when fired with only a small charge of powder for moving picture purposes.

And, so quickly had it happened that Russ had not stopped turning the crank of his camera, nor had an assistant on the hillside, where he had been stationed to film Paul and his soldiers.

And then the projectile struck. Into the soft dirt of the hillside it buried its head, and then, as the explosion came, up went a shower of earth and stones. And ever afterward the gunner who inserted that charge blessed himself and an ever-watchful Providence that he had put in but half a charge, the last of the powder.

For it was this half-charge that saved Paul and his men. The projectile struck in the hill a hundred feet below where Paul was leading his force up the slope, and though they were well-nigh buried beneath a rain of sand and gravel, they were not otherwise hurt -- scratches and bruises being their portion.

"What are they trying to do, kill us?" cried a man, staggering to his feet, blood streaming from a cut on his cheek.

"This is too much like real war for me!" yelled another throwing down his gun. "I'm going to quit!"

"No you don't!" shouted Paul. "Come on. It was a mistake. They won't fire any more. It will make a great scene on the film. Come on!"

He gave one look back toward the Union battery and saw Mr. Pertell fluttering a white flag which meant safety. Waving his sword above his head, Paul yelled again:

"Come on! Come on! It's all right! Up the hill with you! That shot was only to put a little pep in you!"

"Pep! More like sand! I got a mouthful!" muttered a sergeant.

"Get every inch of that. It's the best scene we've had yet, though it was a close call!" telephoned Mr. Pertell to the operator on the side of the hill. "Film every inch of it!"

"All right! I'm getting it," answered the camera man and he went on grinding away at his crank.

The explosion of the shell had, for the moment, stopped the advance of Paul and his men up the hill, but this momentary halt only made it look more realistic -- as though they really feared they were in danger, as indeed they had been. Now the director called:

"It's all right, Paul! Go ahead! Keep on just as if that was part of the show."

"It was a lively part all right!" and Paul laughed grimly. "Come on, boys!"

And the charge was resumed.

Back of the dismantled battery, whence they had presumably been driven by the fire from the big gun, the Confederates were massed. They were waiting for Paul's charge, and they, too, had been a little surprised by the unexpected firing of the shell.

But now, in response to a signal on the field telephone, they prepared to resist the assault.

"Come on, boys! Beat the Yankees back!" was the battle cry that would be flashed on the screen.

Then came the fierce struggle, and it was nearly as fierce as it was indicated in the pictures. Real blows were given, and more than one man went down harder than he had expected to. There were duels with clubbed rifles, and fencing combats with swords, though, of course, the participants took care not to cut one another.

In spite of this, several received minor hurts. But this result only added to the effectiveness of the scene, though it was painful. But in providing realism for motion pictures more than one conscientious player has been injured, and not a few have lost their lives. It is devotion of no small sort to their profession.

Back and forth surged the fight, sometimes Paul's men giving way, and again driving the Confederates back from the crest of the hill. Small detachments here and there fired volleys of blank cartridges from their rifles, but there was not as much of this for the close-up pictures as there had been for the larger battle scenes. For while smoke blowing over a big field on which hundreds of men and horses are massed makes a picture effective, if seen at too close range it hides the details of the fighting.

And Mr. Pertell wanted the details to come out in this close-up scene.

Back and forth surged the fight until it had run through a certain length of film. Then the orders came that the Confederates were to give up and retreat. Before this, however, a number of them had been killed, as had almost as many Union soldiers.

Then came a spirited scene. Paul, leading his men, leaped up on the earthworks of the Confederate battery, cut down the Southern flag -- the stars and bars. In its place he hoisted the stars and stripes, and with a wild yell that made the fight seem almost real, he and his men occupied the heights.

"Well done!" cried Mr. Pertell, enthusiastically, when he came over from the ramparts of the big gun. "Are you sure none of you was hurt when that shell exploded?"

"None of us," answered Paul. "It fell short, luckily, and the dirt was soft. No big rocks were tossed up, fortunately, and we came out of it very nicely."

"Glad to hear it. I've discharged the man who fired the gun."

"That's too bad!"

"Well, I hired him over again -- but to do something else less dangerous. I can't afford to take chances with big cannon. But I think the scene went off very well. That stopping and the bursting of the shell made it look very real."

"That's good," Paul said, wiping some of the dirt and blood off his face, for he had been scratched by the point of some one's bayonet.

That ended this particular scene for the day, and the players could take a much-needed rest. Plenty of powder had been burned, and the air was rank and heavy with the fumes.

"Are you sure you're all right, Paul?" asked Alice, when he came up to the farmhouse later in the day.

"Well, I think I'd be better if you would feel my pulse," he said, winking at Russ. "And you don't need to be in a hurry to let go my hand. I sha'n't need it right away."

"Silly!" exclaimed Alice, as she turned, blushing, away.

"It must have been a shock to you," said Ruth.

"It was. But it was over so quickly I didn't have time to be shocked long. Now, let's talk about something nice. Come on in to the town, and I'll buy you all ice-cream."

"That will be nice!" laughed Estelle.

It was several days later that Mr. Pertell, coming to where the moving picture girls and their friends were seated on the porch, said:

"The big scene is for to-morrow. In the hospital. This is where you are looking after the wounded officer, Ruth, and Alice, on pretense of being a nurse seeking to give aid, comes in to get the papers. I want this very carefully done, as it is one of the climaxes of the whole play. So we'll have some rehearsals in the morning."

"Am I to do that riding act?" asked Estelle.

"Yes, you'll do the horse stunt as usual. There's to be a cavalry charge, Miss Brown, so don't get in their way and be run down."

"I'll try not to," she answered.



Chapter XXII

Alice Does Well


Long rows of wounded men lay stretched out on white cots in the hospital. Some wore bandages over their heads all but concealing their eyes. Others were so entwined with white wrappings that it was hard to say whether they were men or oriental women. Still others raised themselves on their elbows, spasms of pain corrugating their brows, while red cross nurses held to their lips cooling drinks.

Here at the bedside of one stood a grave surgeon, slowly shaking his head as he came to the melancholy conclusion that a further operation was useless. Over there they were carrying out a motionless form on a stretcher, a sheet mercifully draped over what was left. At the entrance to the hospital other bearers were carrying in those who came from the scene of the distant firing.

The boom of big guns shook the frail shack that had been turned into a hospital. Now and then, as the wind blew in fitful gusts, there was borne on it the acrid smell of powder. And again, in some dark corner of that building of suffering, there could be seen through the cracks, left by hasty builders, the flash of fire that preceded the booming crash of the cannon.

A sad-faced woman in black moved slowly down the line of cots led by a sympathetic nurse. She came to one bed, stopped as though in doubt, passed her hand over her face as if she did not want to admit that what she saw she did see, and then she fell on her knees in a passion of weeping, while the surgeons turned away their heads. She had found what she had sought.

From the farther door there entered a man, limping on crutches improvised from the limbs of a tree. Stained bandages were about one arm and another leg. His head, too, was wrapped so that only half his face showed. A hurrying orderly met him.

"You can't come in here!" he cried.

"Why not, I'd like to know. Ain't this the horspital?"

"Of course it is."

"Then why can't I come in here. I'm hurt, and hurt bad, pardner. Shot through leg and arm, and part of my jaw gone. Why can't I come in?"

"'Cause you can't. Didn't we just carry you out for dead? What'll the audience think if they see you walking again? Git on out of here!"

"I will not! I've wrapped this bandage around my head on purpose so they won't know me. Let me come in, will you? That's real lemonade them pretty nurses is givin' out to drink, and I'm as dry as a fish. I've been firin' one of them guns until I've swallowed enough smoke to play an animated cannon ball. Let me in the horspital."

"Yes, let him in!" called Mr. Pertell through his megaphone. He was at the far end of the shack that had been hastily erected on Oak Farm as a hospital, for the last big scenes of the war play, "A Girl in Blue and A Girl in Gray."

"All right, just as you say," answered the orderly. "Come on in, Bill. Are you going to die this time?"

"I am not! I'm going to be one of them converts, and get chicken sandwiches and jelly."

"You mean convalescent."

"Um. That's it! Lead me to me bed, will you, for I'm a sadly wounded old soldier -- that's what I am."

Amid laughter he was led to a cot, where a smiling nurse tucked him in between the yellow sheets. For, as has been said, yellow takes the place of white in inside scenes.

And this was an inside scene, powerful electric lights dispelling all shadows so the cameras could film every motion and expression.

"Now remember!" called Mr. Pertell when the "wounded man," one of the extra players, had been comfortably put to bed, "remember no smiling or laughing when we begin to make the picture. This is supposed to be serious."

The rehearsal went on and finally the director announced that he was satisfied. Then the scenes were enacted over again, but with more tenseness and with a knowledge that every motion was being filmed with startling exactness.

"Now, Ruth, you come on!" called Mr. Pertell. "We've made a little change from the original scenario. You're to relieve Miss Dixon, who has been on this case. He's one of the Northern officers, you remember, and he has with him papers that the Confederacy would do much to get.

"They are under the officer's pillow, you know. He is afraid to let them out of his possession. You must humor him, though you know that the papers will soon have to be taken away as he is to be operated on. It is here that Alice, as the spy, gets her chance. She pretends to be one of the nurses of this hospital, dons the uniform, and comes in here to get the papers. Are you ready?"

"Yes," answered Ruth.

Then the big hospital scene began.

Ruth, in her garb of a nurse, took her place at the side of the injured officer's cot. She felt his pulse, took his temperature and administered some medicine. Then the injured man, who was Mr. DeVere himself, sank back on his pillows. His hand went under the mass of feathers and brought out a packet of papers. At this point a close-up view was taken, showing on the screen the papers in magnified shape, so that the audience could note that they were Civil War documents. It was these that the officer was afraid would fall into the hands of the Confederates, so he kept them ever near him.

Ruth made as if to remove them when he had placed them under the pillow again, but he awoke with a start and prevented her. This was to show that it was necessary for some one to take them while the operation was being performed.

Then the scene changed to show Alice preparing for her work as a spy. The camera was taken to another part of the hospital, Ruth and her father having a respite, though they maintained their positions.

"Did I do all right, Daddy?" asked Ruth.

"Very well, indeed. You are getting to be a good actress. I wish you were on the speaking stage."

"I like this ever so much better. I never could speak before a whole crowd."

Alice was shown making her way into the hospital, a previous scene having depicted her as promising the Confederate officer in whose employ as a spy she was, that she would get the papers. She entered the hospital, pretending to be in search of a missing relative. Then, watching her chance, she prepared a sleeping powder for a tired and half-sleeping nurse off duty and prepared to take her uniform.

Alice played her part well. The sleeping nurse aroused, took the drugged drink, and went more soundly to sleep than ever. Then Alice was shown in the act of taking off the uniform. Another scene showed her walking boldly into the ward room to relieve Ruth.

There was a little scene between the two sisters, and Ruth registered that Alice must be very careful not to alarm or shock the wounded man who was soon to undergo the operation.

Alice acquiesced, and then sat down beside the cot. Slowly and carefully, like some pickpocket, she inserted her fingers under the pillow. Amid a tenseness that affected even the actors working with her, Alice took out the papers, inch by inch, and began to move away with them.

It was at this point that she was to be discovered by Paul, in the next bed. He had, in a previous scene, supposed to have taken place several months before, saved Alice's life, and they had fallen in love, Alice promising to wed him after the war. He supposed her to be a true Northern girl, and now he discovered that she was a Southern spy.

There was a strong scene here. Paul leaped from his bed, and tried to get the papers away from Alice. She, horror-stricken at being discovered as a spy by her lover, is torn between affection for him and duty to the South. She throws him from her, as he is weakened by illness, and is about to escape with the papers, when she fears Paul is dying and she is stricken with remorse. She decides to give up her task for the sake of her lover.

Slowly and softly, without awakening the old officer, she puts the papers back under his pillow and then, stooping over Paul, who has fainted from loss of blood, she kisses his forehead and goes out in a "fadeaway."

"Good! Great! Couldn't be better!" cried Mr. Pertell, as Alice came out of range of the camera. "That was better than I dared to hope. This will make a big hit!"



Chapter XXIII

A Bad Fall


"Have you made up your mind yet, Estelle?"

"No, Ruth! I haven't. I don't know what to do."

The two girls were in Estelle's room. Miss Brown was putting some protective padding under her outer garments, for in a little while she was to take part in a desperate ride -- one of the last scenes in the big war play -- a ride that had a part in a cavalry charge that was to be made by the desperate Confederates on the hosts of Unionists, who were closing in on their enemies. It was to be the last battle -- a final stand of the Southern States, and they were to lose.

But Estelle was to make a desperate ride to try to save the day. This time she was to pose as a daughter of the South. The ride would necessarily be a reckless one, and Estelle felt that she might fall; so she was preparing for it.

"I don't know what to do," she went on to Ruth, who was helping her. "Sometimes I feel like doing as you and your sister suggest, and let your father into the secret -- and Mr. Pertell too -- and have them try what they can do to discover who I am.

"Then again, as I think it over, I'm afraid. Suppose I should turn out to be some one altogether horrid?"

"You couldn't, my dear, not if you tried. But if you don't want my father to know, and would rather work out this mystery yourself, why, I won't say another word."

"I want to think about it a little more," Estelle said.

They had been talking about her strange case, and the possible outcome of it. Alice had suggested that a motion picture story be written around it.

"It could be called 'Who is Estelle Brown?'" Alice said, "and it could be a serial. You could pose in it, Estelle, and make a lot of money. And, not only that, but you'd find out who your relatives were, I'm sure."

"Oh, I couldn't do it!" Estelle had cried. "I'd like the money, of course. I never was so happy as when I found I had a purse full when I was on that Cleveland boat! But I could not capitalize my misfortune that way."

"No, I was only joking," said Alice. And so the matter had gone on. Now Ruth had broached the subject again, and Estelle was still undecided.

"Wait until after this big ride of mine," she said. "Then I'll make up my mind. I really do want to know who I am, and I think, after this engagement, if I don't find out before, I'll go to Boston again. I'm sure my people are from that vicinity."

So it was left.

From outside came the stirring notes of a bugle. At the sound of it Ruth and Estelle started.

"That's the signal," said the latter. "I must hurry."

"I'll help you," offered Ruth, and she assisted in the tying of the last strings, and the snapping of the final fastenings of the suit of protective padding the rider wore.

"You don't take part in the actual charge, do you?" asked Alice, who came in at this point.

"Well, I have to ride ahead of the Union forces for a way," Estelle answered. "But I'm not afraid. Petro will carry me safely, as he has done before."

The girls went down and out into the yard. Off on the distant meadow of Oak Farm, which had been turned into a battlefield for the time being, were two hostile armies. The two regiments of cavalry were to meet in a final clash that was to end the war. There was to be the firing of many rifles and cannon. There were to be charges and countercharges. Men would fall from their horses shot dead. Certain horses, trained for the work, would stumble and fall, going down with those who rode them, the men having learned how to roll out of the way without getting a broken arm or leg. In spite of their training and practice, nearly all expected to be scratched and bruised. However, it was all part of the game and in the day's work.

"All ready now!" called Mr. Pertell. "We're going to have the first skirmish, and, after that, Miss Brown, you are to do your ride. Are you ready?"

"Yes," Estelle told the director.

The signal was given through the field telephone and then, with his ever-present megaphone, the director began to issue his orders.

The rifles cracked, the big guns rumbled and roared, smoke blew across the battlefield and horses snorted and pawed at the ground impatient to be off and in the charge. To them it was real, even though their masters knew it was only for the movies.

Bugles tooted their inspiring calls, and the officers, who knew the significance of the cadence of notes, issued their orders accordingly.

"Deploy to the left!" came the command to a squad of Union cavalry, and the men trotted off, to try a flank movement. Then came the firing of a Confederate battery in a desperate attempt to scatter the Union forces.

All the camera men in the employ of the Comet Film Company were engaged this day, and Russ was at his wits' end to keep each machine loaded with film, and to see that his own was working properly.

Pop Snooks had never before been called on to provide so many "props" as he was for this occasion, but he thoroughly enjoyed the work, and when, at the last minute, he had to make a rustic bridge whereon two lovers had a farewell before the soldier rode off to battle, the veteran property man improvised one out of bean poles and fence rails that made a most artistic picture.

"They'll have to get up the day before breakfast to beat Pop Snooks!" exclaimed Russ, admiringly.

All was now ready for the big cavalry charge.

"All ready!" came the order from Mr. Pertell. "Cameras!"

And the cranks began to work, reeling off the sensitive film.

The two bodies of cavalry rushed toward one another, hoofs thundering, carbines cracking, sabres flashing in the sun, white puffs of smoke showing where the cannon were firing.

"Now Miss Brown!" yelled the director, above the riot of noise. "This is where you make the ride of your life!"

"All right!" answered the brave girl, and, giving rein to her horse, she dashed off ahead of a detachment of cavalry that was to try to intercept her.

On and on rode Estelle. Ruth and Alice, who had finished their part in this scene, stood on a little hill, watching her.

On and on dashed Estelle, doing her part well, and foot after foot of the film registered her action. She was almost at the end now. She reached the Confederate ranks, gave over the message she had carried through such danger, and then, turning her horse, dashed away.

How it happened no one could tell. But suddenly Petro stumbled, and though Estelle tried to keep him on his feet she could not.

"Oh -- oh!" gasped Ruth. "Look!" and then she turned her head away so as not to see.

Alice had a flash of Estelle flying over the head of her falling horse, and then, unable to stop, the rushing soldiers on their horses rode over the very place where Estelle had fallen.



Chapter XXIV

A Denial Of Identity


Confused shouts, cries, and orders echoed over the field, Mr. Pertell, dropping his megaphone, rushed toward the scene of the accident, calling on Russ to follow and yelling back an order to have the stretcher men and the doctor follow him.

Dr. Wherry was even then waiting in readiness, for it had been feared that this big scene might result painfully, if not dangerously, for more than one. Some men had also been detailed as stretcher bearers and were in waiting.

"Shall we film this?" asked one of Russ's helpers, as the former dashed past on his way to help Estelle.

"No. Don't take that accident. It won't fit in with the rest of the film. It's all right up to that point, though. We can make a retake of the last few feet if we have to."

Even in this time of danger and suspense it was necessary to think of the play. That must go on, no matter what happened to the players.

"Go on with the cavalry charge -- farther over!" directed Mr. Pertell, when he arrived on the scene and found a group of men about the fallen girl. "You can't do any good here. We'll look after her. I can't delay any longer on this scene. Go on with the charge, and carry out the program as it was outlined to you. Russ, you look after the camera men."

"What about Estelle?"

"Dr. Wherry and I will see to her."

The girl's golden hair was tumbled about her head, having come loose and fallen from under her hat in her fall. She lay in a senseless heap at one side of her horse. The animal had not gotten up, and at first it was thought he had been killed. But it developed that Estelle had trained him to play "dead" after a fall of this kind, and the intelligent creature must have thought this was one of those occasions.

"Easy with her, boys," cautioned the director, as the stretcher men tenderly picked up the limp form. "She may have some broken bones."

They placed her carefully on the stretcher and bore her to the hospital. Mrs. Maguire was ready to assist the trained nurse, who was kept ready for just such emergencies.

"The poor little dear!" exclaimed the motherly Irish woman. "Poor little dear!"

Meanwhile, the cavalry charge went on. Estelle had done her part in this. Was it the last part she was to play?

Ruth and Alice asked themselves this as they hurried toward the hospital.

"Oh, if she should be killed!" gasped Ruth.

"Wouldn't it be dreadful? And no one to tell who she really is," added Alice. "We must go to her."

"Yes, as soon as they will let us see her," agreed Ruth.

Dr. Wherry and the trained nurse were busy over the injured girl. A quick examination disclosed no broken bones, but it could not yet be told whether or not there were internal injuries. They could only wait for her to recover consciousness and hope for the best. All that could be done was done.

"Plucky little girl!" murmured Mr. Pertell, when told that Estelle was resting easily, but was still insensible. "She must have seen that she was going to have a bad fall, but she kept on and saved the film for us. We won't have to retake her scene at all -- merely cut out the accident. Do your best for her, Dr. Wherry."

"I will, you may be sure."

Ruth and Alice were told that they could see Estelle as soon as she recovered consciousness, and it was safe for visitors to be admitted. And several hours after the accident the nurse, Miss Lyon, came to summon them from their room, where they were waiting.

"She has opened her eyes," Miss Lyon said.

"Did she ask for us?" Alice asked.

"I can't say that she did. She seems dazed yet. Sometimes in falls like this, where the head is injured, it is days before the patient realizes what has happened."

"Is her head injured?" Ruth inquired.

"Yes, she seems to have received a hard blow on it. Whether there is a fracture or a concussion Dr. Wherry had not yet determined. It will take a little time to decide. Meanwhile, you may see her, just for a moment."

Alice and Ruth softly entered the room where Estelle lay on a white bed. Her face was pale, but her eyes were bright. There was a subtle odor of disinfectants, of opiates and of other drugs in the room -- a veritable hospital atmosphere.

"Don't startle her," cautioned the nurse, motioning for silence.

"We'll be careful," promised Alice, in a whisper.

The two sisters approached the bed. Estelle looked at them but, strange to say, there was no look of recognition in her eyes. Ruth and Alice might have been two strangers for all the notice Estelle took of them.

"She -- she doesn't know us," whispered Ruth.

"She will, as soon as you speak," said Miss Lyon. "Just talk to her in a low voice, but naturally. She'll know you then, I'm sure."

"How -- how are you feeling?" asked Ruth, in a whisper.

There was no response -- no light of recognition in the eyes.

"A little louder and call her by name," suggested the nurse.

"You try, Alice," Ruth whispered.

Her sister stepped to the bedside.

"Estelle, don't you know me?" Alice asked.

The eyes turned in the direction of the voice.

"Were you speaking to me?" came the question, and both Ruth and Alice started at the changed tones of their friend.

"Yes, to you," Alice answered.

"I -- I don't know you," was the gentle response.

"Don't you know me -- Alice DeVere? And this is my sister, Ruth. Don't you know us, Estelle?"

"Is your name Estelle?" came the query.

"No, that is your name," and Alice smiled, though a cold hand seemed to be clutching at her heart. "That is your name -- you are Estelle. Don't you remember?"

"Estelle what? Who is Estelle?"

"You are. You are Estelle Brown! Don't you know your own name?"

The golden head on the white pillow was slowly moved from side to side. The bright eyes showed no sign of recognition. Then came the gentle voice:

"I am not Estelle Brown. I don't know her. What do you mean? I don't know any of you. Why am I here? What has happened? I wish you would take me home at once. I live at the Palace."

"What -- what does she mean?" gasped Ruth, looking in alarm at the nurse.

"I don't know. Perhaps she is delirious and imagines she is playing in the moving pictures. Was there a palace scene?"

"Not since she joined the company. But why does she deny her identity?"

"I can not say. Sometimes after an injury like this happens, people say queer things. We had better not disturb her further. I'll call Dr. Wherry."

Alice made one more effort to bring recollection to Estelle.

"Don't you know me, dear?" she asked softly. "I am Alice -- your friend Alice. This is Ruth, and you are Estelle Brown, from Boston, you know."

"Boston? I was never in Boston. And I am not Estelle Brown. You must be mistaken."

Her eyes roved around the hospital room, and a look of pain and fright dimmed them. Then, seeming to fear that she had been unkind, she said gently to Alice:

"I am sorry I do not know you, for you are trying to help me, I am sure. But I never heard the name Estelle Brown. I am not she -- that is certain. If you would only take me home! My people will be worried. We live at the Palace and --  -- "

She tried to raise herself up in bed. A look of pain came over her face, and she fell back with closed eyes.

"She has fainted!" cried Miss Lyon. "I must get Dr. Wherry at once! Don't disturb her!"

She hastened off, while Ruth and Alice, not knowing what to think, went softly from the room.



Chapter XXV

Reunion


"Nothing but a passing fancy," said Dr. Wherry, later in the day, when Ruth and Alice questioned him about Estelle. "When a person has received a hard blow on the head, as Estelle has, the memory is often confused. She will be all right in a day or so. Rest and quiet are what she needs."

"Then she is in no immediate danger?" asked Mr. Pertell.

"None whatever, physically. She came out of that fall very well, indeed. The blow on her head stunned her, but the effects of that will pass away. She has no internal injuries that I can discover."

The last scenes of the war play were taken. The Confederates, after their final desperate stand were driven back, surrounded and captured. The "war" ended.

The regiments of cavalry took their departure. The extra players were paid off and left. A few simple scenes were yet to be taken about Oak Farm, but the big work was over, and every one was glad, for the task had been no easy one.

"Does Estelle yet admit her identity?" asked Ruth of Dr. Wherry, two days after the accident.

The physician scratched his head in perplexity.

"No, I am sorry to say she doesn't," he answered. "She does not seem to recognize that name. I wish you and your sister would come in and speak to her again. It may be she will recognize you this time. A little shock may bring her to herself. I have seen it happen in cases like this."

Ruth and Alice again went to the hospital. Estelle was still in bed, but she seemed to be better. But, as before, there was no sign of recognition in the bright eyes that gazed at the two moving picture girls.

"Don't you know me -- us?" asked Alice, gently.

"Yes. You were here before, soon after I was brought here," was the answer.

"Oh, Estelle! don't you know us!" cried Ruth, in horror.

"Whom are you calling Estelle?"

"Why, you. That is your name."

"I am not she. You must be mistaken! Oh, I wish they would take me home. I want father -- mother -- I want Auntie Amma. Oh, why don't they come to me?"

Ruth and Alice looked at one another. What did it mean? This babbling of strange names? Was it possible that they were on the track of discovering the identity of the girl who now denied the name she had given?

"Who is your father?" asked Ruth.

"And who is Auntie Amma?" inquired Alice.

"Why, don't you know? They live with me at the Palace. And my doll. Why don't you bring my doll?"

"She is delirious again," whispered the nurse. "You had better go. Evidently, she thinks she is a child again. Her doll!"

"I want my doll! Why don't you bring me my doll?" persisted the stricken girl.

"What doll do you want?" asked Alice.

"My own doll," was the reply. "My dear doll that I always have in bed with me when I am ill; my doll Estelle Brown!"

"Estelle Brown!" cried Ruth, in sudden excitement. "Is that the name of your doll?"

"Yes! Yes! Bring her to me, please!"

"Who gave you that doll?" asked Ruth, and she waited anxiously for the answer.

"My doll -- my doll Estelle Brown. Why, my daddy gave her to me, of course. My father!"

"And what was your father's name?" asked Ruth in a tense voice.

She and Alice and the nurse leaned forward in eager expectation. They all recognized that a crisis was at hand. Would the stricken girl give an answer that would be a clue to her identity -- the identity she had denied? Or would her words trail off into the meaningless babble of the afflicted?

"What is your father's name?" Ruth repeated.

The girl in the bed raised herself to a sitting position. She looked at the DeVere sisters -- at the trained nurse. In her eyes now there was not so much brightness as there was weariness and pain.

And also there was more of the light of understanding. She looked from one to the other. Her lips moved, but no sound came from them. It was a tense moment. Would she be able to answer? Would the obviously injured brain be able to sift out the right reply from the mass of words that hitherto had been meaningless?

"What is your father's name?" repeated Ruth in calm, even tones. "Your father who gave you the doll, Estelle Brown? Who is he?"

Like a flash of lightning from the clear sky came the answer.

"Why, he is Daddy Passamore, of course!"

"Passamore!" gasped Alice. "Passamore?"

"Is your name Passamore?" whispered Ruth.

"Yes, I am Mildred Passamore. My father is Jared Passamore of San Francisco. I don't know why I am here, except that I was hurt in the railroad accident. If you will telegraph to my father, at the Palace Hotel, San Francisco, he will come and get me. And please tell him to bring my doll, Estelle Brown.

"I know it seems silly for a big girl like me to have a doll," went on the injured one. "But ever since I was a child I have had Estelle with me when I was ill. I am ill now, but I feel better than I did. So telegraph to Daddy Passamore to bring Estelle Brown with him when he comes for me. And tell him I was not badly hurt in the wreck."

And with that, before the wondering eyes of the nurse, of Alice and of Ruth, Estelle Brown -- no -- Mildred Passamore, turned over and calmly went to sleep!

For an instant those in the hospital room neither moved nor spoke. Then Alice cried:

"That solves it! That ends the mystery! I'll go and get the paper."

"What paper?" asked Ruth.

"Don't you remember? The old paper that I wrapped my scout shoes in when we were packing to come to Oak Farm. The one that father saved because it had a theatrical notice of him in it.

"It was that four-year-old paper which contained an account of the strange disappearance of the wealthy San Francisco girl, Mildred Passamore. Don't you remember? There was a reward of ten thousand dollars offered for her discovery."

"Oh, I do remember!" gasped Ruth. "And this is she!"

"Must be!" declared Alice. "She says that's her name. And from what she told us she can, as Estelle Brown, think back only about four years. She must have received some injury that took away her memory. Now she is herself again.

"Ruth, I believe we have found the missing Mildred Passamore! We must tell daddy at once, and Mr. Pertell. Then we must telegraph Mr. Passamore. I'll get his address from the old paper. But the Palace Hotel, San Francisco, will reach him, I presume. Oh, isn't it all wonderful!"

"It certainly is," agreed Ruth.

They gave one glance at the sleeping girl -- Mildred or Estelle -- and then went out, while Miss Lyon summoned Dr. Wherry to acquaint him with the strange turn of the case.

"Mildred Passamore found! How wonderful!" exclaimed Mr. DeVere, when his daughters told him what had happened. "But we must make sure. It would be a sad affair if we sent word to the father, and it turned out that this girl was not his daughter. We must make sure."

Alice got out the old paper. It contained a description of the missing Mildred Passamore, and in another newspaper dated a few days before the one Alice had used as a wrapper for her shoes (another paper which Mr. DeVere had saved because of a notice in it) was a picture of the girl.

"It is she! Our girl -- the one we knew as Estelle Brown -- is Mildred Passamore!" cried Alice as she looked at the picture in the paper.

"There is no doubt of it," agreed Ruth, and Mr. DeVere affirmed his daughters' opinions.

Mr. Pertell was told of the occurrence, and, being a good judge of pictures and persons, he decided there was no doubt as to the identity.

"We will telegraph to Mr. Passamore at once," decided the director.

The crisis -- for such it was in the case of the injured girl -- seemed to mark a turn for the better. She slept nearly forty-eight hours, awakening only to take a little nourishment. Then she slept again. She did not again mention any names, nor, in fact, anything else. Her friends could only wait for the arrival of Mr. Passamore to have him make sure of the identity.

He had sent a message in answer to the one from Mr. Pertell saying that he and his wife were hastening across the continent in a special train.

"That means he hasn't found his daughter up to this time," said the manager, "and there is every chance that this girl is she."

Three days after her startling announcement Estelle or Mildred, as she was variously called, was much better. She sat up and seemed to be in her right mind.

"I don't in the least know what it is all about, nor how I came here," she said, smiling. "The last I remember is being in a railroad train on my way from San Francisco to visit relatives in Seattle. There was a crash, and the next I knew I found myself in bed here. I presume you brought me here from the train wreck."

"Yes, you were brought here after the -- the -- ah, accident," said Mr. Pertell, lamely.

"The nurse tells me you are a moving picture company," went on Mildred. "I shall be interested to see how you act. I always had a half-formed desire to be a moving picture actress, but I know Daddy Passamore would never consent to it."

"And she's been in the films for three years or more, and doesn't remember a thing about it!" murmured Alice. "Good-night!"

"Alice!" rebuked her sister. But Alice, for once, did not care for Ruth's rebuke. Her astonishment was too great. And it was a queer case.

"We must be very careful!" said Dr. Wherry when, after a swift ride across the continent, Mr. Passamore and his wife reached Oak Farm. "We must not startle the patient."

"Oh, but I want to see my little girl!" cried the mother, with tears in her eyes. "My little girl whom I thought gone for ever!"

"I hope this will prove to be she," said Mr. DeVere.

"I'm sure it will!" cried the father. "No one but Mildred would remember her old doll -- Estelle Brown!" and he held up a battered toy.

Softly, the parents entered the room. The girl on the bed heard some one come in, and sat up. There was a look of joy and happiness on her face; and yet it was not such as would come after a separation of four years. It was as if she had only separated from her loved ones a few hours before.

"Oh, Daddy! Momsey!" she cried. "I did so want you! And did you bring Estelle Brown?"

"My little girl! My own little lost girl!" cried Mrs. Passamore. "Oh, after all these years -- when we had given you up for dead!"

"After all these years? Why, Momsey, I left you only two days ago to go to Seattle. There must have been a wreck or something; for I heard a dreadful crash, and then I awakened here with these nice moving picture folk. They were on the same train, I guess."

Dr. Wherry made the parents a signal not to tell the secret just yet.

"And did you bring Estelle?" asked Mildred.

"Yes, here is your doll!" and as Mr. Passamore handed it to his daughter he and his wife exchanged tearful glances of joy. The lost had been found.

It was a scene of rejoicing at Oak Farm, and the moving picture girls came in for a big share of praise. For had it not been for the fact that Alice had seen the paper containing the account of the missing girl and saved it, the identity of Mildred might not have been disclosed for some time.

Finally, she was told what had happened; that for four years she had been another person -- Estelle Brown -- a name she had taken after the awakening following the railroad accident because of some kink in the brain that retained the memory of the doll.

"Then Lieutenant Varley was right, he must have seen you in Portland," said Alice, when explanations were being made.

"He must have," admitted Mildred. "But I don't understand how it happened."

Later on it was all made clear.

Mildred Passamore, the daughter of a wealthy family, living temporarily at the Palace Hotel, in San Francisco, had started on a trip to visit relatives in Seattle. She was well supplied with money.

The train Mildred was on was wrecked near Portland, Oregon, and the girl received a blow on her head that caused her to lose her sense of identity completely. She did not seem to be hurt, and she was not in need of medical aid. Without assistance, she got on the relief train that took the injured in to Portland, and there it was that Lieutenant Varley saw her in the station.

Through some vagary of her brain, Mildred imagined she wanted to go to New York, and, as she had plenty of money, she bought a ticket for that city, the one to Seattle having been lost. Lieutenant Varley had helped her and, though he suspected something was wrong with the young lady the impression with him was not very strong until it was too late to be of assistance to her.

So, her identity completely lost, Mildred started on her trip across the continent. What happened on that journey she never could recollect clearly. That she got on the Great Lakes and then went to Boston was established. The reason for that was that, as a child, she had lived there. This accounted for the toilet set her mother had given her, and for the recollection of the monument and the historic places.

Why she was attracted to moving pictures could only be guessed at, but she "broke in," and "made good." Her ability to ride was easily explained. Her father owned a big stock farm, and Mildred had ridden since a child. But all this, as well as other remembrances of her younger days, was lost after the injury to her head in the railroad accident. She retained but one strongly marked memory -- the name of her doll, the name which she took for her own.

So, as a new personage, she came to Oak Farm, unable to think back more than four years, and totally without suspicion that she was the missing Mildred Passamore. That she was not recognized as the missing girl was not strange, since the search in the East had not been prosecuted as vigorously as it had been in the West.

Mr. and Mrs. Passamore, hearing that the train on which their daughter was traveling had been wrecked, hastened to Portland, but there they could find no trace of Mildred. Lieutenant Varley, who might have given a clue, had sailed for Europe the day after his meeting with Mildred. Then began the search which lasted four years, and had now come to an end at Oak Farm.

"And to think that I have been two persons all this while!" exclaimed Mildred, when explanations had been made, and she was on the road to recovery. "But what made my memory come back?"

"The same thing that took it from you," explained Dr. Wherry. "It was the blow you received on the head when you fell from your horse. There had been a pressure on your brain, from the railroad crash, and the fall from your horse relieved it, so you came to yourself."

"Oh, I wonder if I could have taken Miss Dixon's ring in my second personality?" asked Mildred one day, when various happenings were being explained to her.

"No, you didn't!" exclaimed Alice. "It was found down under the carpet, back of her bureau. A maid discovered it there when cleaning. And that snip of a Miss Dixon left without apologizing to you."

"Oh, it doesn't matter, since I am not Estelle Brown, and my doll doesn't care what they say about her!" laughed Mildred. Miss Dixon and her friend had left Oak Farm to go back to New York, for their part in the pictures was finished for the time being.

"And to think that I really became a movie actress, after all!" laughed Estelle. "I think I shall continue in it, Daddy! It must be fun, though I don't recollect anything about it."

"No you sha'n't!" laughed Mr. Passamore. "Your mother and I want you at home for a while."

There is little more to tell.

Mildred Passamore rapidly recovered her health and strength. Her part in the pictures was finished and though he did not exactly relish the appearance on the screen of his daughter in battle scenes, the millionaire, realizing what his refusal would mean to Mr. Pertell, made no objections. Besides, it was Estelle Brown who was filmed, not Miss Passamore.

"Well, what is next on the program?" asked Alice of the director one day, after several other war plays had been made and when they were about to leave Oak Farm, to go back to New York.

"Oh, I think I'm going to get out a big film entitled 'Life in the Slums.' You and Ruth will play the star parts."

"No!" laughed Alice. "Not since we became millionaires. You will have to cast us for rich girls. Mr. Passamore gave us the ten thousand dollars reward, you know."

"All right!" laughed the director, "then I'll bill you as the rich-poor girls."

Before going back to San Francisco with Mildred, Mr. Passamore had insisted that Ruth and Alice take the reward, as it was through their agency that he received word of his daughter's whereabouts. But Ruth and Alice insisted on sharing their good fortune with their friends in the company, so all benefited from it.

The day came for the moving picture players to leave Oak Farm.

"Good-bye, Sandy!" called Alice to the young farmer. "I suppose you're glad to see the last of us!"

"Well, not exactly, no'm! Still, I'll be glad not to see houses and barns that have only fronts to 'em, and there won't be no more mistakes made trying to haul up water from a well that's only made of painted muslin. I'll try an' get back to real life for a change!"

The big war play was over. It was a big success when shown on the screen, and the pictures of Ruth, Alice and Mildred -- or Estelle Brown, as she was billed -- came out well. The fight where Paul and his men were nearly blown up was most realistic.

"You girls are not going to retire, just because you have a little money, are you?" asked Russ of Ruth, one day, when they were back in New York.

"Indeed, we're not!" cried Alice. "And I wouldn't be surprised if Mildred joined us. I had a letter from her the other day, and, after seeing herself on the screen, she says she is crazy to do it all over again. Give up the movies? Never!"

And it remains for time to show what further fame the Moving Picture Girls won in the silent drama. For the present, we will say farewell.

<eob>

The Norsemen In The West

By

R.M. Ballantyne



Chapter One.

The Norsemen In The West; Or America Before Columbus.

The Curtain Rises And The Play Begins.

One fine autumn evening, between eight and nine hundred years ago, two large hairy creatures, bearing some resemblance to polar bears, might have been seen creeping slowly, and with much caution, toward the summit of a ridge that formed a spur to one of the ice-clad mountains of Greenland. The creatures went on all-fours. They had long bodies, short legs, shorter tails, and large round heads.

Having gained the top of the ridge they peeped over and beheld a hamlet nestled at the foot of a frowning cliff; and at the head of a smiling inlet. We use these terms advisedly, because the cliff, being in deep shadow, looked unusually black and forbidding, while the inlet, besides being under the influence of a profound calm, was lit up on all its dimples by the rays of the setting sun.

The hamlet consisted of one large cottage and half a dozen small cots, besides several sheds and enclosures wherein were a few sleepy-looking sheep, some lean cattle, and several half-starved horses. There was active life there also. Smoke issued from the chimneys; fresh-looking women busied themselves about household work; rosy children tumbled in and out at the doors, while men in rough garments and with ruddy countenances mended nets or repaired boats on the shore. On a bench in front of the principal cottage sat a sturdy man, scarcely middle-aged, with shaggy fair and flowing locks. His right foot served as a horse to a rapturous little boy, whose locks and looks were so like to those of the man that their kinship was obvious -- only the man was rugged and rough in exterior; the boy was round and smooth. Tow typified the hair of the man; floss silk that of the boy.

Everything in and around the hamlet bore evidence of peace and thrift. It was a settlement of Norsemen -- the first Greenland settlement, established by Eric the Red of Iceland about the year 986 -- nearly twenty years before the date of the opening of our tale -- and the hairy creatures above referred to had gone there to look at it.

Having gazed very intently over the ridge for a considerable time, they crept backwards with extreme caution, and, on getting sufficiently far down the hill-side to be safe from observation, rose on their hind-legs and began to talk; from which circumstance it may be concluded that they were human beings. After talking, grinning, and glaring at each other for a few minutes, with gestures to correspond, as though on the point of engaging in mortal combat, they suddenly wheeled about and walked off at a rapid pace in the direction of a gorge in the mountains, the head of which was shut in by and filled up with cliffs and masses and fields of ice that overtopped the everlasting hills, and rested like a white crest on the blue sky. Vast though it seemed, this was merely a tongue of those great glaciers of the mysterious North which have done, and are still doing, so much to modify the earth's economy and puzzle antiquarian philosophy; which form the fountain-head of influences that promote the circulation of the great deep, and constitute the cradle of those ponderous icebergs that cover the arctic seas.

From out that gloomy gorge a band of more than a hundred hairy creatures issued with wild shouts and upraised arms to welcome back the adventurous two. They surrounded them, and forthwith the nation -- for the entire nation was evidently there -- held a general assembly or parliament on the spot. There was a good deal of uproar and confusion in that parliament, with occasional attempts on the part of several speakers to obtain a hearing at one and the same time -- in which respects this parliament bore some resemblance to civilised assemblies of the present day. There was also an immense amount of gesticulation and excitement.

At last there uprose a man clad in garments that had once belonged to a seal, and with a face that was quite as round and nearly as flat as a frying-pan. He stood fully half a foot higher than the tallest of his fellows. Like the adventurous two he had a tail -- a very short tail -- to his coat; but indeed this might be said of all the men of the tribe. The women's tails, however, were long. Perhaps this was meant as a mark of distinction, for their costume was so very similar to that of the men that their smaller size and longer tails alone marked the difference. To be sure there was additional presumptive evidence of their sex in the fact that most of them carried babies in their hoods; which hoods were made preposterously large for the express purpose of containing the babies.

To the tall man with the flat face the assembly listened with eager looks, bated breath, and open mouths. What he said -- who can tell? His language was unintelligible to civilised ears. Not so, however, his actions, which were vigorous and full of meaning, and comprehensible by all nations. If there be any significance in signs at all he began by saying, "Hold your stupid tongues and I will speak." This drew forth loud and prolonged applause -- as consummate impudence usually does. When he pointed with both hands to the women and children, and spoke in tender tones, instantly thereafter growling in his speech, gnashing his teeth, glaring fiercely, waving one hand at the surrounding hills and shaking the other, clenched, at the unoffending sea -- he was obviously stating his grievances, namely, that the white men had come there to wrest from him his native hills and glaciers, and rob him of his wife and children, and that he defied them to come on and do their worst, seeing that, in regard to the whole assembled white world in arms he did not care a button -- or a walrus-tusk, for buttons were unknown to these creatures at that time. When, suddenly changing his manner and tone, he seized a spear, hissed his sentiments through his teeth with great volubility, and made a furious plunge that caused the assembly to gasp, and the man nearest the spear point to shrivel up -- what could be his meaning save that nothing short of a hole right through the body of a Norseman could appease the spirit of indignation that caused his blood to boil? And when, finally, he pointed to the setting sun, traced a line with his finger from it downward to the centre of the earth under his feet, then shook his spear wrathfully toward the sea and wound up with a tremendous Ho! that would have startled the echoes of the place had there been any there, it was plain to the meanest capacity that an attack -- impetuous and overwhelming -- was to be made on the strangers at midnight.

Whatever were his sentiments, the assembly heartily appreciated, applauded, and approved them. They cheered and shouted "Hear, hear," after their own fashion, and then the whole band rushed back into the mountain gorge, -- doubtless with the intent to gorge themselves with raw blubber, prepare their weapons, and snatch a little repose before issuing forth to battle.

But let us return to the Norsemen, over whose innocent heads such awful prospects were impending.

The sturdy man with the fair shaggy locks was Leif, the son of Eric the Red of Iceland. The boy with the silken curls, who rode on his foot so joyously, was his son Olaf.

Eric had died several years before the date on which our tale opens, and Leif inherited his cottage and property at Brattalid in Ericsfiord, on the west coast of Greenland -- the hamlet which we have already described.

"Come now, Olaf," said Leif, flinging the child from his foot to his knee, and thence to the ground, "give me your hand; we shall go see how the boats and nets get on. -- Hey! there goes a puff of wind. We shall have more presently." He paused and scanned the seaward horizon with that intent abstracted gaze which is peculiar to seafaring men. So long did he gaze, and so earnestly, that the child looked up in his face with an expression of surprise, and then at the horizon, where a dark blue line indicated the approach of a breeze.

"What do you see, father?" asked Olaf.

"Methinks I see two ships," replied Leif.

At this there came a sweet musical voice from the cottage: -- "Ships, brother! Did I not tell you that I had a dream about two ships, and said I not that I was sure something was going to happen?"

The speaker appeared in the doorway, drying her hands and arms on a towel, -- for she had been washing dishes. She was a fair comely young woman, with exceedingly deep blue eyes, and a bright colour in her cheeks, -- for women of the richer class were remarkably healthy and well-made in those days. They did a great deal of hard work with their hands, hence their arms were strong and well developed without losing anything of their elegance.

"You are always dreaming, widow Gudrid," said Leif, with a quiet smile, -- for he was no believer in dreams or superstitions, in which respect he differed much from the men and women of his time; "nevertheless, I am bound to admit that you did tell me that 'something' was going to happen, and no one can deny that something is about to occur just now. But your dream happened a month or six weeks ago, and the 'something,' which you are pleased to assume is these two ships, is only happening to-day. See, now, I can be a more definite prophet than thou: I will prophesy that Yule is coming, -- and it will surely come if you only wait long enough!"

"You are an unbeliever, brother-in-law," retorted Gudrid, with a laugh; "but I have not time to reason with you. These ships will bring strangers, and I must prepare to show them hospitality. -- Come, Olaf, help me to put the house in order."

Thus summoned, Olaf followed Gudrid into the house with alacrity, for he was passionately fond of his pretty aunt, who stood in the place of a mother to him, his own mother having died when he was an infant.

"But, aunt," said Olaf, checking himself in the doorway and looking wistfully back, "I want to see the ships come in."

"You shall see that, my son; I will not keep you too long."

This was quite sufficient. Olaf thoroughly believed in his aunt's truthfulness and wisdom. He set to work to assist in clearing away the confusion -- part of which, in the shape of toys and chips -- was of his own creating -- and became so busy that he almost forgot the ships -- at least if he did remember them they did not weigh heavily on his mind.

"Now, Olaf," said Gudrid, going to the window when the preparations were nearly completed, "you may run down to the shore, for the ships will soon be on the strand."

The boy waited no second bidding, you may be sure. He flew out of the house, and to his great surprise beheld the two ships -- which so lately had appeared like sea-birds on the horizon -- coming grandly up the fiord, their great square sails bulging out before a smart breeze.

All the men of the little colony were assembled on the shore -- all, at least, who chanced to be at home at the time; but many of the inhabitants were absent -- some fishing, some gone to Iceland, and others on viking-cruise. There were probably about thirty men on the sands, besides a good many women and children.

It must not be supposed, however, that this was the whole of that Greenland colony. It was only the part of it that had settled at Brattalid in Ericsfiord. There was another portion, a few miles distant, named Heriulfness, nearly as large as that of Ericsfiord, which had been founded by Heriulf a friend and companion of Eric the Red. Heriulf had soon followed his friend Eric to the grave, leaving the management of the colony of Heriulfness to his son Biarne.

Biarne had not been present when the two sails were first observed, but he chanced to come over to Brattalid just before their arrival.

"What, ho! Biarne," shouted Leif, as the son of Heriulf went down to the beach, "come up hither."

Leif stood on an elevated rock apart, and Biarne, a good deal excited, went up to him.

"Why, what ails thee?" asked Leif.

"Nothing," replied Biarne, "but I think I know whose ship that first one is."

"Ay! is it the ship of a friend or a foe?"

"A friend," replied Biarne -- "at least he was a friend when I knew him in Norway, nigh twenty summers past, and I did not think him changeable. You and I, Leif, have often sailed these northern seas together and apart, but I do not think that in all our wanderings either of us has met before or since a finer man than Karlsefin, though he was a mere stripling when I knew him."

The Norseman's eyes flashed as he spoke of his friend, for, besides being a strong and handsome man, he possessed a warm enthusiastic heart. Indeed, he had been noted in the settlement for the strength of his affection for his father Heriulf, and his dutiful conduct towards him as long as the old man lived.

"Karlsefin," repeated Leif, musing; "I know him not."

"Yet he knows you," said Biarne; "when I met him in Norway I told him all about your discovery of Vinland."

"Nay, thine own discovery of it," said Leif.

"Not so," replied the other, with a blush, in which a frown mingled; "I did but look upon the land -- you went ashore and took possession."

"Well, if I did so I have not retained it," replied Leif, with a laugh; "but say, how know you that this is Karlsefin's ship?"

"I know by the cut of her figure-head and the colour of her sails. Karlsefin was always partial to stripes of white and blue."

"Well, it may be as you say; we shall soon know." Thus saying, Leif descended to the beach as the vessels approached and ran their keels straight on the sandy shores of the bay. There was great bustle on board, and there were many men, besides some women, who could be seen looking over the bulwarks with keen interest, while Leif's men brought planks with which to make a gangway from the ship to the shore.

The ships which had thus come to Greenland were of the quaint build peculiar to the Norse vessels of those days -- a peculiarity of build, by the way, which has not altogether disappeared, for to this day the great central mast, huge square sail, and high prow may be seen in the fiords of Norway.

Each of the vessels which now lay beached in Ericsfiord had a high forecastle and poop, with figure-heads on stem and stern-posts that towered higher still. The ships were only half-decked, with benches for numerous rowers, and each had a crew of sixty men.

When the gangway was laid to the leading ship the first man who descended to the shore was of striking appearance. It was not so much that he was tall and strong enough to have been a worthy foeman to the stoutest colonist in Ericsfiord, as that his demeanour was bland and courtly, while there was great intellectuality in his dark handsome countenance. Unlike most Norsemen, his hair and beard were black and close-curling, and his costume, though simple, was rich in quality.

The moment he landed, Biarne stepped forward, exclaiming, "Karlsefin!"

The stranger's face lighted up with surprise and pleasure.

"Biarne!" he said, seizing his hand, "I thought you were in Iceland."

"So I was, but now I am in Greenland, and right glad to be the first to welcome my friend."

Hereupon the two shook hands fervently; but, not content with this, they seized each other in an embrace, and their bearded mouths met with a hearty masculine smack that did credit to their hearts, and which it might have gratified the feelings of an affectionate walrus to behold.



Chapter Two.

Strong Emotions Are Succeeded By Supper, And Followed By Discussions On Discovery, Which End In A Wild Alarm!

When Karlsefin had been introduced to Leif Ericsson, the former turned round and presented to him and Biarne his friend Thorward, the captain of the other ship. Thorward was not a tall man, but was very broad and stout, and had a firm yet pleasing cast of countenance. Both Thorward and Karlsefin were men of about thirty-five years of age.

"Are you not on viking-cruise?" asked Leif as they walked up to the house together, while the male members of his household and the men of the settlement assisted the crews to moor the ships.

"No; my friend Thorward and I are not men of war. We prefer the peaceful occupation of the merchant, and, to say truth, it is not unprofitable."

"I would that more were of your way of thinking," said Leif. "I do not love the bloody game of war, and glad am I that we have got into a quiet corner here in Greenland, where there is small occasion for it. Biarne, too, is of our way of thinking, as no doubt you already know."

"He has often told me so, and, if I mistake not, has feathered his nest well by merchanting."

"He has," answered Biarne for himself, with a laugh.

While they thus advanced, talking, little Olaf had kept walking in front of the tall stranger, looking up into his face with unbounded admiration. He had never before seen any man so magnificent. His father and Biarne, whom he had hitherto regarded as perfect specimens of mankind, were quite eclipsed. Looking backward and walking forward is an unsafe process at any time. So Olaf found it on the present occasion, for he tripped over a stone and in falling hit his little nose with such violence that it soon became a big nose, and bled profusely.

Karlsefin picked him up and set him on his legs. "My poor boy, don't cry," he said.

"No fear of him crying," observed Leif; "he never cries, -- save when his feelings are hurt. When you touch these he is addicted to blubbering. -- Run, lad, and Gudrid will wash you."

Olaf bounded into the house, where he was carried off to a sleeping-room and there carefully sponged by the sympathetic Gudrid. "Oh! -- " he exclaimed, while his face was being washed.

"Does it pain you much, dear?" said the pretty aunt, interrupting him.

"Oh!" he continued, enthusiastically, "I never did see such a splendid man before."

"What splendid man, child?"

"Why, Karlsefin."

"And who is Karlsefin?"

"The stranger who has come across the sea from Norway."

"Indeed," said Gudrid.

Whether it was the sound of the stranger's voice in the adjoining room, or anxiety to complete her hospitable preparations, that caused Gudrid to bring her operations on Olaf to an abrupt termination, we cannot tell, but certain it is that she dried him rather quickly and hastened into the outer hall, where she was introduced to the two strangers in due form as widow Gudrid.

She had no difficulty in distinguishing which was Olaf's "splendid man!" She looked at Karlsefin and fell in love with him on the spot, but Gudrid was modest, and not sentimental. It is only your mawkishly sentimental people who are perpetually tumbling into love, and out of it, and can't help showing it. Cupid shot her right through the heart with one powerful dart, and took her unawares too, but she did not show the smallest symptom of having been even grazed. She neither blushed nor stammered, nor looked conscious, nor affected to look unconscious. She was charmingly natural!

But this was not all: Karlsefin also fell in love on the spot, -- over head and ears and hair, and hat to boot; neither did he show sign of it! After the trifling ceremonies usual on an introduction were over, he turned to continue his conversation with Leif and paid no further attention to Gudrid, while she busied herself in preparing supper. It is true that he looked at her now and then, but of course he looked at everybody, now and then, in the course of the evening. Besides, it is well-known what is said about the rights of the feline species in reference to royalty. At supper Gudrid waited on the guests, Karlsefin therefore, necessarily paid her somewhat more attention in accepting her civilities, but Thorward was quite as attentive as he, so that the most sharp-witted match-maker in the world would have failed to note any symptom of anything whatever in regard to either of them.

Gudrid felt this a little, for she was accustomed to admiration from the young men of Ericsfiord and Heriulfness, and, you know, people don't like to want what they are accustomed to. What Karlsefin thought, he did not show and never mentioned, therefore we cannot tell.

Now, good reader, pray do not run away with the notion that this love affair is the plot on which the story is to hinge! Nothing of the kind. It ran its course much more rapidly, and terminated much more abruptly, than you probably suppose -- as the sequel will show.

During supper there was not much conversation, for all were hungry, but afterwards, when cans of home-brewed ale were handed round, the tongues began to move. Leif soon observed that Karlsefin merely sipped his beer, but never once drank.

"You do not drink," he said, pushing a large silver tankard towards him; "come, fill up."

"Thanks, I drink but sparingly," said Karlsefin, taking up the large tankard and admiring the workmanship.

"In good sooth ye do," cried Biarne, with a laugh; "a mouse could hardly slake his thirst with all that you have yet imbibed."

"I have been so long at sea," rejoined Karlsefin, smiling, "that I have lost my relish for beer. We had nothing but water with us. Where got you this tankard, Leif, it is very massive and the workmanship such as one seldom meets with save in kings' houses?"

"It belonged to a king!" replied Leif, with a look of pride. "Good King Olaf Tryggvisson gave it to me on an occasion when I chanced to do him some small service. Many winters have passed since then."

"Indeed, Leif! then you must be a favourite with King Olaf," exclaimed Karlsefin, "for I am the bearer of another gift to you from his royal hand."

"To me?"

"Ay. Hearing that I meant to sail over to Greenland this summer, he asked me to bear you his remembrances, and gave me two slaves to present to you in token of his continued friendship."

Leif's face beamed with satisfaction, and he immediately filled and quaffed a bumper of ale to King Olaf's health, which example was followed by Biarne and the guests, as well as by the house-carls who sat on benches in various parts of the hall drinking their ale and listening to the conversation. Even little Olaf -- who had been named after the king of Norway -- filled his tankard to the brim with milk, and quaffed it off with a swagger that was worthy of a descendant of a long line of sea-kings, who could trace their lineage back to Odin himself.

"The slaves," continued Karlsefin, "are from the land of the Scots. Wouldst like to see a Scotsman, Gudrid?" he added, turning to the widow who sat near him.

"I should like it much. I have heard of the Scots in Iceland. 'Tis said they are a well-favoured race, stout warriors, and somewhat fond of trading."

Leif and Biarne both laughed loud and long at this.

"In good truth they are a stout race, and fight like very wild-cats, as Biarne and I can testify; as to their being well-favoured, there can be no question about that; though they are rather more rugged than the people farther south, and -- yes, they are good traders, and exceedingly cautious men. They think well before they speak, and they speak slowly -- sometimes they won't speak at all. Ha! ha! Here, I drink to the land of the Scot. It is a grand good land, like our own dear old Norway."

"Brother-in-law," exclaimed Gudrid, reproachfully, "do you forget that you are an Icelander?"

"Forget!" exclaimed Leif, tossing back his yellow locks, and raising the tankard again to pledge his native land; "no, I shall only forget Iceland when I forget to live; but I don't forget, also, that it is only about 130 years since my great-grandfather and his companions came over from Norway to Iceland. Before that it was an unpeopled rock in the Northern Sea, without name or history. [Iceland was colonised by Norsemen about the year 874.] 'Twas as little known then as Vinland is known now."

"By the way, Biarne," said Karlsefin, turning to his friend, "the mention of Vinland reminds me that, when you and I met last, you did not give me a full account of that discovery, seeing that you omitted to mention your own share in it. Tell me how was it, and when and where was it? Nay, have I unintentionally touched on a sore point?" he added, on observing a slight shade of annoyance pass over Biarne's usually cheerful countenance.

"He is a little sore about it," said Leif, laughing. "Come, Biarne, don't be thin-skinned. You know the saying, A dutiful son makes a glad father. You had the best of reasons for acting as you did."

"Ay, but people don't believe in these best of reasons," retorted Biarne, still annoyed, though somewhat mollified by Leif's remarks.

"Never mind, 'tis long past now. Come, give us the saga. 'Tis a good one, and will bear re-telling."

"Oh yes," exclaimed Olaf, with sparkling eyes, for the boy dearly loved anything that bore the faintest resemblance to a saga or story, "tell it, Biarne."

"Not I," said Biarne; "Leif can tell it as well as I, if he chooses."

"Well, I'll try," said Leif, laying his huge hand on the table and looking earnestly at Karlsefin and Thorward. The latter was a very silent man, and had scarcely uttered a word all the evening, but he appeared to take peculiar interest in Vinland, and backed up the request that Leif would give an account of its discovery.

"About twenty summers ago," said Leif, "my father, Eric the Red, and his friend Heriulf, Biarne's father, came over here from Iceland. [A.D. 986.] Biarne was a very young man at the time -- little more than a boy --  but he was a man of enterprise, and fond of going abroad, and possessed a merchant-ship of his own with which he gathered wealth, and, I will say it, reputation also -- though perhaps I should not say that to his face.

"He was a good son, and used to be by turns a year abroad and a year with his father. He chanced to be away in Norway when Heriulf and my father Eric came over to Greenland. On returning to Iceland he was so much disappointed to hear of his father's departure that he would not unload his ship, but resolved to follow his old custom and take up his winter abode with his father. 'Who will go with me to Greenland?' said he to his men. 'We will all go,' replied the men. 'Our expedition,' said Biarne, 'will be thought foolish, as none of us have ever been on the Greenland sea before.' 'We mind not that,' said the men -- so away they sailed for three days and lost sight of Iceland. Then the wind failed; after that a north wind and a fog set in, and they knew not where they were sailing to; and this lasted many days. At length the sun appeared. Then they knew the quarters of the sky, and, after sailing a day and a night, made the land.

"They saw that it was without mountains, was covered with wood, and that there were small hills inland. Biarne saw that this did not answer to the description of Greenland; he knew he was too far south, so he left the land on the larboard side, and sailed two days and nights before they got sight of land again. The men asked Biarne if this was Greenland, but he said it was not, 'For on Greenland,' he says, 'there are great snowy mountains, but this is flat and covered with trees.' Here the wind fell and the men wanted to go ashore, 'Because,' said they, 'we have need of wood and water.' Biarne replied, 'Ye are not in want of either;' and the men blamed him for this, -- but the season was far spent, he knew not how long it might take him to find Greenland, so he had no time to spare. -- Was it not so?" said Leif, appealing to his friend.

"It was so," replied Biarne, nodding gravely.

"Well then," continued Leif, "it must be told that he ordered them to hoist the sail, which they did, and, turning the bow from the land, kept the sea for three days and nights, with a fine breeze from the south-west, when a third time land was seen, with high snowy mountains. Still Biarne would not land, for it was not like what had been reported of Greenland. They soon found it to be an island, and, turning from it, stood out to sea, when the breeze increased to a gale, forcing them to take in a reef; so they sailed for three days and nights more, and made land the fourth time. This turned out to be Greenland, and quite close to Heriulf's dwelling at Heriulfness. Biarne then gave up seafaring, and dwelt with his old father as long as he lived; but since his death he has been sometimes at sea and sometimes at home. Now, these lands which Biarne discovered, were what I have since called Vinland."

"Yes," exclaimed Biarne, with a look of indignation; "and when I afterwards fared to Norway they blamed me for not going on shore and exploring these lands -- as if I, at the end of autumn, could afford to put off time in explorations, when it was all I could do to make my port before the winter set in!" He finished off by striking the table with his fist, seizing his tankard, and draining it to the bottom.

"I have often observed," said Karlsefin, quietly, "that people who sit by their firesides at home, and do nothing, are usually very severe and noisy in their remarks on those who fare abroad and do great things; but that arises not so much from ill-will as ignorance."

"But what of your own doings, Leif?" said Thorward, breaking in here impatiently.

"Well, I didn't do much," replied Leif. "I only took possession, and didn't keep it. This was the way of it. Fourteen years after this voyage of Biarne, [about the year A.D. 1000] I was seized with a desire to see these new lands. I bought Biarne's ship from him, set sail with a good crew, and found the lands, just as Biarne had described them, far away to the south of Greenland. I landed and gave names to some places. At the farthest south point we built huts and spent the winter, but returned home in spring. I called this part Vinland, and this is the reason why: We had a German with us named Tyrker, who is with me here still. One day Tyrker was lost; I was very anxious about him, fearing that he had been killed by wild beasts or Skraelingers, [Esquimaux or savages, probably Indians,] so I sent out parties to search. In the evening we found him coming home in a state of great excitement, having found fruit which, he said, was grapes. The sight and taste of the fruit, to which he was used in his own land, had excited him to such an extent that we thought he was drunk, and for some time he would do nothing but laugh and devour grapes, and talk German, which none of us understood. At last he spoke Norse, and told us that he had found vines and grapes in great abundance. We found that this was true -- at least we found a berry which was quite new to us. We went off next day, and, gathering enough to load our boat, brought them away with us. From this circumstance I called it Vinland. Two years after that my brother Thorwald went to Vinland, wintered three years there, was killed by the Skraelingers, and his men returned to Greenland. Then my youngest brother, Thorstein, who was Gudrid's husband, went off to Vinland to fetch home the body of our brother Thorwald, but was driven back by stress of weather. He was taken ill soon after that, and died. Since then Gudrid has dwelt with my household, and glad we are to have her. This is the whole story of Vinland; so if you want to know more about it you must e'en go on a voyage of discovery for yourself."

"I should like nothing better," replied Karlsefin, "if I could only -- "

At that moment the door was burst violently open, and a man with bloodshot eyes and labouring breath rushed in exclaiming, "The Skraelinger! the Skraelinger are upon us!"



Chapter Three.

Dark War-Clouds Lower, But Clear Away Without A Shower -- Voices And Legs Do Good Service.

"Up, carls, buckle on your war-gear!" cried Leif, rising hastily on hearing the announcement with which the last chapter ended.

"Run, Thorward, call out our men," whispered Karlsefin; "I will stay to learn what Leif means to do. Bring them all up to the door."

Thorward was gone almost before the sentence was finished. Leif and his house-carls, of whom there were ten present at the time, did not take long to busk them for the fight. The Norse of old were born, bred, and buried -- if they escaped being killed and cut to pieces -- in the midst of alarms. Their armour was easily donned, and not very cumbrous. Even while Leif was giving the first order to his men, Gudrid had run to the peg on which hung his sword and helmet, and brought him these implements of war.

"My men and I shall be able to render you some service, Leif," said Karlsefin; "what do you intend to do?"

"Do!" exclaimed Leif with a grim laugh, as he buckled on his sword, "why, I shall give the Skraelingers a tremendous fright, that is all. The rascals! They knew well that we were short-handed just now, and thought to take advantage of us; but hah! they do not seem to be aware that we chance to have stout visitors with us to-night. So, lads, follow me."

Biarne, meanwhile, had darted out on the first alarm, and assembled all the men in the settlement, so that when Leif, Karlsefin, and the housemen issued out of the cottage they found about a dozen men assembled, and others running up every moment to join them. Before these were put in array most of the men of Karlsefin's ship, numbering forty, and those belonging to Thorward, numbering thirty, came up, so that when all were mustered they were little if at all short of one hundred stout warriors.

The moon came out brightly at the time, and Leif chuckled as he watched Biarne put the men hastily into marching order.

"Methought you said that war was distasteful," observed Karlsefin, in some surprise.

"So it is, so it is, friend," replied Leif, still laughing in a low tone; "but there will be no war to-night. Leave your bows behind you, lads," he added, addressing the men; "you won't want them; shield and sword will be enough. For the matter of that, we might do without both. Now, lads, follow my leading, and do as I bid you; advance with as little noise as may be."

So saying, Leif led the way out of the little hamlet towards the extremity of the ridge or spur of the mountains that sheltered Ericsfiord from the north-west.

Towards that same extremity another band of men were hastening on the other side of the ridge. It was a band of our hairy friends whom the Norsemen called Skraelingers.

Truly there was something grand in the look and bearing of the tall man with the flat face, as he led his band to attack the warlike Norsemen, and there was something almost sublime in the savage, resolute aspect of the men who followed him -- each being armed with a large walrus spear, and each being, moreover, an adept in the use of it.

Flatface (in default of a better, let that name stick to him) had ascertained beyond a doubt that the entire available force of Norsemen in Ericsfiord had, in consequence of fishing and other expeditions, been reduced to barely thirty fighting men. He himself could muster a band of at least one hundred and fifty good men and true -- not to mention hairy, a hundred and fifty seals having unwillingly contributed their coats to cover these bloodthirsty Skraelingers. The Norsemen, Flatface knew, were strong men and bold, besides being large, but he resolved to take them by surprise, and surely (he argued with himself) a hundred and fifty brave men with spears will be more than a match for thirty sleepy men unarmed and in bed!

Flatface had screwed himself up with such considerations; made a few more inflammatory speeches to his men, by way of screwing them up also, and then, a little before midnight, set forth on his expedition.

Now it chanced that there was a man among the Norsemen who was a great hunter and trapper. His name was Tyrker -- the same Tyrker mentioned by Leif as being the man who had found grapes in Vinland. Leif said he was a German, but he said so on no better authority than the fact that he had originally come to Norway from the south of Europe. It is much more probable that he was a Turk, for, whereas the Germans are known to be a well-sized handsome race of fair men, this Tyrker was an ugly little dark wiry fellow, with a high forehead, sharp eyes, and a small face; but he was extremely active, and, although an elderly man, few of the youths in Ericsfiord could beat him at feats requiring dexterity.

But, whether German or Turk, Tyrker was an enthusiastic trapper of white, or arctic foxes. These creatures being very numerous in that part of Greenland, he was wont to go out at all hours, late and early, to visit his traps. Hence it happened that, on the night in question, Tyrker found himself in company with two captured arctic foxes at, the extremity of the mountain spur before referred to.

He could see round the corner of the spur into the country beyond, but as the country there was not attractive, even at its best, he paid no attention to it. He chanced, however, to cast upon it one glance after setting his traps, just as he was about to return home. That glance called forth a steady look, which was followed by a stare of surprise, and the deep guttural utterance of the word "zz-grandimaghowl!" which, no doubt, was Turkish, at that ancient date, for "hallo!"

It was the band of hairy creatures that had met his astonished sight. Tyrker shrank behind the spur and peeped round it for a few seconds to make quite sure. Then, turning and creeping fairly out of sight, he rose and bounded back to the hamlet, as though he had been a youth of twenty. As we have seen, he arrived, gasping, in time to warn his friends.

Between the hamlet and the spur where Tyrker's traps were set there were several promontories, or projections from the cliffs, all of which had to be passed before the spur came in view. Leif led his men past the first and second of these at a run. Then, believing that he had gone far enough, he ordered his band to draw close up under the cliffs, where the shadow was deepest, saying that he would go alone in advance to reconnoitre.

"And mark me, lads," he said, "when I give a loud sneeze, do you give vent to a roar that will only stop short of splitting your lungs; then give chase, and yell to your hearts' content as you run; but see to it that ye keep together and that no man runs past me. There is plenty of moonlight to let you see what you're about. If any man tries to overshoot me in the race I'll hew off his head."

This last remark was no figure of speech. In those days men were but too well accustomed to hewing off heads. Leif meant to have his orders attended to, and the men understood him.

On reaching the second projection of cliff after leaving his men, Leif peeped round cautiously and beheld the advancing Skraelingers several hundred yards off. He returned at once to his men and took up a position at their head in the deep shadow of the cliffs.

Although absolutely invisible themselves, the Norsemen could see the Skraelingers quite plainly in the moonlight, as they came slowly and with great caution round each turn of the footpath that led to the hamlet. There was something quite awe-inspiring in the manner of their approach. Evidently Flatface dreaded a surprise, for he put each leg very slowly in advance of the other, and went on tiptoe, glancing quickly on either side between each step. His followers -- in a compact body, in deep silence and with bated breath -- followed his steps and his example.

When they came to the place where the men crouched in ambush, Leif took up a large stone and cast it high over their heads. So quietly was this done that none even of his own party heard him move or saw the stone, though they heard it fall with a thud on the sand beyond.

The Skraelingers heard it too, and stopped abruptly -- each man on one leg, with the other leg and his arms more or less extended, just as if he had been suddenly petrified. So in truth he had been -- with horror!

To meet an open enemy, however powerful, would have been a pleasure compared with that slow nervous advance in the midst of such dead silence! As nothing followed the sound, however, the suspended legs began to descend slowly again towards the ground, when Leif sneezed!

If Greenland's icy mountains had become one monstrous polar bear, whose powers of voice, frozen for prolonged ages, had at last found vent that night in one concentrated roar, the noise could scarcely have excelled that which instantly exploded from the Norsemen.

The effect on the Skraelingers was almost miraculous. A bomb-shell bursting in the midst of a hundred and fifty Kilkenny cats could not have been more effective, and the result would certainly have borne some marks of resemblance. Each hairy creature sprang nearly his own height into the air, and wriggled while there, as if impatient to turn and fly before reaching the ground. Earth regained, the more active among them overshot and overturned the clumsy, whereby fifty or sixty were instantly cast down, but these rose again like spring-jacks and fled, followed by a roar of laughter from their foes, which, mingled as it was with howls and yells, did infinitely more to appal the Skraelingers than the most savage war-cry could have done.

But they were followed by more than laughter. The Norsemen immediately gave chase -- still yelling and roaring as they ran, for Leif set the example, and his followers remembered his threat.

Karlsefin and Biarne kept one on each side of Leif, about a pace behind him.

"If they fight as well as they run," observed the former, "they must be troublesome neighbours."

"They are not bad fighters," replied Leif; "but sometimes they deem it wise to run."

"Not unlike to other people in that respect," said Biarne; "but it seems to me that we might overhaul them if we were to push on."

He shot up to Leif as he spoke, but the latter checked him.

"Hold back, Biarne; I mean them no harm, and wish no bloodshed -- only they must have a good fright. The lads, no doubt, would like to run in and make short work of them; but I intend to breathe the lads, which will in the end do just as well as fighting to relieve their feelings. --  Enough. It is ill talking and running."

They were silent after that, and ran thus for fully an hour, at nearly the top of their speed. But Leif sometimes checked his men, and sometimes urged them on, so that they fancied he was chasing with full intent to run the Skraelingers down. When the fugitives showed signs of flagging, he uttered a tremendous roar, and his men echoed it, sending such a thrill to the hearts of the Skraelingers that they seemed to recover fresh wind and strength; then he pushed after them harder than ever, and so managed that, without catching or killing one, he terrified them almost out of their wits, and ran them nearly to death.

At last they came to a place where there was an abrupt bend in the mountains. Here Leif resolved to let them go. When they were pretty near the cliff round which the path turned, he put on what, in modern sporting phraseology, is termed a spurt, and came up so close with the flying band that those in rear began to glance despairingly over their shoulders. Suddenly Leif gave vent to a roar, into which he threw all his remaining strength. It was taken up and prolonged by his men. The horror-struck Skraelingers shrieked in reply, swept like a torrent round the projecting cliff, and disappeared!

Leif stopped at once, and held up his hand. All his men stopped short also, and though they heard the Skraelingers still howling as they fled, no one followed them any farther. Indeed, most of the Norsemen were panting vehemently, and rather glad than otherwise to be allowed to halt.

There were, however, two young men among them -- tall, strong-boned, and thin, but with broad shoulders, and grave, earnest, though not exactly handsome countenances -- who appeared to be perfectly cool and in good wind after their long run. Leif noticed them at once.

"Yonder youths seem to think little of this sort of thing," he said to Karlsefin.

"You are right, Leif; it is mere child's play to them. These are the two Scots -- the famous runners -- whom I was charged by King Olaf to present to you. Why, these men, I'll engage to say, could overtake the Skraelingers even yet, if they chose."

"Say you so?" cried Leif. "Do they speak Norse?"

"Yes; excellently well."

"Their names?"

"The one is Heika, the other Hake."

"Ho! Hake and Heika, come hither," cried Leif, beckoning to the men, and hastening round the point, where the Skraelingers could be seen nearly a mile off, and still running as if all the evil spirits of the North were after them.

"See there, carls; think you that ye could overtake these rascals?"

The Scots looked at each other, nodded, smiled, and said they thought they could.

"Do it, then. Let them see how you can use your legs, and give them a shout as you draw near; but have a care: do them no hurt, and see that they do no injury to you. Take no arms; your legs must suffice on this occasion."

The Scots looked again at each other, and laughed, as if they enjoyed the joke; then they started off like a couple of deer at a pace which no Norseman legs had ever before equalled, or even approached.

Leif, Biarne, and the men gazed in speechless wonder, much to the amusement of Karlsefin and Thorward, while Hake and Heika made straight for the flying band and came up with them. They shouted wildly as they drew near. The Skraelingers looked back, and seeing only two unarmed men, stopped to receive them.

"As the saying goes," remarked Biarne, "a stern chase is a long one; but to-night proves the truth of that other saying, that there is no rule without an exception."

"What are they doing now?" cried Leif, laughing. "See -- they are mad!"

Truly it seemed as if they were; for, after separating and coursing twice completely round the astonished natives, the two Scots performed a species of war-dance before them, which had a sort of fling about it, more easily conceived than described. In the middle of this they made a dart at the group so sudden and swift that Hake managed to overturn Flatface with a tremendous buffet, and Heika did the same to his second in command with an energetic cuff. The Skraelingers were taken so thoroughly by surprise that the Scots had sheered off and got out of reach before a spear could be thrown.

Of course a furious rush was made at them, but the hairy men might as well have chased the wind. After tormenting and tantalising them a little longer, the Scots returned at full speed to their friends, and the Skraelingers, glad to be rid of them, hastened to seek the shelter of the gloomy gorge from which they had originally issued, "like a wolf on the fold."



Chapter Four.

Important Events Transpire, Which End In A Voyage Of Discovery.

Some weeks afterwards, Karlsefin and Gudrid went down to walk together on the sea-beach. It would appear that lovers were as fond of rambling together in those olden times as they are in these modern days. It was evening when they went to ramble thus -- another evidence of similarity in taste between the moderns and ancients.

"Karlsefin," said Gudrid, stopping at the margin of the fiord, and looking pensively towards the horizon, where golden clouds and air and sea appeared to mingle harmoniously, "I wonder that you, with good ships and many stout men and plenty of means, should choose to remain in this barren spot, instead of searching out the famous Vinland and making a settlement there."

"This barren spot is very bright to me, Gudrid; I have no desire to leave it yet a while. Since you and I were betrothed the ocean has lost its attractions. Besides, would you have me set out on a voyage of discovery at the beginning of winter."

"Nay; but you do not even talk about going when spring comes round."

"Because I have other things to talk of, Gudrid."

"I fear me that you are a lazy man," returned the widow, with a smile, "and will prove but a sorry husband. Just think," she added, with sudden animation, "what a splendid country it must be; and what a desirable change for all of us. Thick and leafy woods like those of old Norway, instead of these rugged cliffs and snow-clad hills. Fields of waving grass and rye, instead of moss-covered rocks and sandy soil. Trees large enough to build houses and merchant-ships, instead of willow bushes that are fit for nothing except to save our poor cattle from starvation when the hay crop runs out; besides, longer sunshine in winter and more genial warmth all the year round, instead of howling winds and ice and snow. Truly I think our adopted home here has been woefully misnamed."

"And yet I love it, Gudrid, for I find the atmosphere genial and the sunshine very bright."

"Foolish man!" said Gudrid, with a little laugh. "And then," she added, recurring to her theme, "there are grapes, -- though, to be sure, I know not what these are, never having tasted them. Biarne says they are very good -- do you think so too?"

"They are magnificent," answered Karlsefin. "In southern lands, where Tyrker comes from, they have a process whereby they can make a drink from grapes, which maddens youth and quickens the pulse of age, --  something like our own beer."

"It does not please me to hear that," replied Gudrid gravely; "some of our carls are too fond of beer. When old Heriulf was sick, a little of it did him good, and when Eric the Red was in his last days he seemed to gather a little strength and comfort from beer; but I never could perceive that it ever did anything to young men except make them boast, and talk nonsense, and look foolish, -- or, what is worse, quarrel and fight."

"Right, Gudrid, right," said Karlsefin; "my opinion at least is the same as yours, whether it be right or wrong. There is some reason in applying heat to cold, but it seems to me unnecessary to add heat to warmth, artificial strength to natural vigour, and it is dangerous sometimes to add fuel to fire. I am glad you think as I think on this point, for it is well that man and wife should be agreed in matters of importance. -- But to return to Vinland: I have been thinking much about it since I came here, though saying little, -- for it becomes a man to be silent and circumspect in regard to unformed plans. My mind is to go thither next spring, but only on one condition."

"And what may that be?" asked Gudrid, looking up with a little surprise, and some interest.

"That you shall go with me, Gudrid; for which end it will be needful that you and I should wed this winter."

Gudrid could not help blushing a little and looking down, for Karlsefin, despite his suavity, had a way with him, when thoroughly in earnest, that was very impressive. She did not hesitate, however, but answered with straightforward candour, "I will not say nay to that if my brother Leif is willing."

"It is settled then," replied Karlsefin decisively, "for Leif has already told me that he is willing if you are, and so -- "

At this interesting point in the conversation they were interrupted by a loud merry laugh not very far from them, and next moment little Olaf, starting out from behind a bush, ran shouting into Gudrid's extended arms. "Oh, what do you think?" he exclaimed, "aunt Freydissa has come over from Heriulfness, and is in such a rage because Biarne has told her that Thorward has been making love to his cousin Astrid, and -- "

"Hush, boy," said Gudrid, covering his mouth with her hand, "you should not talk so of your aunt. Besides, you know that it is an evil thing to get the name of a tale-bearer."

"I did not think it was tale-bearing," replied the lad, somewhat abashed, "for it is no secret. Leif was there, and Astrid herself, and all the house-carls in the hall must have heard her, for she spoke very loud. And oh! you should have seen her give Thorward the cold shoulder when he came in!"

"Well, well, Olaf, hold your noisy tongue," said Gudrid, laughing, "and come, tell me how would you like to go to Vinland?"

"Like to go to Vinland!" echoed the boy, turning an ardent gaze full on Karlsefin, "are you going there, sir? Will you take me?"

Karlsefin laughed, and said, "You are too quick in jumping to conclusions, child. Perhaps I may go there; but you have not yet answered Gudrid's question -- would you like to go?"

"I would like it well," replied Olaf, with a bright look of hopeful expectation that said far more than words could have expressed.

Just then Thorward was seen approaching along the beach. His brows were knit, his lips pursed, and his eyes fixed on the ground. He was so engrossed with his thoughts that he did not perceive his friends.

"Here he comes," said Karlsefin -- "in the blues evidently, for he does not see us."

"We had better leave you to his company," said Gudrid, laughing; "a man i' the blues is no pleasure to a woman. -- Come, Olaf, you and I shall to the dairy and see how the cattle fare."

Olaf's capacity for imbibing milk and cream being unlimited, he gladly accepted this invitation, and followed his aunt, while Karlsefin advanced to meet his friend.

"How now, Thorward, methinks an evil spirit doth possess thee!"

"An evil spirit!" echoed Thorward, with a wrathful look; "nay, a legion of evil spirits possess me! A plague on that fellow Biarne: he has poisoned the ears of Freydissa with lies about that girl Astrid, to whom I have never whispered a sweet word since we landed."

"I trust you have not whispered sour words to her," said Karlsefin, smiling.

"And Freydissa, forsooth, gives me the cold shoulder," continued the exasperated Norseman, not noticing the interruption, "as if I were proved guilty by the mere assertion."

"It is my advice to you, Thorward, that you return the compliment, and give the cold shoulder to Freydissa. The woman has a shrewish temper; she is a very vixen, and will lead you the life of a dog if you marry her."

"I had rather," said Thorward between his teeth, and stamping, "live a dog's life with Freydissa than live the life of a king without her!"

Karlsefin laughed at this, and Thorward, taking offence, said fierily, and with some scorn -- "Thinkest thou that because thy Gudrid is so smooth-tongued she is an angel?"

"That is what I am inclined to think," answered Karlsefin, with a smile that still further exasperated his friend.

"Perchance you may find yourself mistaken," said Thorward. "Since you are so free with your warnings, let me remind you that although the course of your courtship runs smooth, there is an old proverb -- descended from Odin himself, I believe -- which assures us that true love never did so run."

"Then I recall my words, Thorward, and congratulate you on your true love -- for assuredly your courtship runs in an uncommonly rugged course."

At this Thorward turned on his heel and walked away in a towering passion.

It so happened that, on drawing near to Brattalid, he met Biarne coming in the opposite direction. Nothing could have pleased him better -- for in the state of his mind at the time he would have turned savagely on himself, had that been possible, in order to relieve his feelings.

"So!" he cried, confronting Biarne, "well met! Tell me, Biarne, didst thou poison the ears of Freydissa by telling her that I had been courting thy cousin Astrid?"

Biarne, who was not aware of the consequences of what he had said in jest, felt inclined to laugh, but he checked himself and flushed somewhat, not being accustomed to be addressed in such haughty tones. Instead of explaining the matter, as he might otherwise have done, he merely said, "I did."

"Liar!" exclaimed Thorward fiercely, for he was a very resolute man when roused; "go, tell her that the assertion was a falsehood. Go now, and come back to tell me thou hast done it, else will I chop thy carcase into mince-meat. Go; I will await thee here."

He laid his hand upon his sword, but Biarne said quietly, "I go, sir;" and, turning round, hastened up to the hamlet.

Thorward could scarcely believe his eyes, for Biarne was fully as stout as himself, and somewhat taller, besides having the look of a courageous man. He had issued his imperative mandate more as a defiance and challenge than anything else, so that he gazed after the retreating Biarne with mingled feelings of surprise, contempt, and pity; but surprise predominated. He had not long to wait, however, for in about ten minutes Biarne returned.

"Well, have you told her?"

"I have," replied Biarne.

"Hah!" exclaimed Thorward, very much perplexed, and not knowing what to say next.

"But, Thorward," said Biarne, after a momentary pause, "methinks that you and I must fight now."

"With all my heart," answered Thorward, much relieved, and again grasping his sword.

"Nay, not with such weapons," said Biarne, stepping up to him, "but with the weapons of friendship."

With that he bestowed such a hearty buffet on Thorward's left ear that it turned the irascible man head over heels, and laid him at full length on the sand.

Thorward rose slowly, being somewhat stunned, with a confused impression that there was something wrong with his head. Before he had quite recovered, Biarne burst into a laugh and seized him by the hand.

"Freydissa bids me tell you -- " he said, and paused.

The pause was intentional. He saw that Thorward was on the point of snatching away his hand and returning the blow or drawing his sword; but he restrained himself in order to hear Freydissa's message.

"She bids me tell you," repeated Biarne, "that you are a goose."

This was not calculated to soothe an angry man, but Thorward reflected that the epithet was figurative, and bore a peculiar signification when uttered by a woman; he therefore continued his self-restraint and waited for more.

"She also said," added Biarne, "that she never for a moment believed my statement (which, by the way, was only made in jest), and that she thinks you deserve a good buffet on the ear for taking the thing up so hotly. Agreeing with her entirely in this, I have fulfilled her wish and given you your deserts. Moreover, she expects you to accompany her to Heriulfness to-night. So now," said Biarne, releasing Thorward's hand and touching his sword-hilt, "if you are still inclined -- ."

"Well, well," said Thorward, whose visage, while his friend was speaking, had undergone a series of contortions indicative of a wild conflict of feelings in his breast, "well, well, I am a goose, and deserved the buffet. After all, I did call you a liar, so we are quits, Biarne -- tit for tat. Come, let us shake hands and go up to Leif's cottage. You said Freydissa was there, I think."

During that winter Karlsefin married Gudrid and Thorward Freydissa, and, in the following spring, they embarked in Karlsefin's ship -- with a large party of men, women, children, and cattle -- and set sail for Vinland.



Chapter Five.

Freydissa Shows Her Temper And A Whale Checks It -- Poetical And Other Touches.

The expedition which now set out for Vinland was on a much larger scale than any of the expeditions which had preceded it. Biarne and Leif had acted the part of discoverers only -- not colonisers -- and although previous parties had passed several winters in Vinland, they had not intended to take up a permanent abode there -- as was plain from the fact that they brought neither women nor flocks nor herds with them. Karlsefin, on the contrary, went forth fully equipped for colonisation.

His ship, as we have said, was a large one, with a decked poop and forecastle, fitted to brave the most tempestuous weather -- at least as well fitted to do so as were the ships of Columbus -- and capable of accommodating more than a hundred people. He took sixty men with him and five women, besides his own wife and Thorward's. Thorward himself, and Biarne, accompanied the expedition, and also Olaf -- to his inexpressible joy, but Leif preferred to remain at home, and promised to take good care of Thorward's ship, which was left behind. Astrid was one of the five women who went with this expedition; the other four were Gunhild, Thora, Sigrid, and Bertha. Gunhild and Sigrid were wives to two of Biarne's men. Thora was handmaiden to Gudrid; Bertha handmaid to Freydissa. Of all the women Bertha was the sweetest and most beautiful, and she was also very modest and good-tempered, which was a fortunate circumstance, because her mistress Freydissa had temper enough, as Biarne used to remark, for a dozen women. Biarne was fond of teasing Freydissa; but she liked Biarne, and sometimes took his pleasantries well -- sometimes ill.

It was intended that, when the colony was fairly established, the ship should be sent back to Greenland to fetch more of the men's wives and children.

A number of cattle, horses, and sheep were also carried on this occasion to Vinland. These were stowed in the waist or middle of the vessel, between the benches where the rowers sat when at work. The rowers did not labour much at sea, as the vessel was at most times able to advance under sail. During calms, however, and when going into creeks, or on landing -- also in doubling capes when the wind was not suitable -- the oars were of the greatest value. Karlsefin and the principal people slept under the high poop. A number of the men slept under the forecastle, and the rest lay in the waist near the cattle -- sheltered from the weather by tents or awnings which were called tilts.

It may perhaps surprise some readers to learn that men could venture in such vessels to cross the northern seas from Norway to Iceland, and thence to Greenland; but it is not so surprising when we consider the small size of the vessels in which Columbus afterwards crossed the Atlantic in safety, and when we reflect that those Norsemen had been long accustomed, in such vessels, to traverse the ocean around the coasts of Europe in all directions -- round the shores of Britain, up the Baltic, away to the Faroe Islands, and up the Mediterranean even as far as the Black Sea. In short, the Norsemen of old were magnificent seamen, and there can be no question that much of the ultimate success of Britain on the sea is due, not only to our insular position, but also to the insufficiently appreciated fact that the blood of the hardy and adventurous vikings of Norway still flows in our veins.

It was a splendid spring morning when Karlsefin hoisted his white-and-blue sail, and dropped down Ericsfiord with a favouring breeze, while Leif and his people stood on the stone jetty at Brattalid, and waved hats and shawls to their departing friends.

For Olaf, Thora, and Bertha it was a first voyage, and as the vessel gradually left the land behind, the latter stood at the stern gazing wistfully towards the shore, while tears flowed from her pretty blue eyes and chased each other over her fair round face -- for Bertha left an old father behind her in Greenland.

"Don't cry, Bertha," said Olaf, putting his fat little hand softly into that of the young girl.

"Oh! I shall perhaps never see him again," cried Bertha, with another burst of tears.

"Yes, you will," said Olaf, cheerily. "You know that when we get comfortably settled in Vinland we shall send the ship back for your father, and mine too, and for everybody in Ericsfiord and Heriulfness. Why, we're going to forsake Greenland altogether and never go back to it any more. Oh! I am so glad."

"I wish, I wish I had never come," said Bertha, with a renewed flow of tears, for Olaf's consolations were thrown away on her.

It chanced that Freydissa came at that moment upon the poop, where Karlsefin stood at the helm, and Gudrid with some others were still gazing at the distant shore.

Freydissa was one of those women who appear to have been born women by mistake -- who are always chafing at their unfortunate fate, and endeavouring to emulate -- even to overwhelm -- men; in which latter effort they are too frequently successful. She was a tall elegant woman of about thirty years of age, with a decidedly handsome face, though somewhat sharp of feature. She possessed a powerful will, a shrill voice and a vigorous frame, and was afflicted with a short, violent temper. She was decidedly a masculine woman. We know not which is the more disagreeable of the two -- a masculine woman or an effeminate man.

But perhaps the most prominent feature in her character was her volubility when enraged, -- the copiousness of her vocabulary and the tremendous force with which she shot forth her ideas and abuse in short abrupt sentences.

Now, if there was one thing more than another that roused the ire of Freydissa, it was the exhibition of feminine weakness in the shape of tears. She appeared to think that the credit of her sex in reference to firmness and self-command was compromised by such weakness. She herself never wept by any chance, and she was always enraged when she saw any other woman relieve her feelings in that way. When, therefore, she came on deck and found her own handmaid with her pretty little face swelled, or, as she expressed it, "begrutten," and heard her express a wish that she had never left home, she lost command of herself -- a loss that she always found it easy to come by -- and, seizing Bertha by the shoulder, ordered her down into the cabin instantly.

Bertha sobbingly obeyed, and Freydissa followed. "Don't be hard on her, poor soul," murmured Thorward.

Foolish fellow! How difficult it is for man -- ancient or modern -- to learn when to hold his tongue! That suggestion would have fixed Freydissa's determination if it had not been fixed before, and poor Bertha would certainly have received "a hearing," or a "blowing-up," or a "setting down," such as she had not enjoyed since the date of Freydissa's marriage, had it not been for the fortunate circumstance that a whale took it into its great thick head to come up, just then, and spout magnificently quite close to the vessel.

The sight was received with a shout by the men, a shriller shout by the women, and a screech of surprise and delight by little Olaf, who would certainly have gone over the side in his eagerness, had not Biarne caught him by the skirts of his tunic.

This incident happily diverted the course of Freydissa's thoughts. Curiosity overcame indignation, and Bertha was reprieved for the time being. Both mistress and maid hastened to the side of the ship; the anger of the one evaporated and the tears of the other dried up when they saw the whale rise not more than a hundred yards from the ship. It continued to do this for a considerable time, sometimes appearing on one side, sometimes on the other; now at the stern, anon at the bow. In short it seemed as if the whale had taken the ship for a companion, and were anxious to make its acquaintance. At last it went down and remained under water so long that the voyagers began to think it had left them, when Olaf suddenly gave a shriek of delight and surprise: -- "Oh! Oh! OH!" he exclaimed, looking and pointing straight down into the water, "here is the whale -- right under the ship!"

And sure enough there it was, swimming slowly under the vessel, not two fathoms below the keel -- its immense bulk being impressively visible, owing to the position of the observers, and its round eyes staring as if in astonishment at the strange creature above. [The author has seen a whale in precisely similar circumstances in a Norwegian fiord.] It expressed this astonishment, or whatever feeling it might be, by coming up suddenly to the surface, thrusting its big blunt head, like the bow of a boat, out of the sea, and spouting forth a column of water and spray with a deep snort or snore -- to the great admiration of the whole ship's crew, for, although most of the men were familiar enough with whales, alive and dead, they had never, in all probability, seen one in such circumstances before.

Four or five times did the whale dive under the vessel in this fashion, and then it sheered off with a contemptuous flourish of its tail, as if disgusted with the stolid unsociable character of the ship, which seen from a submarine point of view must have looked uncommonly like a whale, and quite as big!

This episode, occurring so early in the voyage, and trifling though it was, tended to create in the minds of all -- especially of the women and the younger people -- a feeling of interest in the ocean, and an expectation of coming adventure, which, though not well defined, was slightly exciting and agreeable. Bertha, in particular, was very grateful to that whale, for it had not only diverted her thoughts a little from home-leaving and given her something new to think and talk about, but it had saved her from Freydissa and a severe scold.

The first night at sea was fine, with bright moonlight, and a soft wind on the quarter that carried them pleasantly over the rippling sea, and everything was so tranquil and captivating that no one felt inclined to go to rest. Karlsefin sat beside the helm, guiding the ship and telling sagas to the group of friends who stood, sat, or reclined on the deck and against the bulwarks of the high poop. He repeated long pieces of poetry, descriptive of the battles and adventures of their viking forefathers, and also gave them occasional pieces of his own composing, in reference to surrounding circumstances and the enterprise in which they were then embarked, -- for Karlsefin was himself a skald or poet, although he pretended not to great attainments in that way.

From where they sat the party on the poop could see that the men on the high forecastle were similarly engaged, for they had gathered together in a group, and their heads were laid together as if listening intently to one of their number who sat in the centre of the circle. Below, in the waist of the ship, some humorous character appeared to be holding his mates enchained, for long periods of comparative silence -- in which could be heard the monotonous tones of a single voice mingled with occasional soft lowing from the cattle -- were suddenly broken by bursts of uproarious laughter, which, however, quickly subsided again, leaving prominent the occasional lowing and the prolonged monotone. Everything in and around the ship, that night, breathed of harmony and peace --  though there was little knowledge among them of Him who is the Prince of Peace. We say "little" knowledge, because Christianity had only just begun to dawn among the Norsemen at that time, and there were some on board of that discovery-ship who were tinged with the first rays of that sweet light which, in the person of the Son of God, was sent to lighten the world and to shine more and more unto the perfect day.

"Now," said Karlsefin, at the conclusion of one of his stories, "that is the saga of Halfdan the Black -- at least it is part of his saga; but, friends, it seems to me that we must begin a saga of our own, for it is evident that if we are successful in this venture we shall have something to relate when we return to Greenland, and we must all learn to tell our saga in the same words, for that is the only way in which truth can be handed down to future generations, seeing that when men are careless in learning the truth they are apt to distort it so that honest men are led into telling lies unwittingly. They say that the nations of the south have invented a process whereby with a sharp-pointed tool they fashion marks on skins to represent words, so that once put down in this way a saga never changes. Would that we Norsemen understood that process!" said Karlsefin meditatively.

"It seems to me," said Biarne, who reclined on the deck, leaning against the weather-bulwarks and running his fingers playfully through Olaf's fair curls, "It seems to me that it were better to bestow the craft of the skald on the record of our voyage, for then the measure and the rhyme would chain men to the words, and so to the truth -- that is, supposing they get truth to start with! Come, Karlsefin, begin our voyage for us."

All present seemed to agree to that proposal, and urged Karlsefin to begin at once.

The skipper -- for such indeed was his position in the ship -- though a modest man, was by no means bashful, therefore, after looking round upon the moonlit sea for a few minutes, he began as follows: -- 

"When western waves were all unknown, And western fields were all unsown, When Iceland was the outmost bound That roving viking-keels had found --  Gunbiorn then -- Ulf Kraka's son --  Still farther west was forced to run By furious gales, and there saw land Stretching abroad on either hand. Eric of Iceland, called the Red, Heard of the news and straightway said --  'This western land I'll go and see; Three summers hence look out for me.' He went; he landed; stayed awhile, And wintered first on 'Eric's Isle;' Then searched the coast both far and wide, Then back to Iceland o'er the tide. 'A wondrous land is this,' said he, And called it Greenland of the sea. Twenty and five great ships sailed west To claim this gem on Ocean's breast. With man and woman, horn and hoof, And bigging for the homestead roof. Some turned back -- in heart but mice --  Some sank amid the Northern ice. Half reached the land, in much distress, At Ericsfiord and Heriulfness. Next, Biarne -- Heriulf's doughty son --  Sought to trace out the aged one. [His father.] From Norway sailed, but missed his mark; Passed snow-topped Greenland in the dark; And came then to a new-found land --  But did not touch the tempting strand; For winter winds oppressed him sore And kept him from his father's shore. Then Leif, the son of Eric, rose And straightway off to Biarne goes, Buys up his ship, takes all his men, Fares forth to seek that land again. Leif found the land; discovered more, And spent a winter on the shore; Cut trees and grain to load the ship, And pay them for the lengthened trip. Named 'Hella-land' and 'Markland' too, And saw an island sweet with dew! And grapes in great abundance found, So named it Vinland all around. But after that forsook the shore, And north again for Greenland bore. And now -- we cross the moonlit seas To search this land of grapes and trees Biarne, Thorward, Karlsefin --  Go forth this better land to win, With men and cattle not a few, And household gear and weapons too; And, best of all, with women dear, To comfort, counsel, check, and cheer. Thus far we've made a prosp'rous way, God speed us onward every day!"

They all agreed that this was a true account of the discovery of Vinland and of their own expedition as far as it had gone, though Gudrid said it was short, and Freydissa was of opinion that there was very little in it.

"But hold!" exclaimed Biarne, suddenly raising himself on his elbows; "Karlsefin, you are but a sorry skald after all."

"How so?" asked the skipper.

"Why, because you have made no mention of the chief part of our voyage."

"And pray what may that be?"

"Stay, I too am a skald; I will tell you."

Biarne, whose poetical powers were not of the highest type, here stretched forth his hand and said: -- 

"When Biarne, Thorward, Karlsefin, This famous voyage did begin, They stood upon the deck one night, And there beheld a moving sight. It made the very men grow pale, Their shudder almost rent the sail! For lo! they saw a mighty whale! It drew a shriek from Olaf brave, Then plunged beneath the briny wave, And, while the women loudly shouted, Up came its blundering nose and spouted. Then underneath our keel it went, And glared with savage fury pent, And round about the ship it swum, Striking each man and woman dumb. Stay -- one there was who found a tongue And still retained her strength of lung. Freydissa, beauteous matron bold, Resolved to give that whale a scold! But little cared that monster fish To gratify Freydissa's wish; He shook his tail, that naughty whale, And flourished it like any flail, And, ho! for Vinland he made sail!"

"Now, friends, was not that a great omission on the part of Karlsefin?"

"If the whale had brought his flail down on your pate it would have served you right, Biarne," said Freydissa, flushing, yet smiling in spite of herself.

"I think it is capital," cried Olaf, clapping his hands -- "quite as good as the other poem."

Some agreed with Olaf, and some thought that it was not quite in keeping with Karlsefin's composition, but, after much debate, it was finally ruled that it should be added thereto as part and parcel of the great Vinland poem. Hence it appears in this chronicle, and forms an interesting instance of the way in which men, for the sake of humorous effect, mingle little pieces of fiction with veritable history.

By the time this important matter was settled it was getting so late that even the most enthusiastic admirer among them of moonlight on a calm sea became irresistibly desirous of going to sleep. They therefore broke up for the night; the women retired to their cabin, and none were left on deck except the steersman and the watch. Long before this the saga-tellers on the forecastle had retired; the monotone and the soft lowing of the cattle had ceased; man and beast had sought and found repose, and nothing was heard save the ripple of the water on the ship's sides as she glided slowly but steadily over the sleeping sea.



Chapter Six.

Changes In Wind And Weather Produce Changes In Temper And Feeling -- Land Discovered, And Freydissa Becomes Inquisitive.

There are few things that impress one more at sea than the rapidity of the transitions which frequently take place in the aspect and the condition of vessel, sea, and sky. At one time all may be profoundly tranquil on board; then, perhaps, the necessity for going "about ship" arises, and all is bustle; ropes rattle, blocks clatter and chirp, yards creak, and seamen's feet stamp on the deck, while their voices aid their hands in the hauling of ropes; and soon all is quiet as before. Or, perhaps, the transition is effected by a squall, and it becomes more thorough and lasting. One moment everything in nature is hushed under the influence of what is appropriately enough termed a "dead calm." In a few seconds a cloud-bank appears on the horizon and one or two cats-paws are seen shooting over the water. A few minutes more and the sky is clouded, the glassy sea is ruffled, the pleasant light sinks into a dull leaden grey, the wind whistles over the ocean, and we are -- as far as feeling is concerned -- transported into another, but by no means a better, world.

Thus it was with our adventurers. The beautiful night merged into a "dirty" morning, the calm into a breeze so stiff as to be almost a gale, and when Olaf came out of the cabin, holding tight to the weather-bulwarks to prevent himself from being thrown into the lee-scuppers, his inexperienced heart sank within him at the dreary prospect of the grey sky and the black heaving sea.

But young Olaf came of a hardy seafaring race. He kept his feelings to himself; and staggered toward Karlsefin, who still stood at his post. Olaf thought he had been there all night, but the truth was that he had been relieved by Biarne, had taken a short nap, and returned to the helm.

Karlsefin was now clad in a rough-weather suit. He wore a pair of untanned sealskin boots and a cap of the same material, that bore a strong resemblance in shape and colour to the sou'-westers of the present day, and his rough heavy coat, closed up to the chin, was in texture and form not unlike to the pilot-cloth jackets of modern seamen -- only it had tags and loops instead of buttons and button-holes. With his legs wide apart, he stood at the tiller, round which there was a single turn of a rope from the weather-bulwarks to steady it and himself. The boy was clad in miniature costume of much the same cut and kind, and proud was he to stagger about the deck with his little legs ridiculously wide apart, in imitation of Thorward and Biarne, both of whom were there, and had, he observed, a tendency to straddle.

"Come hither, Olaf; and learn a little seamanship," said Karlsefin, with a good-humoured smile.

Olaf said he would be glad to do that, and made a run towards the tiller, but a heavy plunge of the ship caused him to sheer off in quite a different direction, and another lurch would have sent him head-foremost against the lee-bulwarks had not Biarne, with a laugh, caught him by the nape of the neck and set him against Karlsefin's left leg, to which he clung with remarkable tenacity.

"Ay, hold on tight to that, boy," said the leg's owner, "and you'll be safe. A few days will put you on your sea-legs, lad, and then you won't want to hold on."

"Always hold your head up, Olaf, when you move about aboard ship in rough weather," said Biarne, pausing a minute in his perambulation of the deck to give the advice, "and look overboard, or up, or away at the horizon -- anywhere except at your feet. You can't see how the ship's going to roll, you know, if you keep looking down at the deck."

Olaf acted on this advice at once, and then began to question Karlsefin in regard to many nautical matters which it is not necessary to set down here, while Biarne and Thorward leaned on the bulwarks and looked somewhat anxiously to windward.

Already two reefs of the huge sail had been taken in, and Biarne now suggested that it would be wise to take in another.

"Let it be done," said Karlsefin.

Thorward ordered the men to reef; and the head of the ship was brought up to the wind so as to empty the sail while this was being done.

Before it was quite accomplished some of the women had assembled on the poop.

"This is not pleasant weather," observed Gudrid, as she stood holding on to her husband.

"We must not expect to have it all plain sailing in these seas," replied Karlsefin; "but the dark days will make the bright ones seem all the brighter."

Gudrid smiled languidly at this, but made no reply.

Freydissa, who scorned to receive help from man, had vigorously laid hold of the bulwarks and gradually worked her way aft. She appeared to be very much out of sorts -- as indeed all the women were. There was a greenish colour about the parts of their cheeks that ought to have been rosy, and a whitey blue or frosted appearance at the points of their noses, which damaged the beauty of the prettiest among them. Freydissa became positively plain -- and she knew it, which did not improve her temper. Astrid, though fair and exceedingly pretty by nature, had become alarmingly white; and Thora, who was dark, had become painfully yellow. Poor Bertha, too, had a washed-out appearance, though nothing in the way of lost colour or otherwise could in the least detract from the innocent sweetness of her countenance. She did not absolutely weep, but, being cold, sick, and in a state of utter wretchedness, she had fallen into a condition of chronic whimpering, which exceedingly exasperated Freydissa. Bertha was one of those girls who are regarded by some of their own sex with a species of mild contempt, but who are nevertheless looked upon with much tenderness by men, which perhaps makes up to them for this to some extent. Gudrid was the least affected among them all by that dire malady, which appears to have been as virulent in the tenth as it is in the nineteenth century, and must have come in with the Flood, if not before it.

"Why don't you go below," said Freydissa testily, "instead of shivering up here?"

"I get so sick below," answered Bertha, endeavouring to brighten up, "that I thought it better to try what fresh air would do for me."

"H'm! it doesn't appear to do much for you," retorted Freydissa.

As she spoke a little spray broke over the side of the ship and fell on the deck near them. Karlsefin had great difficulty in preventing this, for a short cross-sea was running, and it was only by dint of extremely good and careful steering that he kept the poop-deck dry. In a few minutes a little more spray flew inboard, and some of it striking Bertha on the head ran down her shoulders. Karlsefin was much grieved at this, but Freydissa laughed heartily.

Instead of making Bertha worse, however, the shock had the effect of doing her a little good, and she laughed in a half-pitiful way as she ran down below to dry herself.

"It serves you right," cried Freydissa as she passed; "I wish you had got more of it."

Now Karlsefin was a man whose temper was not easily affected, and he seldom or never took offence at anything done or said to himself; but the unkindness of Freydissa's speech to poor Bertha nettled him greatly.

"Get behind me, Gudrid," he said quickly.

Gudrid obeyed, wondering at the stern order, and Karlsefin gave a push to the tiller with his leg. Next moment a heavy sea struck the side of the ship, burst over the bulwarks, completely overwhelmed Freydissa, and swept the deck fore and aft -- wetting every one more or less except Gudrid, who had been almost completely sheltered behind her husband. A sail which had been spread over the waist of the ship prevented much damage being done to the men, and of course all the water that fell on the forecastle and poop ran out at the scupper-holes.

This unexpected shower-bath at once cleared the poop of the women. Fortunately Thora and Astrid had been standing to leeward of Biarne and Thorward, and had received comparatively little of the shower, but Freydissa went below with streaming hair and garments, -- as Biarne remarked, -- like an elderly mermaid!

"You must have been asleep when that happened," said Thorward to Karlsefin in surprise.

"He must have been sleeping, then, with his eyes open," said Biarne, with an amused look.

Karlsefin gazed sternly towards the ship's head, and appeared to be attending with great care to the helm, but there was a slight twinkle in his eye as he said -- "Well, it was my intention to wash the decks a little, but more spray came inboard than I counted on. 'Tis as dangerous to play with water, sometimes, as with fire."

"There is truth in that," said Biarne, laughing; "and I fear that this time water will be found to have kindled fire, for when Freydissa went below she looked like the smoking mountain of Iceland -- as if there was something hot inside and about to boil up."

Karlsefin smiled, but made no reply, for the gale was increasing every moment, and the management of the ship soon required the earnest attention of all the seamen on board.

Fortunately it was a short-lived gale. When it had passed away and the sea had returned to something like its former quiescent state, and the sun had burst through and dissipated the grey clouds, our female voyagers returned to the deck and to their wonted condition of health.

Soon after that they came in sight of land.

"Now, Biarne," said Karlsefin, after the look-out on the forecastle had shouted "Land ho!" "come, give me your opinion of this new land that we have made. -- Do you mind the helm, Thorward, while we go to the ship's head."

The two went forward, and on the forecastle they found Olaf; flushed with excitement, and looking as if something had annoyed him.

"Ho, Olaf! you're not sorry to see land, are you?" said Biarne.

"Sorry! no, not I; but I'm sorry to be cheated of my due."

"How so, boy?"

"Why, I discovered the land first, and that fellow there," pointing to the man on look-out, "shouted before me."

"But why did you not shout before him?" asked Karlsefin, as he and Biarne surveyed the distant land with keen interest.

"Just because he took me unawares," replied the boy indignantly. "When I saw it I did not wish to be hasty. It might have turned out to be a cloud, or a fog-bank, and I might have given a false alarm; so I pointed it out to him, and asked what he thought; but instead of answering me he gaped with his ugly mouth and shouted 'Land ho!' I could have kicked him."

"Nay, Olaf; that is not well said," observed Karlsefin, very gravely; "if you could have kicked him you would have kicked him. Why did you not do it?"

"Because he is too big for me," answered the boy promptly.

"So, then, thy courage is only sufficient to make thee kick those who are small enough," returned Karlsefin, with a frown. "Perhaps if you were as big as he you would be afraid to kick him."

"That would not I," retorted Olaf.

"It is easy for you to say that, boy, when you know that he would not strike you now, and that there is small chance of your meeting again after you have grown up to prove the truth of what you say. It is mere boasting, Olaf; and, mark me, you will never be a brave man if you begin by being a boastful boy. A truly brave and modest man -- for modesty and bravery are wont to consort together -- never says he will strike until he sees it to be right to do so. Sometimes he does not even go the length of speaking at all, but, in any case, having made up his mind to strike, he strikes at once, without more ado, let the consequences be what they will. But in my opinion it is best not to strike at all. Do you know, Olaf; my boy, some of the bravest men I ever knew have never struck a blow since they came to manhood, excepting, of course, when compelled to do so in battle; and then they struck such blows as made shields and helmets fly, and strewed the plain with their foes."

"Did these men never boast when they were boys?" asked Olaf; with a troubled air.

Karlsefin relaxed into a smile as he said, "Only when they were very little boys, and very foolish; but they soon came to see how contemptible it is to threaten and not perform; so they gave up threatening, and when performance came to be necessary they found that threats were needless. Now, Olaf, I want you to be a bold, brave man, and I must lull you through the foolish boasting period as quickly as possible, therefore I tell you these things. Think on them, my boy."

Olaf was evidently much relieved by the concluding remarks. While Karlsefin was speaking he had felt ashamed of himself; because he was filled with admiration of the magnificent skipper, and wanted to stand well in his opinion. It was therefore no small comfort to find that his boasting had been set down to his foolishness, and that there was good reason to hope he might ultimately grow out of it.

But Olaf had much more of the true metal in him than he himself was aware of. Without saying a word about it, he resolved not to wait for the result of this slow process of growth, but to jump, vault, or fly out of the boastful period of life, by hook or by crook, and that without delay. And he succeeded! Not all at once, of course. He had many a slip; but he persevered, and finally got out of it much sooner than would have been the case if he had not taken any trouble to think about the matter, or to try.

Meanwhile, however, he looked somewhat crestfallen. This being observed by the look-out, that worthy was prompted to say -- "I'm sure, Olaf; you are welcome to kick me if that will comfort you, but there is no occasion to do so, because I claim not the honour of first seeing the land -- and if I had known the state of your mind I would willingly have let you give the hail."

"You may have been first to discover it at this time, Olaf;" said Biarne, turning round after he had made up his mind about it, "and no doubt you were, since the look-out admits it; nevertheless this is the land that I discovered twenty years ago. But we shall make it out more certainly in an hour or two if this breeze holds."

The breeze did hold, and soon they were close under the land.

"Now am I quite certain of it," said Biarne, as he stood on the poop, surrounded by all his friends, who gazed eagerly at the shore, to which they had approached so close that the rocks and bushes were distinctly visible; "that is the very same land which I saw before."

"What, Vinland?" asked Freydissa.

"Nay, not Vinland. Are you so eager to get at the grapes that ye think the first land we meet is Vinland?"

"A truce to your jesting, Biarne; what land is it?"

"It is the land I saw last when leaving this coast in search of Greenland, so that it seems not unnatural to find it first on coming back to it. Leif; on his voyage, went on shore here. He named it Helloland, which, methinks, was a fitting name, for it is, as you see, a naked land of rocks."

"Now, then," said Karlsefin, "lower the sail, heave out the anchor, and let two men cast loose the little boat. Some of us will land and see what we shall see; for it must not be said of us, Biarne, as it was unfairly said of you, that we took no interest in these new regions."

The little boat was got ready. The Scottish brothers, Hake and Heika, were appointed to row. Karlsefin, Biarne, Thorward, Gudrid, Freydissa, and Olaf embarked and proceeded to the shore.

This land, on which the party soon stood, was not of an inviting aspect. It was sterile, naked, and very rocky, as Biarne had described it, and not a blade of grass was to be seen. There was a range of high snow-capped mountains in the interior, and all the way from the coast up to these mountains the land was covered with snow. In truth, a more forbidding spot could not easily have been found, even in Greenland.

"It seems to me," said Freydissa, "that your new land is but a sorry place -- worse than that we have left. I wonder at your landing here. It is plain that men see with flushed eyes when they look upon their own discoveries. Cold comfort is all we shall get in this place. I counsel that we return on board immediately."

"You are too hasty, sister," said Gudrid.

"Oh! of course, always too hasty," retorted Freydissa sharply.

"And somewhat too bitter," growled Thorward, with a frown.

Thorward was not an ill-natured man, but his wife's sharp temper tried him a good deal.

"Your interrupting me before you heard all I had to say proves you to be too hasty, sister," said Gudrid, with a playful laugh. "I was about to add that it seems we have come here rather early in the spring. Who knows but the land may wear a prettier dress when the mantle of winter is gone? Even Greenland looks green and bright in summer."

"Not in those places where the snow lies all the summer," objected Olaf.

"That's right, Olaf;" said Biarne; "stick up for your sweet aunt. She often takes a stick up for you, lad, and deserves your gratitude. -- But come, let's scatter and survey the land, for, be it good or bad, we must know what it is, and carry with us some report such as Karlsefin may weave into his rhymes."

"This land would be more suitable for your rhymes, Biarne, than for mine," said Karlsefin, as they started off together, "because it is most dismal."

After that the whole party scattered. The three leaders ascended the nearest heights in different directions, and Gudrid with Olaf went searching among the rocks and pools to ascertain what sort of creatures were to be found there, while Freydissa sat down and sulked upon a rock. She soon grew tired of sulking, however, and, looking about her, observed the brothers, who had been left in charge of the boat, standing as if engaged in earnest conversation.

She had not before this paid much attention to these brothers, and was somewhat struck with their appearance, for, as we have said before, they were good specimens of men. Hake, the younger of the two, had close-curling auburn hair, and bright blue eyes. His features were not exactly handsome, but the expression of his countenance was so winning that people were irresistibly attracted by it. The elder brother, Heika, was very like him, but not so attractive in his appearance. Both were fully six feet high, and though thin, as has been said, their limbs were beautifully moulded, and they possessed much greater strength than most people gave them credit for. In aspect, thought, and conversation, they were naturally grave, and very earnest; nevertheless, they could be easily roused to mirth.

Going up to them, Freydissa said -- "Ye seem to have earnest talk together."

"We have," answered Heika. "Our talk is about home."

"I am told that your home is in the Scottish land," said Freydissa.

"It is," answered Hake, with a kindling eye.

"How come you to be so far from home?" asked Freydissa.

"We were taken prisoners two years ago by vikings from Norway, when visiting our father in a village near the Forth fiord."

"How did that happen? Come, tell me the story; but, first, who is your father?"

"He is an earl of Scotland," said Heika.

"Ha! and I suppose ye think a Scottish earl is better than a Norse king?"

Heika smiled as he replied, "I have never thought of making a comparison between them."

"Well -- how were you taken?"

"We were, as I have said, on a visit to our father, who dwelt sometimes in a small village on the shores of the Forth, for the sake of bathing in the sea -- for he is sickly. One night, while we slept, a Norse long-ship came to land. Those who should have been watching slumbered. The Norsemen surrounded my father's house without awaking anyone, and, entering by a window which had not been securely fastened, overpowered Hake and me before we knew where we were. We struggled hard, but what could two unarmed men do among fifty? The noise we made, however, roused the village and prevented the vikings from discovering our father's room, which was on the upper floor. They had to fight their way back to the ship, and lost many men on the road, but they succeeded in carrying us two on board, bound with cords. They took us over the sea to Norway. There we became slaves to King Olaf Tryggvisson, by whom, as you know, we were sent to Leif Ericsson."

"No doubt ye think," said Freydissa, "that if you had not been caught sleeping ye would have given the Norsemen some trouble to secure you."

They both laughed at this.

"We have had some thoughts of that kind," said Hake brightly, "but truly we did give them some trouble even as it was."

"I knew it," cried the dame rather sharply; "the conceit of you men goes beyond all bounds! Ye always boast of what valiant deeds you would have done if something or other had been in your favour."

"We made no boast," replied Heika gravely.

"If you did not speak it, ye thought it, I doubt not. -- But, tell me, is your land as good a land as Norway?"

"We love it better," replied Heika.

"But is it better?" asked Freydissa.

"We would rather dwell in it than in Norway," said Hake.

"We hope not. But we would prefer to be in our own land," replied the elder brother, sadly, "for there is no place like home."

At this point Karlsefin and the rest of the party came back to the shore and put an end to the conversation. Returning on board they drew up the anchor, hoisted sail, and again put out to sea.



Chapter Seven.

Songs And Sagas -- Vinland At Last!

In days of old, just as in modern times, tars, when at sea, were wont to assemble on the "fo'c'sle," or forecastle, and spin yarns -- as we have seen -- when the weather was fine and their work was done.

One sunny afternoon, on the forecastle of Karlsefin's ship -- which, by the way, was called "The Snake," and had a snake's head and neck for a figure-head -- there was assembled a group of seamen, among whom were Tyrker the Turk, one of Thorward's men named Swend, who was very stout and heavy, and one of Karlsefin's men called Krake, who was a wild jocular man with a peculiar twang in his speech, the result of having been long a prisoner in Ireland. We mention these men particularly, because it was they who took the chief part in conversations and in story-telling. The two Scots were also there, but they were very quiet, and talked little; nevertheless, they were interested and attentive listeners. Olaf was there also, all eyes and ears, -- for Olaf drank in stories, and songs, and jests, as the sea-sand drinks water -- so said Tyrker; but Krake immediately contradicted him, saying that when the sea-sand was full of water it drank no more, as was plain from the fact that it did not drink up the sea, whereas Olaf went on drinking and was never satisfied.

"Come, sing us a song, Krake," cried Tyrker, giving the former a slap on the shoulder; "let us hear how the Danish kings were served by the Irish boys."

"Not I," said Krake, firmly. "I've told ye two stories already. It's Hake's turn now to give us a song, or what else he pleases."

"But you'll sing it after Hake has sung, won't you, Krake?" pleaded several of the men.

"I'll not say 'No' to that."

Hake, who possessed a soft and deep bass voice of very fine quality, at once acceded to the request for a song. Crossing his arms on his chest, and looking, as if in meditation, towards the eastern horizon, he sang, to one of his national airs, "The Land across the Sea."

The deep pathos of Hake's voice, more than the words, melted these hardy Norsemen almost to tears, and for a few minutes effectually put to flight the spirit of fun that had prevailed.

"That's your own composin', I'll be bound," said Krake, "an' sure it's not bad. It's Scotland you mean, no doubt, by the land across the sea. Ah! I've heard much of that land. The natives are very fond of it, they say. It must be a fine country. I've heard Irishmen, who have been there, say that if it wasn't for Ireland they'd think it the finest country in the world."

"No doubt," answered Hake with a laugh, "and I dare say Swend, there, would think it the finest country in the world after Norway."

"Ha! Gamle Norge," [Old Norway] said Swend with enthusiasm, "there is no country like that under the sun."

"Except Greenland," said Olaf, stoutly.

"Or Iceland," observed Biarne, who had joined the group. "Where can you show such mountains -- spouting fire, and smoke, and melted stones, -- or such boiling fountains, ten feet thick and a hundred feet high, as we have in Iceland?"

"That's true," observed Krake, who was an Icelander.

"Oh!" exclaimed Tyrker, with a peculiar twist of his ugly countenance, "Turkey is the land that beats all others completely."

At this there was a general laugh.

"Why, how can that be?" cried Swend, who was inclined to take up the question rather hotly. "What have you to boast of in Turkey?"

"Eh! What have we not, is the question. What shall I say? Ha! we have grapes there; and we do make such a drink of them -- Oh! -- "

Here Tyrker screwed his face and figure into what was meant for a condition of ecstasy.

"'Twere well that they had no grapes there, Tyrker," said Biarne, "for if all be true that Karlsefin tells us of that drink, they would be better without it."

"I wish I had it!" remarked Tyrker, pathetically.

"Well, it is said that we shall find grapes in Vinland," observed Swend, "and as we are told there is everything else there that man can desire, our new country will beat all the others put together, -- so hurrah for Vinland!"

The cheer was given with right good-will, and then Tyrker reminded Krake of his promise to sing a song. Krake, whose jovial spirits made him always ready for anything, at once struck up to a rattling ditty: -- 

The Danish Kings.

One night when one o' the Irish Kings Was sleeping in his bed, Six Danish Kings -- so Sigvat sings --  Came an' cut off his head. The Irish boys they heard the noise, And flocked unto the shore; They caught the kings, and put out their eyes, And left them in their gore.

Chorus -- Oh! this is the way we served the kings, An' spoiled their pleasure, the dirty things, When they came to harry and flap their wings Upon the Irish shore-ore, Upon the Irish shore.

Next year the Danes took terrible pains To wipe that stain away; They came with a fleet, their foes to meet, Across the stormy say. Each Irish carl great stones did hurl In such a mighty rain, The Danes went down, with a horrible stoun, An' never came up again!

Oh! this is the way, etcetera.

The men were still laughing and applauding Krake's song when Olaf, who chanced to look over the bow of the vessel, started up and shouted "Land, ho!" in a shrill voice, that rang through the whole ship.

Instantly, the poop and forecastle were crowded, and there, on the starboard bow, they saw a faint blue line of hills far away on the horizon. Olaf got full credit for having discovered the land first on this occasion; and for some time everything else was forgotten in speculations as to what this new land would turn out to be; but the wind, which had been getting lighter every hour that day, died away almost to a calm, so that, as there was no prospect of reaching the land for some hours, the men gradually fell back to their old places and occupation.

"Now, then, Krake," said Tyrker, "tell us the story about that king you were talking of the other day; which was it? Harald -- "

"Ay, King Harald," said Krake, "and how he came to get the name of Greyskin. Well, you must know that it's not many years ago since my father, Sigurd, was a trader between Iceland and Norway. He went to other places too, sometimes -- and once to Ireland, on which occasion it was that I was taken prisoner and kept so long in the country, that I became an Irishman. But after escaping and getting home I managed to change back into an Icelander, as ye may see! Well, in my father's younger days, before I was born -- which was a pity! for he needed help sorely at that time, and I would have been just the man to turn myself handy to any sort of work; however, it wasn't my fault, -- in his younger days, my father one summer went over from Iceland to Norway, --  his ship loaded till she could hardly float, with skins and peltry, chiefly grey wolves. It's my opinion that the reason she didn't go down was that they had packed her so tight there was no room for the water to get in and sink her. Anyway, over the sea she went and got safe to Norway.

"At that time King Harald, one of the sons of Eric, reigned in Norway, after the death of King Hakon the Good. He and my father were great friends, but they had not met for some time; and not since Harald had come to his dignity. My father sailed to Hardanger, intending to dispose of his pelts there if he could. Now, King Harald generally had his seat in Hordaland and Bogaland, and some of his brothers were usually with him; but it chanced that year that they went to Hardanger, so my father and the king met, and had great doings, drinking beer and talking about old times when they were boys together.

"My father then went to the place where the greatest number of people were met in the fiord, but nobody would buy any of his skins. He couldn't understand this at all, and was very much annoyed at it, and at night when he was at supper with the king he tells him about it. The king was in a funny humour that night. He had dashed his beard with beer to a great extent, and laughed heartily sometimes without my father being able to see what was the joke. But my father was a knowing man. He knew well enough that people are sometimes given to hearty laughter without troubling themselves much about the joke -- especially when they are beery, -- so he laughed too, out of friendliness, and was very sociable.

"When my father went away the king promised to pay him a visit on board of his ship next day, which he did, sure enough; and my father took care to let it be known that he was coming, so there was no lack of the principal people thereabouts. They had all come down together, by the merest chance, to the place where the ship lay, just to enjoy the fresh air -- being fresher there that day than at most other places on the fiord, no doubt!

"King Harald came with a fully-manned boat, and a number of followers. He was very condescending and full of fun, as he had been the night before. When he was going away he looked at the skins, and said to my father, 'Wilt thou give me a present of one of these wolf-skins?'

"'Willingly,' says my father, 'and as many more as you please.'

"On this, the king wrapped himself up in a wolf-skin and went back to his boat and rowed away. Immediately after, all the boats in his suite came alongside and looked at the wolf-skins with great admiration, and every man bought just such another wolf-skin as the king had got. In a few days so many people came to buy skins, that not half of them could be served with what they wanted, and the upshot was that my father's vessel was cleared out down to the keel, and thereafter the king went, as you know, by the name of Harald Greyskin.

"But here we are, comrades," continued Krake, rising, "drawing near to the land, -- I'll have a look at it."

The country off which they soon cast anchor was flat and overgrown with wood; and the strand far around consisted of white sand, and was very low towards the sea. Biarne said that it was the country to which Leif had given the name of Markland, because it was well-wooded; they therefore went ashore in the small boat, but finding nothing in particular to attract their interest, they soon returned on board and again put to sea with an onshore wind from the north-east. [Some antiquaries appear to be of opinion that Helloland must have been Newfoundland, and Markland some part of Nova Scotia.]

For two days they continued their voyage with the same wind, and then made land for the third time and found it to be an island. It was blowing hard at the time, and Biarne advised that they should take shelter there and wait for good weather. This they did, and, as before, a few of them landed to explore the country, but there was not much to take note of. Little Olaf, who was one of the explorers, observed dew on the grass, and, remembering that Leif had said that the dew on one of the islands which he met with was sweet, he shook some into the hollow of his hand and tasted it, but looked disappointed.

"Are you thirsty, Olaf?" asked Karlsefin, who, with Biarne, walked beside him.

"No, but I wondered if the dew would be sweet. My father said it was, on one of the islands he came to."

"Foolish boy," said Biarne, laughing; "Leif did but speak in a figure. He was very hot and tired at the time, and found the dew sweet to his thirsty spirit as well as refreshing to his tongue."

"Thus you see, Olaf," observed Karlsefin, with a sly look at Biarne, "whenever you chance to observe your father getting angry, and hear him say that his beer is sour, you are not to suppose that it is really sour, but must understand that it is only sour to his cross spirit as well as disagreeable to his tongue."

Olaf received this with a loud laugh, for, though he was puzzled for a moment by Biarne's explanation, he saw through the jest at once.

"Well, Biarne," returned Olaf; "whether the dew was sweet to my father's tongue or to his spirit I cannot tell, but I remember that when he told us about the sweet dew, he said it was near to the island where he found it that the country he called Vinland lay. So, if this be the sweet-dew island, Vinland cannot be far off."

"The boy is sharp beyond his years," said Karlsefin, stopping abruptly and looking at Biarne; "what thinkest thou of that?"

"I think," replied the other, "that Olaf will be a great discoverer some day, for it seems to me not unlikely that he may be right."

"Come, we shall soon see," said Karlsefin, turning round and hastening back to the boat.

Biarne either had not seen this particular spot on his former visit to these shores, which is quite probable, or he may have forgotten it, for he did not recognise it as he had done the first land they made; but before they left Ericsfiord, Leif had given them a very minute and careful description of the appearance of the coast of Vinland, especially of that part of it where he had made good his landing and set up his booths, so that the explorers might be in a position to judge correctly when they should approach it. Nevertheless, as every one knows, regions, even when well defined, may wear very different aspects when seen by different people, for the first time, from different points of view. So it was on this occasion. The voyagers had hit the island a short distance further south than the spot where Leif came upon it, and did not recognise it in the least. Indeed they had begun to doubt whether it really was an island at all. But now that Olaf had awakened their suspicions, they hastened eagerly on board the "Snake," and sailed round the coast until they came into a sound which lay between the Island and a cape that jutted out northward from the land.

"'Tis Vinland!" cried Biarne in an excited tone.

"Don't be too sure of that," said Thorward, as a sudden burst of sunshine lit up land and sea.

"I cannot be too sure," cried Biarne, pointing to the land. "See, there is the ness that Leif spoke of going out northwards from the land; there is the island; here, between it and the ness, is the sound, and yonder, doubtless, is the mouth of the river which comes out of the lake where the son of Eric built his booths. Ho! Vinland! hurrah!" he shouted, enthusiastically waving his cap above his head.

The men were not slow to echo his cheer, and they gave it forth not a whit less heartily.

"'Tis a noble land to look upon," said Gudrid, who with the other females of the party had been for some time gazing silently and wistfully towards it.

"Perchance it may be a great land some day," observed Karlsefin.

"Who knows?" murmured Thorward in a contemplative tone.

"Ay, who knows?" echoed Biarne; "time and luck can work wonders."

"God's blessing can work wonders," said Karlsefin, impressively; "may He grant it to us while we sojourn here!"

With that he gave orders to prepare to let go the anchor, but the sound, over which they were gliding slowly before a light wind, was very shallow, and he had scarcely ceased speaking when the ship struck with considerable violence, and remained fast upon the sand.



Chapter Eight.

A Chapter Of Incidents And Exploration, In Which A Bear And A Whale Play Prominent Parts.

Although arrested thus suddenly and unexpectedly in their progress toward the shore, these resolute Norsemen were not to be balked in their intention of reaching the land that forenoon -- for it was morning when the vessel stuck fast on the shallows.

The tide was ebbing at the time, so that Karlsefin knew it would be impossible to get the ship off again until the next flood-tide. He therefore waited till the water was low enough, and then waded to the land accompanied by a large band of men. We need scarcely say that they were well-armed. In those days men never went abroad either by land or sea without their armour, which consisted of swords, axes, spears and bows for offence, with helmets and shields for defence. Some of the men of wealth and position also wore defensive armour on their breasts, thighs, and shins, but most of the fighting men were content to trust to the partial protection afforded by tunics of thick skin.

They were not long of reaching the mouth of the river which Biarne had pointed out, and, after proceeding up its banks for a short distance, were convinced that this must be the very spot they were in search of.

"Now, Biarne," said Karlsefin, stopping and sitting down on a large stone, "I have no doubt that this is Leif's river, for it is broad and deep as he told us, therefore we will take our ship up here. Nevertheless, before doing so, it would be a satisfaction to make positively certain that we are in the right way, and this we may do by sending one or two of our men up into the land, who, by following the river, will come to the lake where Leif built his booths, and so bring us back the news of them. Meanwhile we can explore the country here till they return."

Biarne and Thorward thought this advice good, and both offered to lead the party to be sent there.

"For," said Thorward, "they may meet with natives, and if the natives here bear any resemblance to the Skraelingers, methinks they won't receive us with much civility."

"I have thought of that," returned Karlsefin with a smile, "but I like not your proposal. What good would it do that either you or Biarne should lead so small a party if ye were assaulted by a hundred or more savages, as might well be the case?"

"Why, we could at all events retreat fighting," retorted Thorward in a slightly offended tone.

"With fifty, perhaps, in front, to keep you in play, and fifty detached to tickle you in rear."

Thorward laughed at this, and so did Biarne. "Well, if the worst came to the worst," said the latter, "we could at any rate sell our lives dearly."

"And, pray, what good would that do to us?" demanded Karlsefin.

"Well, well, have it your own way, skipper," said Biarne; "it seems to me, nevertheless, that if we were to advance with the whole of the men we have brought on shore with us, we should be in the same predicament, for twenty men could not easily save themselves from a hundred -- or, as it might be, a thousand -- if surrounded in the way you speak of."

"Besides that," added Thorward, "it seems to me a mean thing to send out only one or two of our men without a leader to cope with such possible dangers, unless indeed they were possessed of more than mortal powers."

"Why, what has become of your memories, my friends?" exclaimed Karlsefin. "Are there none of our men possessed of powers that are, at all events, more than those of ordinary mortals?"

"O-ho! Hake and Heika! I forgot them," cried Biarne; "the very men for the work, to be sure!"

"No doubt of it," said Karlsefin. "If they meet with natives who are friendly, well and good; if they meet with no natives at all, -- better. If they meet with unfriendly natives, they can show them their heels; and I warrant you that, unless the natives here be different from most other men, the best pair of savage legs in Vinland will fail to overtake the Scottish brothers."

Thorward agreed that this was a good plan, but cautioned Karlsefin to give the brothers strict injunctions to fly, and not upon any account to fight; "for," said he, "these doughty Scots are fiery and fierce when roused, and from what I have seen of them will, I think, be much more disposed to use their legs in running after their foes than in running away from them."

This having been settled, the brothers were called, and instructed to proceed into the woods and up the bank of the river as quickly as possible, until they should come to a lake on the margin of which they would probably see a few small huts. On discovering these they were to turn immediately and hasten back. They were also particularly cautioned as to their behaviour in the event of meeting with natives, and strictly forbidden to fight, if these should be evil disposed, but to run back at full speed to warn their friends, so that they might be prepared for any emergency.

"Nevertheless," said Karlsefin, in conclusion, "ye may carry weapons with you if ye will."

"Thanks," replied Heika. "As, however, you appear to doubt our powers of self-restraint, we will relieve your mind by going without them."

Thus instructed and warned, the brothers tightened their belts, and, leaping nimbly into the neighbouring brake, disappeared from view.

"A pair of proper men," said Karlsefin. -- "And now, comrades, we will explore the neighbourhood together, for it is advisable to ascertain all we can of the nature of our new country, and that as quickly as may be. It is needful, also, to do so without scattering, lest we be set upon unexpectedly by any lurking foe. This land is not easily surveyed like Iceland or Greenland, being, as you see, covered with shrubs and trees, which somewhat curtail our vision, and render caution the more necessary."

While the Norsemen were engaged in examining the woods near the coast, the two Scots held on their way into the interior. There was something absolutely exhilarating, as Krake once remarked, in the mere beholding of these brothers' movements. They had been famed for agility and endurance even in their own country. They did not run, but trotted lightly, and appeared to be going at a moderate pace, when in reality it would have compelled an ordinary runner to do his best to keep up with them. Yet they did not pant or show any other symptom of distress. On the contrary, they conversed occasionally in quiet tones, as men do when walking. They ran abreast as often as the nature of the ground would allow them to do so, taking their leaps together when they came to small obstructions, such as fallen trees or brooks of a few feet wide; but when they came to creeks of considerable width, the one usually paused to see the other spring over, and then followed him.

Just after having taken a leap of this kind, and while they were running silently side by side along the margin of the river, they heard a crash among the bushes, and next instant a fine deer sprang into an open space in front of them. The brothers bent forward, and, flying like the wind, or like arrows from a bow, followed for a hundred yards or so -- then stopped abruptly and burst into a hearty fit of laughter.

"Ah! Heika," exclaimed the younger, "that fellow would be more than a match for us if we could double our speed. We have no chance with four-legged runners."

While he was speaking they resumed the jog-trot pace, and soon afterwards came to a rocky ridge, that seemed to traverse the country for some distance. Here they were compelled to walk, and in some places even to clamber, the ground being very rugged.

Here also they came to a small branch or fork of the river that appeared to find its way to the sea through another channel. It was deep, and although narrow in comparison with the parent stream, was much too broad to be leaped over. The pioneers were therefore obliged to swim. Being almost as much at home in the water as otters, they plunged in, clothes and all, without halting, and in a few seconds had gained the other side.

When they reached the top of the ridge they stopped and gazed in silent admiration, for there lay stretched out before them a vast woodland scene of most exquisite beauty. Just at their feet was the lake of which they were in search; some parts of it bright as the blue sky which its unruffled breast reflected; other parts dark almost to blackness with the images of rocks and trees. Everywhere around lay a primeval wilderness of wood and water which it is beyond the power of mortal pen adequately to describe; and while all was suffused with the golden light of an early summer sun, and steeped in the repose of an absolutely calm day, the soft and plaintive cries of innumerable wild-fowl enlivened, without disturbing, the profound tranquillity of the scene.

"Does it not remind you of our own dear land?" said Heika in a low soft voice.

"Ay, like the lowlands on the shores of the Forth fiord," replied Hake, in the same low tone, as if he feared to break the pleasing stillness; "and there, surely, are the booths we were to search for -- see, in the hollow, at the head of yonder bay, with the gravelly beach and the birch-trees hanging from the rocks as if they wished to view themselves in the watery mirror."

"True -- there are three of them visible. Let us descend and examine."

"Hist! Some one appears to have got there before us," said Hake, laying his hand on his brother's shoulder and pointing in the direction of the huts.

"It is not a human visitor, methinks," observed Heika.

"More like a bear," returned Hake.

In order to set the question at rest the brothers hastened round by the woods to a spot immediately behind the huts. There was a hill there so steep as to be almost a precipice. It overlooked the shores of the lake immediately below where the huts were, and when the pioneers came to the crest of it and peeped cautiously over, they beheld a large brown bear not far from the hut that stood nearest to the hill, busily engaged in devouring something.

"Now it is a pity," whispered Heika, "that we brought no arms with us. Truly, little cause have we men to be proud of our strength, for yonder beast could match fifty of us if we had nothing to depend on save our fists and feet and fingers."

"Why not include the teeth in your list, brother?" asked Hake, with a quiet laugh; "but it is a pity, as you say. What shall -- "

He stopped abruptly, for a large boulder, or mass of rock, against which he leaned, gave way under him, made a sudden lurch forward and then stuck fast.

"Ha! a dangerous support," said Hake, starting back; "but, hist! suppose we shove it down on the bear?"

"A good thought," replied Heika, "if we can move the mass, which seems doubtful; but let us try. Something may be gained by trying -- nothing lost."

The boulder, which had been so balanced on the edge of the steep hill that a gentle pressure moved it, was a mass of rock weighing several tons, the moving of which would have been a hopeless task for twenty men to attempt, but it stood balanced on the extreme edge of the turn of the hill, and the little slip it had just made rendered its position still more critical; so that, when the young men lay down with their backs against a rock, placed their feet upon it and pushed with all their might, it slowly yielded, toppled over, and rolled with a tremendous surge through a copse which lay immediately below it.

The brothers leaped up and gazed in breathless eagerness to observe the result. The bear, hearing the crash, looked up with as much surprise as the visage of that stupid creature is capable of expressing. The thing was so suddenly done that the bear seemed to have no time to form an opinion or get alarmed, for it stood perfectly still, while the boulder, bounding from the copse, went crashing down the hill, cutting a clear path wherever it touched, attaining terrific velocity, and drawing an immense amount of debris after it. The direction it took happened to be not quite straight for the animal, whose snout it passed within six or eight feet -- causing him to shrink back and growl -- as it rushed smoking onward over the level bit of sward beneath, through the mass of willows beyond, across the gravelly strand and out to the lake, into which it plunged and disappeared amid a magnificent spout of foam. But the avalanche of earth and stones which its mad descent had created did not let Bruin off so easily. One after another these latter, small and large, went pattering and dashing against him, -- some on his flank, some on his ribs, and others on his head. He growled of course, yet stood the fire nobly for a few seconds, but when, at last, a large boulder hit him fairly on the nose, he gave vent to a squeal which terminated in a passionate roar as he turned about and made for the open shore, along which for some distance he ran with the agility of a monstrous wild-cat, and finally leaped out of sight into his forest home!

The brothers looked at each other with sparkling eyes, and next moment the woods resounded with their merriment, as they held their sides and leaned for support against a neighbouring cliff.

Heika was first to recover himself.

"Hold, brother," he exclaimed, "we laugh loud enough to let Bruin know who it was that injured him, or to bring all the savages in these woods down upon us. Peace, man, peace, and let us return to our friends."

"As soon as ye please, brother," said Hake, still laughing as he tightened his belt, "but was it not rare fun to see Bruin stand that stony rain so manfully until his tender point was touched? And then how he ran! 'Twas worth coming here to see a bear leave off his rolling gait so and run like a very wild-cat. -- Now I'm ready."

Without staying to make further examination of Leif's old huts -- for from the place where they stood all the six of them could be clearly seen --  the young pioneers started on their return to the coast. They ran back with much greater speed than they had pushed forward -- fearing that their companions might be getting impatient or alarmed about them. They did not even converse, but with heads up, chests forward, and elbows bent, addressed themselves to a quick steady run, which soon brought them to the branch of the river previously mentioned. Here they stopped for a moment before plunging in.

"Suppose that we run down its bank," suggested Hake, "and see whether there be not a shallow crossing."

"Surely ye have not grown afraid of water, Hake?"

"No, not I, but I should like to see whither this branch trends, and what it is like; besides, the divergence will not cost us much time, as we can cross at any point we have a mind to, and come at the main river again through the woods."

"Well, I will not balk you -- come on."

They accordingly descended the smaller streams and found it to be broken by various little cascades and rapids, with here and there a longish reach of pebbly ground where the stream widened into a shallow rippling river with one or two small islands in it. At one of these places they crossed where it was only knee-deep in the centre, and finally stopped at the end of a reach, where a sudden narrowing of the banks produced a brawling rapid. Below this there was a deep pool caused by a great eddy.

"Now, we go no further," said Heika. "Here we shall cross through the woods to the main branch."

"'Tis a pretty stream," observed Hake when they were about to leave it.

As he spoke a large salmon leaped high out of the pool below, flashed for one moment in the sunshine like a bar of living silver, and fell back into the water with a sounding splash. Hake caught his breath and opened wide his eyes!

"Truly that is a good sight to the eyes of a Scotsman," said Heika, gazing with interest at the place where the fish had disappeared; "it reminds me of my native land."

"Ay, and me of my dinner," observed Hake, smacking his lips.

"Out upon thee, man!" cried Heika, "how can ye couple our native land with such a matter-o'-fact thought as dinner?"

"Why, it would be hard to uncouple the thought of dinner from our native land," returned Hake, with a laugh, as they entered the forest; "for every man -- not to mention woman -- within its circling coast-line is a diner, and so by hook or crook must daily have his dinner. -- But say, brother, is it not matter of satisfaction, as well as matter of fact, that the waters of this Vinland shall provide us with abundance of food not less surely than the land? If things go on as they have begun I shall be well content to stay here."

"Ye do not deserve the name of Scot, Hake," said the other gravely. "My heart is in Scotland; it is not here."

"True, I know it," replied Hake, with a touch of feeling; "in a double sense, too, for your betrothed is there. Nevertheless, as I did not leave my heart behind me; surely there is no sin in taking some pleasure in this new land. But heed not my idle talk, brother. You and I shall yet live to see the bonny hills of -- . Ha! here we are on the big stream once more, sooner than I had expected, and, if I mistake not, within hail of our comrades."

Hake was right. The moment they emerged from the woods upon the open bank of the large river they saw a party of men in the distance approaching them, and, an instant later, a loud halloo assured them that these were their friends.

When the pioneers had related all that they had seen and done, the whole party returned to the shore and hailed the ship, for, the tide having risen, they could not now reach it by wading. A boat was immediately sent for them, and great was the interest manifested by all on board to learn the news of Vinland. They had time to give an account of all that had been done and seen, because it still wanted an hour of flood-tide, and the ship still lay immoveable.

While they were thus engaged, Gudrid happened to cast her eyes over the stern of the ship, and thought she saw an object moving in the water.

"What is that I see?" she said, pointing towards it.

"The great sea-serpent!" exclaimed Biarne, shading his eyes with his hand.

"Or his ghost," remarked Krake.

From which observations, coupled together, it would appear that the famous monster referred to was known by repute to the Norsemen of the eleventh century, though he was to some extent regarded as a myth!

Be this as it may, the object which now attracted the attention and raised the eyebrows of all on board the "Snake" evidently possessed life, for it was very active -- wildly so -- besides being large. It darted hither and thither, apparently without aim, sending the water in curling foam before it. Suddenly it made straight for the ship, then it turned at a tangent and made for the island; anon it wheeled round, and rushed, like a mad creature, to the shore.

Then arose a deafening shout from the men -- 

"A whale! an embayed whale!"

And so in fact it was; a large whale, which, as whales will sometimes do -- blind ones, perhaps -- had lost its way, got entangled among the sandbanks lying between the island and the shore, and was now making frantic efforts to escape.

Need we say that a scene of the wildest excitement ensued among the men! The two boats -- one of which was, as we have said, a large one -- were got ready, barbed spears and lances and ropes were thrown into them, as many men as they could hold with safety jumped in, and pulled away, might and main, after the terrified whale.

You may be sure, reader, that little Olaf was there, fast by the side of his friend and hero Karlsefin, who took charge of the large boat, with Thorward in the bow to direct him how to steer. Biarne was there too as a matter of course, in charge of the little boat, with Krake as his bowman and Tyrker pulling the stroke-oar. For Tyrker was strong, though little, ugly, and old, and had a peculiar talent for getting involved in any fighting, fun, or mischief that chanced to be in hand. Men said that he was afraid of dying in his bed, and had made up his mind to rush continually into the jaws of danger until they should close upon and crush him; but we are of opinion that this was a calumny. Those of the men who were necessarily left in the ship could scarce be prevented from swimming after the boats as they shot away, and nothing but the certainty of being drowned restrained them from making the mad attempt. As it was, they clambered upon the figure-head and up the rigging, where, with gaping mouths and staring eyes, they watched the movements of their more fortunate companions.

Meanwhile the whale had made what appeared to be a grand and final neck-or-nothing rush in the direction of the shore. Of course he was high, although not dry, in a few seconds. That is to say, he got into water so shallow that he stuck fast, with his great head and shoulders raised considerably out of the sea, in which position he began to roll, heave, spout, and lash his mighty tail with a degree of violence that almost approached sublimity.

He was in these circumstances when the Norsemen came up; for though too shallow for the whale, the water was quite deep enough for the boats.

Being light, the small boat reached the scene of action first. Krake stood up in the bow to be ready. He held in his hand a curious wooden spear with a loose barb tipped with the tusk of a walrus. It had been procured from one of the Greenland Skraelingers. A rope was attached to it.

As they drew near, the whale stopped for an instant, probably to recover breath. Krake raised his spear -- the fish raised his tail. Whizz! went the spear. Down came the tail with a thunderclap, and next moment mud, sand, water, stones, foam, and blood, were flying in cataracts everywhere as the monster renewed its struggles.

"Back! back oars!" shouted Biarne, as they were almost swamped by the flood.

The men obeyed with such good-will that Krake was thrown head-foremost over the bow.

"Hold fast!" yelled Krake on coming to the surface.

"If ye had held fast ye wouldn't have been there," said Biarne; "where are ye?"

He rose again out of the foam, yelled, and tossed up his arms.

"Can the man not swim?" cried Biarne, in alarm; "pull, boys, pull!"

The men were already pulling with such force that they almost went over the man. As they rubbed past him Hake dropped his oar and caught him by the hair, Biarne leaned over the side and got him by the breeches, and with a vigorous heave they had him inboard.

"Why, Krake, I thought you could swim!" said Biarne.

"Ay, so I can, but who could swim with a coil of rope round his neck and legs?"

The poor man had indeed been entangled in the rope of the spear, so that he could not use his limbs freely.

No more was said, however, for they were still in dangerous proximity to the tail of the struggling fish, and had to pull out of its way.

Meanwhile the large boat, profiting by the experience of the small one, had kept more towards the whale's head, and, before Krake had been rescued, Thorward sent a Skraelinger spear deep into its shoulder. But this only acted as a spur to the huge creature, and made it heave about with such violence that it managed to slew right round with its head offshore.

At this the men could not restrain a shout of alarm, for they knew that if the whale were to succeed in struggling again into water where it could swim, it would carry away spears and ropes; or, in the event of these holding on, would infallibly capsize and sink the boats.

"Come, drive in your spears!" shouted Karlsefin in a voice of thunder, for his usually quiet spirit was now deeply stirred.

Thorward and one of the men threw their spears, but the latter missed and the former struck his weapon into a part that was too thick to do much injury, though it was delivered with great force and went deep.

"This will never do!" cried Karlsefin, leaping up; "here, Swend, take the helm. Ho! hand me that spear, quick! Now, lads, pull, pull, with heart and limb!"

As he spoke he sprang like a roused giant into the bow of the boat and caught up a spear. The men obeyed his orders. The boat rushed against the whale's side, and, with its impetus added to his own Herculean strength, Karlsefin thrust the spear deep down into the monster's body just behind the shoulder fin.

The crimson stream that immediately gushed forth besprinkled all in the boat and dyed the sea around.

"That is his life-blood," said Karlsefin, with a grim smile; "you may back off now, lads."

This was done at once. The small boat was also ordered to back off, and those in it obeyed not a moment too soon, for immediately after receiving the deadly wound the whale went into a violent dying struggle. It soon subsided. There were one or two mighty heavings of the shoulder; then a shudder ran through the huge carcase, and it rolled slowly over in a relaxed manner which told significantly that the great mysterious life had fled.



Chapter Nine.

The First Night In Vinland.

The prize which had thus fallen into the hands of the Norsemen was of great importance, because it furnished a large supply of food, which thus enabled them to go leisurely to work in establishing themselves, instead of, as would otherwise have been the case, spending much of their time and energy in procuring that necessity of life by hunting and fishing.

It was also exceedingly fortunate that the whale had been killed a little before the time of high water, because that enabled them to fasten ropes through its nose and row with it still farther in to the shore. This accomplished, the boats made several trips back to the ship and landed all the men, and these, with a number of ropes, hauled up the carcase foot by foot as the tide rose. After reaching a certain point at high water they could get it up no farther, and when the tide turned all the men twice doubled could not have budged it an inch. The ropes were therefore tied together and lengthened until they reached a strong tree near the beach, to which they were fastened.

Leaving their prize thus secured they hastened back to the ship, hauled up the anchor, and made for the mouth of the river, but they had lost so much of the flood-tide, in consequence of their battle with the whale, and the evening was so far advanced, that they resolved to delay further proceedings until the following day.

The ship was therefore hauled close in to the land at the river's mouth and allowed to take the ground on a spit of sand. Here the men landed and soon built up a pile of stones, between which and the ship a gangway was made. The women were thus enabled to walk comfortably ashore. And here, on a grassy spot, they pitched their tents for the first time in Vinland.

Provisions were now brought on shore and large fires were kindled which blazed up and glared magnificently as the night drew on, rendering the spit of sand with the grassy knoll in the centre of it quite a cheerful and ruddy spot. A few trees were cut down and stretched across the spit at its neck on the land side, and there several sentinels were placed as a precaution -- for which there seemed little occasion.

Karlsefin then set up a pole with a flag on it and took formal possession of this new land, after which the whole colony sat down on the grass -- some under the tents, others under the starry sky -- to supper. The cattle, it may here be noted, were not landed at this place, as they were to be taken up the river next day, but their spirits were refreshed with a good supply of new-mown grass, so that it is to be hoped, and presumed, they rejoiced not less than their human companions in the satisfactory state of things.

In the largest tent, Karlsefin, Biarne, Thorward, Gudrid, Freydissa, Astrid, and Olaf, sat down to a sumptuous repast of dried Greenland-fish and fresh Vinland-whale, besides which they had soup and beer. Being healthy and hungry, they did full justice to the good things. Bertha and Thora served and then joined in the repast.

"This is pleasant, isn't it, Freydissa?" asked Biarne, with his mouth full.

Freydissa, with her mouth not quite so full, admitted that it was, for she happened to be in an amiable humour -- as well she might!

"Come, let us pledge the new land in a can of beer," cried Biarne, pouring the beverage out of an earthenware jar into a squat old Norse flagon of embossed silver. "Thorward, fill up!"

"I will join you heartily in that," cried Thorward, suiting the action to the word.

"And I," said Karlsefin, raising an empty flagon to his lips, "will pledge it in a wish. I wish -- prosperity to Vinland!"

"Come, Karlsefin," remonstrated Biarne, "forego austerity for once, and drink."

"Not I," returned the skipper, with a laugh.

"Wherefore not?"

"First, because a wish is quite as potent as a drink in that respect; second, because our beer is nearly finished, and we have not yet the means to concoct more, so that it were ill-advised to rob you, Biarne, by helping to consume that which I do not like; and, last of all, I think it a happy occasion this in which to forswear beer altogether!"

"Have thy way," said Biarne, helping himself to another whale-steak of large dimensions. "You are too good a fellow to quarrel with on such trifling ground. Here, pass the jar, Thorward; I will drink his portion as well as my own."

"And I will join you both," cried little Olaf with a comical turn of his eyebrows. "Here, I wish prosperity to Vinland, and drink it, too, in water."

"We can all join thee in that, Olaf," said Gudrid I with an approving nod and laugh. "Come, girls, fill up your cups and pledge to Vinland."

"Stop!" shouted Biarne in sudden anxiety.

They all paused with the cups half-way to their lips.

"You must not drink, Freydissa," he continued seriously. "Gudrid did call upon the girls to join her: surely ye don't -- "

He was cut short by Freydissa throwing her cup of water in his face.

With a burst of laughter Biarne fell backwards, and, partly to avoid the deluge, partly for fun, rolled out of the tent, when he got up and dried his dripping beard.

"No more of that, fair girl, I beseech thee," he said, resuming his place and occupation. "I will not again offend -- if thou wilt not again misunderstand!"

Freydissa made no reply to this, silence being her usual method of showing that she condescended to be in good humour -- and they were all very merry over their evening meal. From the noise and laughter and songs around them, it was evident that the rest of the company were enjoying their first night on shore to the full, insomuch that Olaf was led, in the height of his glee, to express a wish that they could live in that free-and-easy fashion for ever.

"'Tis of no use wishing it," observed Karlsefin; "if you would insure success you must, according to Biarne, drink it in beer."

"I cry you mercy, skipper," said Biarne; "if you persecute me thus I shall not be able to drink any more to-night. Hand me the jar, Thorward, and let me drink again before I come to that pass."

"Hark!" exclaimed Gudrid, "there must be something going to happen, for all the men have become suddenly quiet."

They listened intently for a moment or two, when Krake's voice broke the deep silence: -- "Come, now, don't think so long about it, as if ye were composing something new. Every one knows, sure, that it's about sweet Scotland you're going to sing."

"Right, Krake, right," replied a rich deep voice, which it required no sight to tell belonged to Hake, the young Scot; "but there are many songs about sweet Scotland, and I am uncertain which to choose."

"Let it be lively," said Krake.

"No, no, no," chorussed some of the men; "let it be slow and sad."

"Well well," laughed the half-Irishman -- as he was fond of styling himself -- "have it your own way. If ye won't be glad, by all means be sad."

A moment after, Hake's manly tones rose on the still air like the sound of an organ, while he sang one of the ancient airs of his native land, wherein, like the same airs of modern days, were sounded the praises of Scotland's heather hills and brawling burns -- her bonny daughters and her stalwart sons.

To those in the large tent who had listened, with breathless attention and heads half averted, it was evident that song, sentiments, and singer were highly appreciated, from the burst of hearty applause at the conclusion, and the eager demand for another ditty. But Hake protested that his ruling motto was "fair play," and that the songs must circle round.

"So let it be," cried Swend. -- "Krake, it is your turn next."

"I won't keep ye waiting," said that worthy, "though I might do it, too, if I was to put off time selecting from the songs of old Ireland, for it's endless they are -- and in great variety. Sure, I could give ye songs about hills and streams that are superior to Scotland's burns and braes any day -- almost up to those of Gamle Norge if they were a bit higher -- the hills I mean, not the songs, which are too high already for a man with a low voice -- and I could sing ye a lament that would make ye shed tears enough to wash us all off the spit of land here into the sea; but that's not in my way. I'm fond of a lively ditty, so here you are."

With that Krake struck up an air in which it was roundly asserted that Ireland was the finest country in the world (except Iceland, as he stopped in his song to remark); that Irish boys and girls lived in a state of perpetual hilarity and good-will, and that the boys displayed this amiable and pleasant condition chiefly in the way of kissing the girls and cracking each other's crowns.

After that, Swend was called on to sing, which he did of Norway with tremendous enthusiasm and noise but little melody. Then another man sang a love-ditty in a very gruff voice and much out of tune, which, nevertheless, to the man's evident satisfaction, was laughingly applauded. After him a sentimental youth sang, in a sweet tenor voice, an Icelandic air, and then Tyrker was called on to do his part, but flatly refused to sing. He offered to tell a saga instead, however, which he did in such a manner that he made the sides of the Norsemen ache with laughter -- though, to say truth, they laughed more at the teller than the tale.

Thus with song and saga they passed the first hours of the night, while the camp-fires blazed ruddily on their weather-beaten faces, and the heavenly constellations shone, not only on the surrounding landscape, but appeared to light up another world of cloudland beneath the surface of the sleeping sea.

At last Karlsefin went out to them.

"Now, lads," said he, "it is high time that you laid your heads on your pillows. Men who do not sleep well cannot labour well. To-morrow we have hard work before us in taking possession and settling our new home. God has prospered us thus far. We have made a good beginning in Vinland. May it be the foretaste of a happy ending. Away, then, and get you to rest before the night is older, and let your sleep be sound, for I will see to it that the sentinels posted round the camp are vigilant."

The men received this brief speech with a murmur of willing acquiescence, and at once obeyed the order; though Krake observed that he fell in with the custom merely out of respect to the opinions of his comrades, having himself long ago learned to do without sleep in Ireland, where the lads were in the habit of working -- or fighting -- all day, dancing all night, and going home with the girls in the morning! Each Norseman then sought a spot upon the grassy knoll suited to his taste; used his arm, or a hillock, or stone, for a pillow, or anything else that came conveniently to hand, and with his sword or axe beside him, and his shield above him as a coverlet, courted repose, while the bright stars twinkled him to sleep, and the rippling wavelets on the shore discoursed his lullaby.



Chapter Ten.

Taking Possession Of The New Home, An Event Which Is Celebrated By An Explosion And A Reconciliation.

Every one knows -- at least a well-known proverb assures us -- that "early to bed and early to rise" conduces to health, wealth, and wisdom. The Norsemen of old would appear to have been acquainted with the proverb and the cheering prospect it holds out; perhaps they originated it; at all events, that they acted on it, and probably experienced the happy results, is evident from the fact that Karlsefin and his men not only went to bed in good time at night -- as related in the last chapter -- but were up and doing by daybreak on the following morning.

Having roused the women, relieved the sentinels, struck the tents, and carried everything safely on board the Snake, they manned the oars, or large sweeps, with the stoutest of the crew, and prepared to row their vessel up the river into the lake on the shores of which they designed to fix their future home. Previous to this, however, a party of men were told off to remain behind and cut up the whale, slice the lean portions into thin layers, and dry them in the sun for winter use.

"See that you make a good job of it," said Karlsefin to Swend, who was left behind as the leader of the whale-party -- because he was fat, as Krake said, and, therefore, admirably suited for such work -- "and be careful not to let sand get amongst the meat. Cut out the whalebone too, it will be of use to us; and don't forget that there may be enemies lurking in the woods near you. Keep your windward eye uncovered, and have your weapons always handy."

Swend promised to attend to these orders, and, with twenty men, armed with axes, scythes, and large knives, besides their swords, shields, bows and arrows, stood on the ness and cheered their comrades as they rowed away.

The force of the current was not great, so that the Snake made rapid progress, and in a few hours reached the place where the small stream forked off from the main river. This they named Little River. Above that point the current was more rapid, and it became necessary to send a large party of men on shore with a tracking-rope, by means of which and the oars they at last overcame all obstacles, and finally swept out upon the bosom of the beautiful sheet of water which had afforded such delight to the eyes of the two Scots.

"Here, then, we have got home at last," said Karlsefin, as they rowed over the still water to a spit, or natural landing-place, near Leif's old booths.

"It is very beautiful," said Gudrid, "but I find it difficult to call it home. It seems so strange, though so pleasant."

"You were always difficult to please, Gudrid," said Freydissa; "surely you don't think Greenland -- cold, windy, bleak, nasty Greenland -- a better home than this?"

"Nay, sister, I made no comparison. I did but say that it seemed strange, and I'm sure that Bertha agrees with me in that -- don't you, Bertha?"

"Indeed I do," replied the maiden; "strange the land is, but beautiful exceedingly."

"Of course she'll agree with what you say," cried Freydissa, testily. "I would that she agreed as readily with me. It is a wonder that she is not weeping, as she is always so ready to do on the smallest provocation, or without any provocation at all."

"I only wept on leaving my father," remonstrated Bertha with a winning smile. "I'm sure you have not seen me shed a tear since then. Besides, I do agree with you in this case, for I think Vinland will be a pleasant home. Don't you too?" she added, turning round to Thora, who had been standing at her side, but Thora had moved away, and her place had been taken by Hake, the Scot.

Bertha blushed on meeting the youth's gaze, and the blush deepened when Hake said in a quiet undertone, that Vinland could not but be a pleasant home to him, and added that Greenland, Iceland, Norway, -- anywhere, --  would be equally pleasant, if only she were there!

Poor Bertha was so taken aback by the cool and sudden boldness of this unexpected reply, that she looked hastily round in alarm lest it had been overheard; but Hake, not intending that it should be overheard, had addressed it to her ear, and fortunately at the moment the grating of the keel upon the pebbly shore drew the attention of all to the land.

"Now, then, jump ashore, lads," cried Biarne, "and get out the gangway. Make it broad, for our cattle must not be allowed to risk their limbs by tumbling off."

While Biarne superintended the gangway, Thorward prepared the live stock for their agreeable change, and Karlsefin went up to examine the state of the huts. They were found to be in excellent condition, having been well built originally, and the doors and windows having been secured against the weather by those who had used them last.

"No natives can have been here," observed the leader of the party to those who accompanied him, "because every fastening is secured, apparently, as it was left."

"Nevertheless, Sigrid and I have seen footprints in the sand," remarked the woman Gunhild, coming up at that moment.

"Show them to me," said Karlsefin, with much interest.

"Yonder they are," replied the woman, pointing towards a sandy spot on her left, "and he who made them must have been a giant, they are so large."

"Truly, a dangerous giant to meet with," observed Karlsefin, laughing, when he reached the place, "these are none other, Gunhild, than the footprints of the bear that the two Scots sent away with the toothache. But come, we will open these huts and have them put in order and made comfortable against supper-time. So, get to work all of you and see how active you can be."

While some of the party were busily engaged in sweeping out and arranging the huts, others shouldered their axes and went into the woods to cut down a few dead trees for firewood, and when the gangway between the ship and the shore was completed the live stock was driven on shore.

There was something quite impressive in this part of the landing. There was a deliberate slowness in the movements of most of the animals that gave to it quite the air of a solemn procession, and must have been a good illustration, on a small scale, of the issuing of the beasts from Noah's Ark on the top of Ararat!

The first creature which, appropriately enough, led the van, was a lordly black bull. Little Olaf, whose tastes were somewhat peculiar, had made a pet of this bull during the voyage, and by feeding it, scratching it behind the ears, patting its nose, giving it water, and talking to it, had almost, if not altogether, won its affections. He was therefore permitted to superintend the landing of it.

"Come, get on, Blackie," cried Olaf, giving the bull a push on the flank as it stood on the gangway with its head high, tail slightly raised, nostrils expanded, and eyes flashing. It glanced from side to side as if to take a general survey of its new domains.

Olaf advised it to "get on" again, but Blackie deigned to take no further notice than by a deep-toned internal rumbling.

"Not unlike Mount Hecla when it is going to explode," said Biarne, laughing.

"Come back, boy, he will do you a mischief," cried Gudrid in some alarm.

"Why, Olaf," said Karlsefin, "your pet is going to be disobedient. Speak louder to him."

Instead of speaking louder Olaf quietly grasped the brute's tail and gave it a twist.

The effect was wonderful and instantaneous. The huge animal rushed wildly along the gangway, leaped across the beach, making the pebbles fly as he went, scampered over the green turf and plunged into the forest, kicking up his heels, flourishing his tail and bellowing in frantic delight!

Most of the cows went slowly and placidly along the gangway, and landed with easy-going satisfaction expressed in their patient faces, to the supreme contempt of Freydissa, who said she wished that they had all been bulls. There was one young heifer amongst them, however, which proved an exception to the rule. It glared savagely round, as if in imitation of the bull, refused point-blank to land, swerved from side to side of the gangway, backed right into the ship at the risk of its neck and limbs, attempted to charge the men, created dire confusion and alarm among the poultry, and finally fell off the gangway into the water, and scrambled on shore in a way that must have thrilled Freydissa's heart with admiration -- although she did not say so, but maintained a grim silence all the time.

Next came the sheep, which, owing perhaps to sea-sickness, or home-sickness, or some other cause, looked remarkably sheepish, and walked on shore with as much solemnity as if each had been attending the funeral of the rest. There were about twenty of these, and after them came a dozen or so of Icelandic ponies, which, although somewhat more active than the sheep, were evidently suffering in their spirits from the effects of the recent voyage. One of them, however, on feeling the soft turf under his feet, attempted to neigh, without much success, and another said something that sounded more like a horse-laugh than anything else.

Then followed the fowls, some of which walked, some flew, and others fluttered, according to their varying moods, with an immense deal of fuss and cackling, which was appropriately capped by the senior cock mounting on one of the huts and taking possession of the land with an ecstatic crow.

The procession was brought up by the ducks, which waddled out of the ship, some with an expression of grave surprise, some with "quacks" of an inquiring nature, others with dubious steps and slow, while a few, with an eye to the "main chance" made ineffectual dabs at little roughnesses in their pathway, in the hope that these might turn out to be edible.

At last all were landed and driven up into the woods, where they were left without any fear being entertained as to their going astray, seeing that they were guarded by several fine dogs, which were too much associated with the men as companions to be included in the foregoing list of the lower animals.

"Shall we set the nets?" said Hake, going up to Karlsefin, who was busy arranging the principal hut, while the men were bringing their goods and chattels on shore. "You know we saw a salmon leap from a pool on Little River. Doubtless they are in the lake also."

"Try it, Hake, by all means. Go with your brother in the little boat and set them where you think best. Fresh salmon for supper would be a rare treat just now. Are you sure it was a salmon you saw, and not a large trout?"

"Sure? Ay, as sure as I am that a horse is not a cow," replied Hake, smiling.

"Go then, and luck go with you."

The nets were soon set in the bay, near the point of the ness on which the huts were built, and near to which a small mountain-stream entered the lake.

Suddenly a shrill angry voice was heard issuing from one of the smaller huts near the lake. It was Freydissa storming at poor Bertha. There was an occasional bass growl intermingled with it. That was Thorward remonstrating.

"Poor Bertha," said Karlsefin to Biarne, who was standing beside him at the time, "she has a hard mistress."

"Poor Thorward," said Biarne, "he has a tough wife."

"Thorward will cure or kill her," rejoined Karlsefin, with a laugh. "He is a long-suffering man, and very tender to women withal, but he is not made of butter."

Biarne shook his head. He evidently had not much opinion of Thorward's resolution when opposed by the will and passion of such a termagant as Freydissa.

"How much better 'twould have been," said he, "if Thorward had married her maid -- the sweet little fair-haired blue-eyed Bertha."

"Why, Biarne, methinks that thou art somewhat like to try that plan," said his friend, looking at him in surprise, for he had spoken with much enthusiasm.

"Not I, man," returned Biarne, with a smile and a shake of the head. "It is long since my heart was buried in Iceland. I am doomed to be an old bachelor now."

They both listened at this point, for the domestic brawl in the small hut seemed to be waxing furious. Thorward's voice was not heard so often, but when it did sound there was an unusually stern tone in it, and Freydissa's became so loud that her words were audible.

"It has been killed, I tell you, Bertha, by sheer carelessness. If you had fed it properly it would have been as well as the others. Don't say you did your best for it. You didn't. You know you didn't. You're a smooth-faced vixen. You are. Don't speak. Don't speak back, I say. Hold your tongue. You killed that kitten by carelessness."

"If you don't hold your tongue, wife," said Thorward, in a loud stern voice, "I'll kill the cat too."

There was a pause here, as if the threat had taken away Freydissa's breath.

"Oho! that's the poor little kitten," whispered Karlsefin to Biarne, referring to one of a litter that had been born at sea, "that was nigh eaten by one of the dogs. Bertha had no hand in its death. I wonder it lived so long."

"Kill the cat?" shrieked Freydissa, stamping her foot.

This was instantly followed by an unearthly caterwaul and the sudden appearance of a dark object in the air, which, issuing from the door of the hut, flew upwards like a sky-rocket, described a wide curve, and fell heavily about fifty yards out into the lake. Next moment Freydissa sprang from the hut and stood with clasped hands on the shore in speechless horror. Thorward immediately after came forth with a dark frown on his face, and walked away into the forest. Freydissa stood like a statue for some minutes, and then, seeing that the cat lay quite motionless, she turned, and, with a face that was deadly pale, re-entered the hut.

"It was cruel," observed Karlsefin sadly.

"But salutary, perhaps," said Biarne.

"It may be so," rejoined the other; "but even if Thorward's end be a good one, a right end does not justify a wrong action. -- Ah! here comes sunshine. How goes it, Gudrid?"

Gudrid, who came forward at the moment, and knew nothing of what had occurred, said that she wanted Karlsefin's help, if he could spare time, in order to arrange some of the fixtures in their new home.

Assuring her that she herself was the most valuable "fixture" in the house, Karlsefin left his work and the two walked off together, while Biarne went down to the ship.

Meanwhile Thorward returned to his hut, where he found Freydissa alone, sitting on a box with her face buried in her hands. She did not move, so he sat down beside her with a subdued look.

"Freydissa," he said, "I'm sorry I did that. 'Twas cruel, 'twas hard; but it is done now, and can't be undone. Forgive me, lass, if you can."

She raised her head suddenly, and gazed at him with a flushed countenance.

"Thorward," she said with energy, "if you had come with any other tone or word I would have hated you with all the power of my heart -- "

"And that's a strong power, Freydissa."

"It is. But now -- "

She threw her arms round her husband's neck and kissed him. Thorward returned the kiss with the vigour of a man who is wont to give back more than he gets.

"Thanks, my girl," said he, rising, "thanks. That puts my heart at ease. As for the poor cat, she's beyond the influence of anger or repentance now; but trust me, Freydissa, I shall fetch you the handsomest cat that can be had for love or money in all Greenland, or Iceland; ay, even if I should have to make a special voyage to get hold of it."

Thus did Thorward and Freydissa fall out, and thus were they reconciled, on the first day in their new home in Vinland.

Talking this matter over with Thorward next day, Karlsefin took occasion to give his friend some sage advice.

"Depend upon it, Thorward," said he, "no good ever comes of quarrelling or violence, but, on the contrary, much evil. 'Tis well that you confessed your fault to her, else had she ever after held you in light esteem; because, although she deserved reproof, the cat did not deserve to be killed."

"Beshrew me!"

"Nay," interrupted Karlsefin, with a laugh, "that is the last thing you ought to say, seeing that you have had so much beshrewing already."

"Well, well," said Thorward, "thou art wonderfully smart at giving good advice."

"Would that I could say thou wert equally smart at taking it! However, I have hope of thee, Thorward. Come, let us go see what the nets have produced. I observe Hake and Heika rowing to land."

It was found that the fishermen had loaded their boat with magnificent trout of all sizes -- some above five or six pounds' weight -- besides a large quantity of excellent fish of other kinds, but not a single salmon had been taken. Nevertheless they had good reason to be content with their success, for the supply was sufficient to provide a hearty supper for the whole party, so that the first night in the new home, -- like the first night in the new land, -- was a merry one.



Chapter Eleven.

Settling Down -- Hake Proves That His Arms, As Well As His Legs, Are Good -- A Wonderful Fishing Incident, Which Ends In A Scene Between Freydissa And Krake.

The little hamlet on the Vinland lake, which had been so long silent and deserted, resounded from that time forth with the voices and activities of energetic labourers, for these adventurous Norsemen had much to do before their new home could be made comfortable.

The forest and undergrowth around had to be cleared; the huts, of which there were six, had to be cleaned out, fitted up with new parchment in the windows -- for there was no glass in those days -- and new thatch on the roofs, besides being generally repaired; additional huts had to be built for the people, pens for the sheep, and stabling for the cattle, all of which implied felling and squaring timber, while the smaller articles of household furniture and fittings kept the people generally in full occupation. Of course a party had to be told off as hunters for the community, while another party were set to attend to the nets in the lake, and a third, under the special charge of Karlsefin, went out at intervals to scour the woods, with the double purpose of procuring food and investigating the character and resources of the new land.

In regard to this last these settlers had every reason to be satisfied. The country appeared to be boundless in extent, and was pleasantly diversified in form; the waters teemed with fish, the land was rich with verdure, and the forests swarmed with game, large and small.

One day Karlsefin and Biarne, attended by Hake and several men, went out for a ramble of exploration in the direction of the small river, or branch of the large river, mentioned in a previous chapter. Some of the party were armed with bows and arrows, others had spears, the leader and his friend carried short spears or javelins. All wore their swords and iron head-pieces, and carried shields. Indeed, no party was ever allowed to go beyond the neighbourhood of the settlement without being fully armed, for although no natives had yet been seen, it was quite possible, nay, highly probable, that when they did appear, their arrival would be sudden and unexpected.

As they advanced, they heard a rustle of leaves behind a knoll, and next instant a large deer bounded across their path. Karlsefin hurled his spear with sudden violence, and grazed its back. Biarne flung his weapon and missed it. There was an exclamation of disappointment among the men, which, however, was turned into a cheer of satisfaction when Hake let fly an arrow and shot it through the heart. So forcibly was the shaft sent that it passed quite through the animal, and stood, bloodstained and quivering, in the stem of a tree beyond, while the deer leaped its own height into the air, and fell stone-dead upon the sward.

"A brave shot -- excellently done!" exclaimed Karlsefin, turning to the young Scot with a look of admiration; "and not the first or second time I have seen thee do something of the same sort, from which I conclude that it is not chance, but that your hand is always quick, and your eye generally true. Is it not so?"

"I never miss my mark," said Hake.

"How now? you never miss your mark? It seems to me, young man, that though your air is modest, your heart and words are boastful."

"I never boast," replied Hake gravely.

"Say you so?" cried Karlsefin energetically, glancing round among the trees. "Come, clear yourself in this matter. See you yonder little bird on the topmost branch of that birch-tree that overhangs the stream? It is a plain object, well defined against the sky. Touch it if you can."

"That little bird," said Hake, without moving, "is not my mark. I never make a mark of the moon, nor yet of an object utterly beyond the compass of my shafts."

"Well, it is considerably out of range," returned Karlsefin, laughing; "but come, I will test you. See you the round knot on the stem of yonder pine? It is small truly, so small that I can barely see it, nevertheless it is not more than half a bow-shot off. Do you object to make that your mark?"

The words had scarcely left his lips when an arrow stood quivering in the knot referred to.

With an exclamation and look of surprise Karlsefin said it must have been a chance, and Biarne seemed inclined to hold the same opinion; but while they were yet speaking, Hake planted another arrow close by the side of the first.

"Once more, Hake," said Krake, who stood close behind the archer; "there's a saying in Ireland that there's good fortune in odd numbers: try it again."

The Scot readily complied, and sent a third shaft into the knot, with its head touching the heads of the other two arrows.

"Enough, enough, your arms are as good as your legs," said Karlsefin. "Ye are a valuable thrall, Hake, and Leif Ericsson has reason to be grateful to King Olaf of Norway for his gift. -- Here, two of you, sling that deer on a pole and bear it to Gudrid. Tell her how deftly it was brought down, and relate what you have seen just now. And hark 'ee," he added, with a peculiar smile, "there is no occasion to say anything about what occurred before the successful shot. It always adds to the value of a good story that it be briefly as well as pithily told, and disencumbered from unnecessary details. A wise tongue is that which knows when to wag and when to lie still. -- Come, Biarne, we will proceed in our examination of this stream."

Leaving behind them the two men who were to return to the huts with the deer, they proceeded down the banks of Little River, until they came to the pool where Hake and his brother had seen the salmon leap. On the way down, however, the leader had been convinced of the fact that many salmon were there, having seen several rise, and observed others passing over some of the pebbly shallows.

"It was here, was it not," asked Biarne, "that you and your brother saw the salmon leaping on the occasion of your first visit?"

"It was," replied Hake.

"At what part of the pool?"

"Just below the tail of the island, where the water is deep, and rolls with numberless oily ripples."

"Ha! a likely spot," said Karlsefin.

At that moment a salmon leaped out of the pool, as if to assure him that Hake's statement was true, and immediately afterwards another fish rose and flourished its fan-like tail, as if to make assurance doubly sure.

For some time they went about examining that part of the river, which, the reader will remember, has been described as being divided for some distance by a long island into two streams, which again united after spreading out into a broad rippling shallow. Here Biarne was very silent and very close in his inspection of the bed of the river, particularly at the top and lower end of the island.

"It appears to me as if some plan were rolling in your head, Biarne," said Karlsefin; "what may it be?"

"Truly a plan is forming in my brain. Simple enough too, only the details require consideration."

"Well, we must now return home, so we can discuss it on the way."

"You know of our custom in Iceland," said Biarne, as they retraced their steps, "in regard to a river which is similar to this in the matter of having two channels -- they shut off the water from one channel and catch the fish when the bed is dry."

"Know it? Ay, I know it well; why, man, how comes it that this did not occur to me before? We will have it tried, and that without delay. What is worth doing at all is worth doing at once, unless it can be clearly shown that there shall be distinct gain by delay. As this cannot be shown on the present occasion we will begin to-morrow."

Accordingly, in pursuance of this resolve, Karlsefin went down to the island on Little River with a large party of men, and set to work. Biarne undertook to superintend what may be termed the engineering operations, and Thorward, who was a handy fellow, directed the mechanical details.

First of all, Biarne fixed on the spot at the top of the island where a dam was to be thrown across the right branch of the stream -- that being the channel which was to be run dry -- and planned the direction in which it was to be placed and the form it was to take. Then strong stakes were driven into the bed of the river all across the head of that branch. While this was being done Thorward marked off some tall straight trees in the forest, and set men to cut them down, while Karlsefin directed, and with his own hands aided, a party appointed to collect large piles of earth, sand, stones, mud, and branches, on the river's bank.

Although the men were numerous and active, the work was so extensive that it was sunset before all the stakes were driven, the first of the heavy logs laid down in the bed of the stream, and the rest of the material collected in readiness on the banks. Having completed these preparations they returned to the huts and made arrangements for a grand effort on the following day.

Early in the morning nearly the whole body of the people set off to Little River, leaving the settlement in charge of one or two men who chanced at that time to be sick. Of course Olaf was with them, armed with a huge iron hook fastened to the end of a stout pole. All the women also went, being quite as anxious as the men to witness the sport.

The island reached, Karlsefin divided his party into two bands. The smaller body, numbering about twenty-five, were stationed in the water at the lower end of the channel, at equal distances from each other, so as to extend from the tail of the island to the right bank of the stream. These carried strong poles about seven feet long, and were placed there to frighten back any fish that might attempt to rush down the river. The rest of the men went in a body to the dam, and there awaited orders.

When all was ready Karlsefin said to them -- "My lads, if we would act well we must act together. Here is the plan on which you are to proceed. On getting the word from Biarne to begin, you will all set to work to dam up the water, right across from this bank to the head of the island. You see that we have already done the work in part, so that it only requires to be completed, and to have the centre gap stopped up. That will be the difficult point, for the great rush of water will be there, and you will have to do it quickly -- to heave in the logs and stones and rubbish, not forgetting the branches and the turf, which will keep all together -- as if your very lives depended on your speed. A certain number of you, who shall be told off presently, will do your best at the same time to deepen the channel of the other branch of the stream. When this is done you will have a little breathing space, for doubtless the water will take a little time to run off. You will take advantage of this time to get your hooks and poles and landing-nets in readiness. For the rest your own sense will guide you. -- Now, Biarne, tell off the men and go to work."

Reader, you should have seen the countenance of little Olaf Ericsson when all this was being said and done! Many a time had he seen nets hauled and fish taken, and often had he dreamt of netting whales and other sea-monsters, but never before had he imagined such a thing as laying the bed of a river dry; and his exuberant fancy depicted to him scenes which it is not possible to describe. His visage glowed, and his large blue eyes glared with excitement, while his little bosom heaved and his heart beat high with expectation.

This condition of course increased tenfold when he saw the men cast off more or less of their upper garments and spring to the work with the energy of lunatics. In his own small way he carried logs and branches and mud and stones till he was as dirty and dishevelled as the best of them; and when Gudrid looked horrified at him, and said that it would be next to impossible to clean him, he burst into such a fit of laughter that he lost his balance, fell head over heels into the river, which was only knee-deep at the place, and came out more than half-washed in a moment!

"You see it won't be so difficult as you think," he cried, laughing and gasping when he emerged; "another plunge like that would make me quite clean, aunty."

"Ho! Olaf, were you after a salmon?" cried Swend, as he passed with a large log on his shoulder.

"Not I, Swend; it was a whale I was after."

"You don't say that, boy?" cried Krake, in a tone of admiration. "Was he a big one?"

"Oh! frightful -- so big that -- that -- I couldn't see him all."

"Couldn't see him at all? Ah, then, he was a big one, sure. The things we can't see at all are always the most wonderful."

"Foolish boy," said Gudrid; "come, I will wring the water out of your clothes."

"'Tis hardly worth while, aunty," said Olaf, coming on shore; "I'll be as wet, as ever in a few minutes."

The careful Gudrid nevertheless wrung as much water out of his dripping garments as was possible without taking them off. By the time this was done the dam had been completed, and the men stood on the banks of the river wiping off and wringing out the superabundant mud and water from their clothes, besides getting ready hooks, nets, and staves. Some of the nets were several fathoms in length. Others were small bags fastened to wooden rings at the end of long poles.

Presently a shout was heard from the men at the lower end of the pool, and they were seen to use their staves smartly several times, as some of the fish, alarmed no doubt at the strange doings above, endeavoured to shoot down the river. Ere long the stony ground on which these men stood became a rippling shallow, and, soon afterwards, a neck of land connecting the lower end of the island with the shore. They therefore abandoned it and rejoined their comrades higher up. The fish were now imprisoned in a pool, retreat having been effectually cut off above and below, and the whole river diverted into the bed of its left branch.

As the water lowered it became obvious that the pool thus isolated was absolutely swarming with salmon, for they could be seen darting hither and thither in shoals, making for the deeper parts of the pool, and jostling one another under stones. Gradually little islets began to appear as the water continued to sink, and then the fish seemed to be seized with a panic. They shot like silver arrows from bank to bank -- up the pool and down again, as if enjoying a piscatorial country dance, or, in blind flight, rushed clear out upon the pebbly islets, in half dozens at a time, where they leaped, slid, twirled, and bounded frantically, in what bore some resemblance to a piscatorial reel. Then, slipping into the water again, and recovering their fins and tails, they shot away to encounter similar misfortune elsewhere, or to thrust their noses under stones, and -- entertaining the same delusive notions that are said to characterise the ostrich -- imagine that they were not seen!

By degrees the islets enlarged until they joined here and there, and, finally, the state of things being inverted, the bed of the stream became a series of little ponds, which were absolutely boiling with fish -- not unlike, as Krake remarked, to the boiling springs of Iceland, only that those boiled with heat instead of with living fish.

And now commenced a scene such as, unquestionably, had not been witnessed there since Vinland was created. The Norsemen were half mad with excitement. The women ran up and down the banks clapping their hands and shouting with delight, while Freydissa, unable to contain herself, cast appearances to the dogs, leaped among the men, and joined in the fray.

"The big pool first; this way, lads!" shouted Karlsefin, as he seized the end of a long net and dragged it towards the pool in question.

Twenty willing hands assisted. The net encircled the pool and was thrust in; men with poles forced one side of it down to the bottom, and the two ends were hauled upon might and main. At the same moment, other men went with hand nets to smaller pools, and, scooping up the fish, sent them writhing and struggling through the air towards the bank, where Gudrid, Thora, Astrid, Gunhild, Sigrid, and even timid Bertha, sought in vain to restrain their struggles and prevent them from wriggling back into the almost dry bed of the stream.

"Haul away with heart, men!" shouted Biarne, who was at one end of the large net.

Already the stout ropes were strained to the uttermost -- at last the net came out bursting with salmon; more hands were hailed; it was run over the pebbles, up the bank, and onwards to a flat open spot, where, with a shout, it was emptied on the greensward.

Talk of silver bars! The simile is wretched. No simile is of any avail here. The brightest and freshest silver bars ever cast might shine as much as these salmon did, but they could not glitter so, for they could not wriggle and spring and tumble. They could not show that delicate pink which enhanced the silvery sheen so wondrously. They could not exhibit that vigorous life which told of firm flakes -- suggestive of glorious meals for many a day to come. Pooh! even their intrinsic value could not suggest anything in this case, -- for all the silver bars that ever were coined on earth could not have purchased the appetites which made the mouths of these Norsemen to water, as they gazed in admiration on that vast hecatomb of splendid salmon! They absolutely danced round the fish -- it might almost be said they danced with them -- in triumphant glee!

"Come, come," cried Karlsefin loudly; "to work! to work! Ye may dance after that is done. Here, sweep this pool also."

With a cheer the men ran down the bank, and little Olaf followed, having already used his hook with such effect that he had pulled six large fish out of various holes and added them to the general pile.

"Take care, Olaf, that you don't fall in and get drowned," cried Biarne as he ran past.

"Hurrah!" shouted Olaf, with a flourish of his weapon, which made the narrowest possible miss of cleeking Tyrker by the nose.

"Have a care!" roared the Turk.

"You've much need to say that," replied Olaf, with a laugh, for Tyrker at that moment set his heel upon a salmon, fell, and rolled heavily down the bank. But Tyrker was tough. He rose with a growl and a grin and ran on to join his comrades.

A second pool was netted, and with the like result. As the net was being dragged forth, Olaf saw that several fish had escaped. He struck in his hook at random, for the pools, being by that time a thick compound of mud and water, could not be seen into.

"Oh! I've got him!" he shouted, struggling with the handle of his hook, which jerked so violently that the sturdy little fellow was almost thrown to the ground.

"Hold on!" cried Thorward, running to his aid.

"Why, Olaf, what's this? Have a care. Not too fast. There. Hallo! --  an eel."

And so it was -- an enormous eel, that went twirling round the pole in wondrous fashion until it freed itself, and, after twisting round the limbs of Olaf and Thorward, who in vain sought to hold it fast, made off over the wet stones as if they were its native element, and slid into another large pool, where it disappeared.

"Never mind, Olaf," cried Thorward, with a laugh, "you'll catch hold of it again. Hook away at it, lad. Don't give."

A tremendous shriek arose from the women on the bank at this juncture.

"Oh! look! look at Freydissa!" cried Gunhild, pointing wildly to the river bed.

And there Freydissa stood -- up to the arm-pits in mud and salmon!

Whether she had fallen in or been pushed in no one could tell, but unquestionably she was in, having gone in, too, head-foremost, so that, although she had struggled right-end up she reappeared coated with mud to an extent that might have suggested a sculptor's clay model -- had sculptors been known to the Norsemen of those days.

There was an irresistible roar of laughter at first, and then loud expressions of condolence and sympathy, while a dozen strong, but wet and dirty, hands were stretched forth to the rescue.

"Here, lay hold of my hand, poor thing," cried Krake; "there, now, don't cry; it would only be wasting tears, with so much water on your face already."

If anything could have made Freydissa cry it would have been that remark, for it implied that she was inclined to weep, while nothing was further from her thoughts at that time.

She did, however, grasp Krake's hand, but instead of aiding herself by it to get out of the hole, she gave it such a vigorous and hearty pull that Krake went souse into the mud beside her. Before he could recover himself Freydissa had put her knee on his body, and, using him as a foot-rest, thrust him deeper down as she stepped out.

The delight with which this was hailed is beyond description, and many a year passed after that before men grew tired of twitting Krake about the pleasant mud-bath that had been given him by Freydissa on the occasion of the celebrated take of salmon at Little River in Vinland.



Chapter Twelve.

Sage Converse Between Hake And Bertha -- Biarne Is Outwitted -- A Monster Is Slain, And Savages Appear On The Scene.

Not long after this an event occurred which produced great excitement in the new settlement; namely, the appearance of natives in the woods. It occurred under the following circumstances.

One morning Karlsefin gave orders for one of the exploring parties to be got ready to go out immediately. Karlsefin's plan from the beginning had been to class his men in two divisions. One half stayed at home to work, the other half searched the land, -- always taking care, however, not to travel so far but that they could return home in the evening. They were careful also not to wander far from each other. Sometimes Karlsefin went with the exploring party, at other times stayed at home to superintend the work there, while Biarne or Thorward filled his place. On the occasion in question Biarne was in charge.

Soon after the party had started, Hake, who was one of them, observed a female figure disappear round a copse near the shores of the lake. At that part they were about to strike off into the thick woods, so Hake went up to Biarne and asked leave to go along by the borders of the lake, saying that he could overtake the party again before they had reached the Willow Glen, a well-known rendezvous of the hunters and explorers of the colony.

"Go as thou wilt, Hake," replied Biarne; "only see to it that ye overtake us before noon, as I intend to go on a totally new path to-day."

The youth left with a light step, and, on overtaking the female, found, as he had expected, that it was Bertha.

"You wander far from home to-day," he said, with a deferential salutation, for Hake's bondage had not robbed him of his breeding.

"I love to wander," answered Bertha, blushing.

Poor Bertha, she could not help blushing. It was her unfortunate nature to do so. When her feelings were touched -- ever so little -- she blushed, and then she blushed because she had blushed, and blushed again to think herself so silly!

"I fear it may be somewhat dangerous to wander far," said Hake, stopping, for Bertha had stopped and seated herself on the stump of a fallen tree.

"Dangerous! Why so?"

"Why, because Skraelingers may find us out any day, and if they should come upon you unawares so far from home they might carry you off, and no one would be aware that you were gone until too late to pursue."

"I never thought of that," returned Bertha, with a slightly troubled look. "Well, I shall be more careful in future. But how come you to be wandering here alone, Hake? did I not hear your name called this morning among those appointed to go forth and search out what is good and beautiful and useful in the land?"

"Most true, Bertha, and I have gone forth, and not gone far, and yet have found something both good and beautiful and useful in the land."

"And pray what may that be?" asked the maiden, with a look of surprise.

Hake did not answer, but the expression of his eyes was more eloquent than speech.

"Nay, then," said Bertha, looking hastily away, and again blushing -- as a matter of course! "I am no reader of riddles; and I hate riddles -- they perplex me so. Besides, I never could find them out. But, Hake, has your party gone yet?"

"Yes, some time ago."

"And are you left behind?"

"No, I have leave to go by the margin of the lake."

"Then if you put off time talking with me you will not find it easy to overtake them; but I forgot: I suppose you count it an easy matter to overtake ordinary men?"

"I shall not find it difficult," replied the youth briefly; and then, perceiving that Bertha felt uneasy -- apparently at the tenor of the conversation -- he quietly changed it by remarking that he preferred to walk by the lake for several reasons, one of which was that it reminded him of Scotland.

"Ah, you profess to love Scotland very much," said Bertha archly, "but your brother evidently loves it more than you do."

"With good reason, too," replied Hake, "for it has given him a bride, and it had no such favours for me."

"Indeed! what is her name?" asked the maiden, with much interest.

"Emma."

"Poor Emma," sighed Bertha; "but I hope that Heika will be freed one day and return to his native land to wed Emma. Perchance by that time Scotland may smile upon you too, and give you cause to love it better."

"I love it well already," said Hake, with enthusiasm, "yet am I content to stay here."

"For shame, Hake! you do not deserve to be a Scot if you mean what you say."

"I mean what I say, yet do I deserve to be a Scot."

"Come, tell me, then, what this Scotland of yours is like. I suppose you deem it more beautiful than Iceland?"

The youth smiled. "It is not more wonderful than Iceland. I can say that with truth -- but it is passing fair to look upon. It is a land of mountain and flood, of heath-clad braes and grassy knowes. Its mountain peaks rise bare and rugged to the skies, where lordly eagles soar. Its brawling burns in their infancy dash down these rugged steeps, but as they grow older flow on through many a hazel dell, where thrush and blackbird fill the woods with melody -- through many flowering pastures, where cattle browse and lambkins skip on the sunny braes. Wild-fowl breed on its reedy lochs, and moor-fowl dwell on its heather hills. Its waters teem with the spotted trout and the royal salmon. Temperate breezes fan its cheeks, and beauty, in form and colour, revels everywhere. Its sons are lovers of their native land, and its daughters are wondrous fair."

"And yet it would seem," said Bertha, "that not one is fair enough for you?"

"Nay, Bertha, thy speech is hardly fair. The heart cannot command its affection," said Hake, with a smile, "but I regret it not."

"And where does Emma dwell?" asked Bertha.

"Beside my father, near the shores of Forth, not far from a noted town and castle that stand on the summit of a rocky ridge. It is named after Edwin, a Northumbrian king. A sweet romantic spot -- my own dear native town. Beside it stands a mountain, which, those who have travelled in far southern lands tell us, bears some resemblance to a couching lion. But I never saw a lion, and know not what truth there is in that."

"You almost make me wish to see that land," said Bertha, with a sigh.

"I would you might see it and that it were my fortune to show it to you."

"That is not likely," said Bertha, with a little laugh.

"I know not. The most unlikely things happen, and often those that seem most likely do not come to pass. What more unlikely than that Karlsefin should forsake the religion of his fathers? Yet Karlsefin is now a Christian."

"Do you know, Hake, much about the nature of this new religion that has come amongst us, and made so many people change?" asked Bertha, with sudden earnestness.

"To say truth I don't know much about it. Only this do I know, that Karlsefin says the foundation of it is God and man united in Jesus Christ, and that the guiding principle of it is love. If so, it must be a sweet religion, and, as far as Karlsefin is concerned, it seems both good and true; but there are some of its professors whom I know whose guiding star is self -- not love -- which goes rather against it, methinks."

"You do not reason well, Hake; that is against the professors, not against the religion."

"True; but this religion is said to change those who profess it -- what if they are not changed?"

"Why, then, they are false professors," said Bertha, with a smile.

"It may be so; I know not. But if you would have further light on the point, Karlsefin will gladly give it you."

"Well, I will go find him and inquire," said Bertha, rising; "I have kept you too long already from your comrades. -- Farewell."

"Farewell, Bertha," replied the youth, gazing after her as she tripped lightly away and disappeared behind a thicket. Then, turning into the woods, he went off at his utmost speed in the direction of the Willow Glen.

"Just in time, Hake," said Biarne, as the Scot approached; "we are about to start off westward to-day, and go as far inland as we can before dark. I have long had a desire to search out the land in that direction. From the distance of these blue ridges, the size of our lake and river, and other signs, I am of opinion that this is a great land --  not an island."

"It may be so," replied Hake, looking round on the vast and beautiful landscape; "I should like well to traverse it. If a thrall may be permitted to remark, I would say that a spirited chief would explore somewhat farther than a day's march from home."

"Perchance a spirited chief might see fit to have his homestead put well in order before undertaking explorations for his amusement," replied Biarne, who was not much pleased with Hake's speech.

The Scot made no answer, and after that the party advanced to the westward, sometimes clearing their way through dense thickets, sometimes walking under the branching canopy of large trees, and frequently coming to more open places, in many of which there were little ponds swarming with wild-fowl.

Towards the afternoon they came to a rocky ridge which was crowned with trees. On the other side of it was a deep gorge, near the end of which some large animal was observed sitting on its haunches.

"Hist! a brown bear!" whispered Biarne.

The bear looked up and growled, for it had heard the approach of the party. Nevertheless it appeared to be in a sluggish as well as a sulky humour, for it gave no indication of any intention either to attack or run away, but sat still on its haunches swaying its huge head and shoulders to and fro, and glowering -- as Krake said -- horribly.

"A fierce monster truly!" observed Hake, fitting an arrow to his bow.

Biarne laid his hand on Hake's arm.

"Hast seen such a brute before?" he inquired.

"Not I," replied Hake.

"Wouldst like to see how the Skraelingers of Greenland treat the white bears of their land, when so few as only two men chance to meet one in this fashion?"

"I should like it well."

"Good -- I will show you; but first I must explain the manner of it. When two Skraelingers see a bear they go up to him with spears. On approaching him they separate. One settles that he is to kill him, the other agrees to distract his attention. He who is to kill approaches on the side next the heart. His comrade goes up and pricks the bear on the other side. The bear turns full on him who wounds, exposes his heart-side, and is instantly thrust through by him who is to kill. Dost understand?"

"Perfectly," replied Hake.

"Perhaps you would like to join me in such an adventure, though of course there is some danger," said Biarne, who was very anxious to punish Hake for his late advice by giving him a good fright.

Hake smiled in a grim fashion, and taking a short spear from one of his comrades, looked at Biarne, pointed to the bear, and said:

"Come!"

They advanced together, Biarne also carrying a short spear, while their comrades stood on the ridge and looked on with much interest.

When Bruin saw the two men approach, he got up and showed himself to be an uncommonly large bear indeed, insomuch that Biarne glanced at Hake with some anxiety, and asked if he felt sure of himself, and wasn't frightened.

Hake laughed lightly, but made no other reply.

"Well, then, have a care, and see that ye be prompt in action. I will go to the left side and kill, being used to such work. Do you separate from me here and give him the prick on the right side. Don't get flurried. We must approach and act together. He seems inclined to meet us half-way, and must not be trifled with; and, harkee, prick him well, for methinks his hide will prove a tough one."

Hake nodded, and separated from his companion. Seeing this the bear stopped. It had been advancing with a rapidly increasing step, growling all the way, and with an extremely savage aspect, but this movement of the enemy perplexed it. Looking first on one side, and then on the other, it remained in a state of uncertainty as to which of the two it should attack. The enemy took advantage of this -- both men ran in upon it. As they did so the bear rose on its hind-legs, still glancing savagely from one side to the other, and in this position appearing a larger monster than it had seemed before.

"Give it him sharply!" cried Biarne, delaying his death-thrust till the proper time.

Hake stepped close up to the bear, and plunged his spear into its side with such vigorous good-will that it went straight through its heart, and came out at the other side just under the shoulder.

With a tremendous roar it fell and writhed on the ground in a dying state, while a loud cheer burst from the men on the ridge.

"Why did ye that?" cried Biarne fiercely, stepping up to Hake as though he would strike him. "Was it not arranged that I should kill him?"

"The Fates arranged it otherwise," answered the Scot. "I felt afraid that my fears might weaken my arm. To make sure, I gave him a good thrust. Besides, did you not tell me that his hide was tough, and advise me to prick him well?"

Hake looked so innocent, and spoke so gently, that Biarne, who was a good-natured fellow, laughed in spite of himself as he said -- 

"Truly thou didst prick him to some purpose. Well, I do not grudge thee the honour, and unquestionably it was deftly done. -- Here, two of you, stay behind and skin this fellow. Cut off the best parts of the meat also. Bears of this kind are not bad for food, I dare say. We will go on a little farther, and return to you in a short time."

Saying this Biarne resumed his march, followed by the rest of the men.

They had not gone far, however, when one of the party uttered a sudden exclamation, and pointed to footprints on a soft part of the ground.

"Perhaps the bear's footprints," said one.

"Too small and narrow for that," remarked another.

"We shall trace them till we come to soft ground and make certain," said Biarne.

They did so, and after walking a hundred yards or so came to a sandy piece, where the footprints were so clearly defined that there remained no doubt they were those of a man. That the marks had not been made by any wandering member of their own band, was evident also from the form of the sole of the shoe, as indicated by the prints.

"Now must we be ready to meet with men who may be foes, although I hope they shall turn out to be friends," said Biarne. "Come, Hake, there may be need for haste, therefore do you hie back before us and inform Karlsefin what we have seen. We will follow as swiftly as may be, and fetch your bear along with us."

Hake started off at a smart run without a word of reply, and never paused a moment until he reached the hamlet, which he found in a considerable state of confusion and excitement.

"What now?" demanded Karlsefin as Hake came forward.

"Strange footprints have been seen, and -- "

"Strange footprints!" exclaimed Karlsefin. "Why, man, strange men have been seen by us, so I have stranger news to tell than thou. Biarne is returning, of course?"

"He is, with all the men, as fast as he can."

"That's well. Now, Hake, get your weapons ready and help the men to make preparations for the reception of the strangers. I go to set the ship in order."

Hake found, on inquiry, that one of a wood-cutting party having strayed a little way beyond his fellows, but not far from the hamlet, had come suddenly on a native who was crouching behind a rock and gazing intently at the woodcutters. He was at the moment fitting an arrow to the string of a short bow which he carried, and was so absorbed that he did not at first observe the Norseman. The instant he saw him, however, he sprang up and discharged an arrow, which the other avoided. The savage immediately turned to fly, but the Norseman sprang after him and struck him to the ground. At the same instant a dozen or more savages rushed from the woods to the rescue, and the Norseman immediately ran back to his comrades. More savages appeared, and the Norsemen, seeing that they were greatly outnumbered, retreated to the hamlet. They were not followed by the savages, but there could be no doubt that now the colony had been discovered they were certain to receive a visit from them. Whether that visit was likely to be amicable or otherwise remained to be seen.

Meanwhile Karlsefin and his men did their best to put the place in a state of defence. A breastwork of large trees, which had been long ago thrown all round the hamlet, was repaired and strengthened before dark, and sentinels were posted around in all directions, so that when Biarne arrived, somewhat late at night, he was amused as well as gratified to find that unseen though well-known voices challenged him several times as he drew near home, and that, finally, a rude but effectual barrier stopped him altogether, until a friend from within conducted him to the proper entrance.

Thus the night passed away without anything transpiring, and at last the longed-for dawn appeared.



Chapter Thirteen.

A Great But Comparatively Bloodless Fight, Which Ends Peculiarly, And With Singular Results.

When the sun rose above the trees next day, Karlsefin began to think that the natives had left the place, for there was no sign of them anywhere, and he was about to issue from behind his defences and go out to reconnoitre, when a man came running from the ship shouting "Skraelingers!"

It is probable that by that term he meant savages generally, because the men who had been seen bore very little resemblance to the hairy savages of Greenland. They were taller, though not stouter, and clothed in well-dressed skins of animals, with many bright colours about them. But whatever they were, the sensation they created among the Norsemen was considerable, for it was found, on going to the margin of the lake, that they were now approaching in canoes by water. This at once accounted for the delay in their appearance.

That their intentions were hostile was plain from the fact that the canoes came on abreast of each other in regular order, while the men shouted fiercely and brandished their weapons. There could not have been fewer than three or four hundred of them.

Karlsefin saw at once that his only chance of saving the ship was to go on board of it and fight on the water.

"Get on board all of you," he cried to those who stood beside him. "Away, Biarne, Thorward, call in the outposts and have them on board without delay. Here, Swend, Heika, Tyrker, station the men as they arrive. Get up the war-screens round the sides of the ship; and, harkee, give orders that the men use their weapons as little as possible, and spare life. I shall want you on the poop, Hake. See that no one throws down the gangway or loosens the ropes till the order is given. I will see to the women. -- Away!"

Each man ran with speed to obey, for the case was urgent.

Karlsefin found the women, with Olaf, assembled in the large house waiting for orders.

"Come," he cried; "not a moment to be lost. Give me your hand, Gudrid."

He seized it as he spoke, and hurried down to the ship, where the men were already trooping on board as fast as they could. The women were soon put under cover out of the reach of missiles, and in a few minutes more all were on board. Of course the cattle, and live stock generally, being scattered about the hamlet, were left to their fate. Then the ropes were cast loose, the gangway was thrown down, the ship was pushed out into the bay, and the anchor let go.

All this had barely been accomplished when the canoes came sweeping round the nearest point of land and made straight for the ship, with the foam curling at their bows.

Then Karlsefin's voice rose loud and clear as he issued his final commands.

"My lads," he cried, "remember my orders about using your weapons as little as possible. Be careful to throw only the smaller stones. Kill no one if you can avoid it, but give as many of them the toothache as you can. We must be friends with these people if we are to live in peace here, and that won't be possible if we kill many of them."

The men answered with a great shout, mingled with some laughter, which latter was such a strange sound to hear on the eve of an engagement, that the savages stopped short for a moment. But soon they came on again with redoubled impetuosity.

No sooner were they within range than the Norsemen rose up in a body and hurled a shower of stones at them. They were evidently not prepared for such artillery, for they again stepped short, but after a brief pause once more advanced. Three times did they receive a shower of stones before getting alongside. These hurt many, but disabled none, for, according to orders, no heavy stones were used. When within a few yards of the ship the canoes surrounded her and lay still while the savages began to discharge arrows in abundance. The Norsemen kept well behind the shields, which formed a screen round the ship, and replied with stones, only a few of the best marksmen using arrows, when they saw a chance to wound without killing any of the foe.

Karlsefin stood exposed on the high poop with Hake and Heika beside him. All three wore iron helmets, and the leader protected himself with his shield. Heika devoted his attention to warding off missiles from his brother, who, having to use his bow, could not manage a shield.

Presently the savages made a grand assault. But the moment they came to close quarters they found that they had to cope with a formidable foe, for the Norsemen, using only bludgeons, knocked them down whenever they came within reach, and one or two of the boldest among them who succeeded in clambering up the sides were seized by the legs and arms and hurled back into the lake as if they had been mere puppets.

Thus beaten off they continued the arrow shower, and some of the Norsemen were wounded.

All this time Karlsefin stood close to the helm, looking sharply about him, and whenever he saw a savage who was bolder and stouter than his fellows, he made Hake send an arrow through his right hand. In this way most of the best men among them were sent off howling with pain, and for the time disabled. Suddenly a very tall active savage succeeded in clambering up by the rudder unobserved, and leaping on the poop, stood behind Karlsefin with uplifted club. Karlsefin, without turning quite round, gave him a back-handed slap under the left ear and sent him flying overboard. He fell into a canoe in his descent and sank it.

At this juncture a number of the canoes were detached from the fight, and Karlsefin observed, with much anxiety, that the savages were going to ransack the houses.

"Would that I were on shore with twenty of my best men!" he said bitterly. "Send a shaft, Hake, at yonder fellow who leads. It is out of range, I fear, but -- ha! well hit!" he exclaimed, on seeing an arrow from Hake's prompt hand strike the man full in the back. The savage fell, and his comrades crowded round him.

By that time others of the canoes had put ashore, and their owners ran up to the crowd who surrounded the fallen leader.

At this moment an incident occurred which put a most unexpected termination to the fight.

For a considerable time Olaf's huge pet, Blackie, had viewed the fight with calm indifference from the heart of a thicket close by, in which he chanced to be cooling himself at the time. Now, it happened that one of the many arrows which were discharged by the savages on the offshore side of the ship glanced from a neighbouring tree and hit the bull on the flank. Associating the pain resulting therefrom with the group of savages before him, Blackie at once elevated his tail, lowered his head, and, with a bellow that would have shamed a thousand trumpets, charged furiously down upon the foe.

Horror-struck is but a feeble word to indicate the feelings of that foe! Although, no doubt, some of them might have heard of, perhaps seen, the ponderous and comparatively quiet bison of the Western prairies, none of them had ever imagined anything so awful as a little black bull with tremendous horns, blood-red nostrils, flashing eyes, and cat-like activity. One awe-struck look they gave it, and then fled howling into the woods. The sounds were so startling that those of the enemy still round the ship were panic-stricken and made off by water as fast as their fellows had escaped by land, leaving the Norsemen victorious!

"Hurrah for Blackie!" shouted Olaf, who was wild with excitement and delight.

The cheer thus claimed was given with intense enthusiasm, and then the ship was rowed back to the shore.

Here a great prize was found, in the shape of twenty canoes, which had been left by the party that had fled to the woods. These were carried carefully up to the hamlet and placed in security. On the way up another prize was found, which afterwards turned out to be of the utmost importance. This was the wounded savage, who had been forsaken by his friends when the bull charged, and who only escaped from the horns of that infuriated animal by lying quite motionless beside a log which fortunately chanced to be near him.

"Take care, Krake; lift him gently," said Biarne, as he came up and found that worthy turning the poor savage over as if he had been already a dead carcase. "Let me see; the arrow does not seem to have gone far in. He'll recover, perhaps. Come, Hake and Swend, lift his shoulders, and run, Olaf, tell Astrid or one of the other women to -- ha! Bertha, well met. Here is a subject for your care. You are a good nurse, I'm told."

"I try to be," replied Bertha.

"She who tries to be is sure to be," returned Biarne; "nursing, like fighting, is an art, and must be acquired; though, to say truth, some folk seem born to learn more rapidly than others, whether as regards nursing or fighting. Have the poor fellow into the house, and do your best for him, Bertha."

While this was being said the native was lying on his back, looking very stern, but pale. It is probable that the poor wretch expected to be taken off summarily to have his eyes punched out, or to be roasted alive, -- for the natives of Vinland, no doubt, expected from their foes, in those days, the same treatment that they accorded to them -- although the Saga says nothing to that effect. When, therefore, he was put into a comfortable bed, had his wound dressed, and an agreeable though strange drink given to him by the fair hands of Bertha, the expression of his countenance seemed to imply that he believed himself to have passed from earth and got into the happy hunting-grounds of his fathers. If so, the increasing pain of his wound must have perplexed him not a little. However, it is due to him to say that he bore his surprises and pains with the uncomplaining resignation of a Stoic.

Karlsefin employed the remainder of that day in strengthening his defences and connecting them in such a way with that part of the shore where his vessel lay, that there would be no possibility of surrounding him in the event of future hostilities.

This accomplished, he organised his men into three bands, which were to be commanded respectively by Biarne, Thorward, and himself. These were appointed to particular localities and duties in the little fortress --  for it was now almost entitled to such an appellation. When night drew on, sentinels were posted as before. But there was no alarm during the night. The savages appeared to have had enough of fighting for that time, and next morning's sun arose, as it was wont to do, on a peaceful scene.

"Do you think they will attack us again?" asked Gudrid as she sat at breakfast.

"I think not," replied her husband. "They cannot but know that we are troublesome fellows to deal with, even when taken unawares."

"I hope they won't go off without giving us a chance to show that we desire to be friendly," observed Thorward.

"No fear of that," said Biarne; "we have got one of their chiefs -- at least I think he is so, for he looks like one -- and that is as good as a string tied to their great toe."

"By the way, how is the chief, Bertha?" asked Karlsefin.

"Much better this morning. He slept well, and is even now sitting up on his bed. He looked so well, indeed, that I took the precaution to fasten the door on the outside when I left him just now."

"Ha! Didst fasten the window, wench?" cried Thorward, starting up and hastening from the room.

"Truly, no," remarked the girl, with a somewhat confused look; "I never thought of the window."

Thorward returned a minute later with a peculiar smile.

"He's all safe," said he; "I peeped through a small shot-hole in the parchment, and saw him sitting there meditating as deeply as if he hoped to meditate himself out of his prison."

"Not a difficult thing to do that," said Karlsefin. "I suspect that most prisoners manage to free themselves in that way pretty often! But who comes here in such hot haste? Why, Swend, what's i' the wind now?"

"The Skraelingers are coming," said he. "They come unarmed, and only ten of them."

"Oho! good," exclaimed Karlsefin, rising. "Come, methinks I see my way out of this difficulty. Fetch me nine of our smartest men, Biarne. I will go forth with them unarmed, to meet those messengers of peace. You and Thorward will keep the defences, to be ready for any emergency. Let the Scottish brothers be among the nine."

When the selected men had assembled, their leader took them aside and conferred with them for a few minutes, after which he led them towards that part of the defences nearest the woods, when they saw the ten natives approaching holding up their empty hands and making other demonstrations of a peaceful nature. Far away on the heights in the background the whole army of savages could be seen watching the proceedings of their messengers.

When these latter had come within about a hundred yards of the hamlet, they selected a low grassy knoll in an open spot, in full view of both parties. Here they sat down in a row and made signs to the Norsemen to approach.

"Now, lads, we will accept their invitation," said Karlsefin; "follow me."

With that he passed through the opening in the defences, holding up his hands as he went to show that he was unarmed, his followers doing the same. Karlsefin went up to the native who appeared to be the chief of the band, and, with a bland smile, took his hand gently and shook it.

If the savage did not understand the shake of the hand, he evidently understood the smile, for he returned it and sat down again. Karlsefin and his men did the same, and for a few moments the two rows of men sat looking benignantly at one another in silence. The savage chief then spoke. Of course Karlsefin shook his head and touched his ear, brow, and lips, by way of intimating that he heard, but could neither understand nor reply. He then spoke Norse, with similar results. After that the savage leader rose up, touched his back, and fell down as if badly wounded. Upon this one of his comrades rose, pointed to the hamlet, lifted the wounded man in his arms, carried him behind his companions, and laid him down exclaiming "Utway!" whereupon another savage took a small bundle of beautiful furs from the ground, and laid them at the feet of Karlsefin with much humility.

"Sure he wants to buy back the wounded chief with these furs," said Krake, who found it difficult to conceal his amusement at all this dumb show.

"No doubt of it, and I suppose Utway is his name," replied Karlsefin; "but my object is to get them inside the defences, in order to show them that when we have them in our power we will treat them well. If I let their chief go for these furs nothing will have been gained."

Karlsefin now did his best, by means of signs and encouraging looks, to induce the ten natives to enter the hamlet, but no persuasion would induce them to do this. They held stoutly to their original proposition, and kept constantly pointing to the bundle of furs and going through the pantomime with the wounded man. At last Karlsefin appeared to agree to their proposal.

"Now, Heika and Hake," said he, "nothing remains to be done but to try the plan I have described to you. Up, and bring the wounded chief hither without delay."

The two men obeyed, and in a few minutes were seen re-issuing from the fortress bearing a litter between them, on which lay the wounded chief with a blanket thrown over him, only his head being visible. Carrying him towards the row of natives, the brothers laid the burden at their feet as they sat still on the ground looking on with great interest. Karlsefin removed the blanket, and revealed the chief bound hand and foot. Something covered by another blanket lay at his side. Karlsefin took hold of this. As he did so the Norsemen rose. The blanket was cast off, and ten naked swords were revealed, which were instantly grasped by ten stalwart arms, and flashed with the speed of light over the ten native heads!

Taken thus by surprise they remained seated, and, supposing that to move would be the signal for instant death, they were perfectly motionless, though the colour of their countenances revealed to some extent the state of their feelings.

A terrific yell from the distant heights told that the deed had been noticed and understood. It was answered by a shout from the Norsemen as they issued from their fortress, secured their prisoners, and carried them within the defences. In a few minutes thereafter not a man was to be seen on the heights, and the region became as silent and apparently as deserted as it had been before the advent of the savages.

"Now then, Biarne, get the things ready. Is the kettle boiling?" said Karlsefin.

"All is prepared," answered Biarne.

"'Tis well. We must carry out our plan as quickly as may be," rejoined Karlsefin. "We may be sure that these fellows have only retired behind the heights to hold a council of war, and, in their present humour, it won't be long before they come on to make an effort to retaliate upon us for our supposed treachery."

The ten men were conveyed to the largest house in the hamlet, and there ranged in a row against the wall. They looked very grave, but were firm and stern. Evidently they imagined that death by torture was to be their doom, and had braced themselves up to die like brave men in the presence of their foes.

Karlsefin hastened to relieve them from this state of mind as quickly as possible. He placed before them ten plates of splendid boiled salmon. They regarded this proceeding with some surprise, but shook their heads and refused to eat. Doubtless their appetites were not good at the time!

"Fetch the wounded chief hither," said Karlsefin, "and tell Bertha that she is wanted."

When the wounded man was carried in and seated opposite to his comrades, a box being placed for him to lean against, Karlsefin said to Bertha -- "Now, lass, do thy best to induce the chief to show his friends how to eat. He has had some experience of you, and will doubtless understand."

With a winning smile that would have compelled any susceptible man to eat or drink, or do anything else that he was bid whether inclined or not, Bertha put a plate of salmon before the chief and made signs to him to eat. He smiled in return, and began at once. Then Bertha patted him on the shoulder, pointed to the ten prisoners, and made signs again. The chief smiled intelligently, and spoke to his companions. He evidently said more than was necessary to order them to eat, for their faces brightened perceptibly, and they commenced dinner in these peculiar circumstances without delay.

It was clear that their appetites had not been much impaired by alarm, for the salmon disappeared in a twinkling. Then Karlsefin ordered ten plates of fried venison to be placed before them, which was done, and they applied themselves to the consumption of this with equal relish. Having concluded the repast, each man received a can of warm water and milk, highly sweetened with sugar. At first they took a doubtful sip of this, and looked at each other in surprise. It was a new sensation! One of them smacked his lips; the rest said "Waugh!" nodded their heads, and drained their cans to the bottom at a single draught; after which, observing that there was some sediment left, they scraped it out with their fingers and sucked them.

"So far that is satisfactory," said Karlsefin, with a smile. "Now, Biarne -- the gifts."

A wooden tray was now brought, on which lay a variety of silver brooches, rings, and other baubles. These were distributed to the prisoners. Last of all, each received a yard of bright-coloured cloth, and then they were ordered by signs to rise.

They obeyed with alacrity, and were led out of the house, at the door of which they found a litter similar to the one which they had seen before. It was simply a blanket fastened to two long poles, and rolled round them so as to form a couch of about a yard in width. On this the wounded chief was laid, and two of the natives were ordered to grasp the ends of the poles and raise him. They did so, and were conducted by the Norsemen in single file out into the forest. Here, to their intense surprise, Karlsefin shook hands with them all very kindly, and then, going back with his men to the fortress, left them to return to their kindred!

Karlsefin remarked quietly to Biarne, as he went along, that one of the precepts of the new religion, which he had remembered well, because it seemed to him so very wise, was, that men should always try to "overcome evil with good."

Thus was established a warm friendship between the natives of Vinland and the Norsemen; a friendship which might have lasted for ever -- to the great modification, no doubt, of American history -- had not unfortunate circumstances intervened to break it up. As it was, it lasted for a considerable time.



Chapter Fourteen.

The First American Fur Traders -- Strange Devices -- Anxious Times And Pleasant Discoveries.

The business of the colony progressed admirably after this. A large house was erected, with a central hall and numerous sleeping-rooms or closets off it, where all the chief people dwelt together, and a number of the men messed daily. Grass was found in abundance, and a large quantity of this was cut and stacked for winter use, although there was good reason to believe that the winter would be so mild that the cattle might be left out to forage for themselves. Salmon were also caught in great numbers, not only in Little River but in the main stream, and in the lake at their very doors. What they did not consume was dried, smoked, and stored. Besides this, a large quantity of fine timber was felled, squared, cut into lengths, and made suitable for exportation. Eggs were found on the islands offshore, and feathers collected, so that early in the summer they had more than enough wherewith to load the ship. Among other discoveries they found grain growing wild. The Saga-writers have called it wheat, but it is open to question whether it was not wild rice, of which large quantities grow in the uninhabited parts of America at the present time. They also found a beautiful kind of wood, called massurwood, of which samples were sent to Greenland and Norway; but what this wood really was we cannot tell.

Meanwhile an extensive traffic in valuable furs was commenced with the natives, who were more than satisfied with the scraps of bright cloth, beads, and other trifling ornaments they received in exchange for them. Some of the natives wanted to purchase weapons with their furs, but Karlsefin would not allow this. At first the Norsemen gave their cloth and other wares in exchange with liberal hand, cutting the bright cloth into stripes of three or four inches in breadth; but they soon found that at this rate their supplies would become exhausted too early in the year. They therefore reduced their prices, and began to give stripes of cloth only two inches in width, and at last reduced the measure to one inch, for furs that had previously fetched four. But the unsophisticated natives were quite content with the change, and appeared to enjoy nothing so much as to twist these stripes of cloth into their long black hair.

One day Karlsefin said to Gudrid that he had a new plan in his head.

"What is that?" said she.

"I think that our goods are going away too fast, so I mean to try if these Skraelingers will give their furs for dairy produce. We have a good deal of that, and can spare some."

"I don't know how Astrid will like that," she said, laughing. "You know she has charge of the dairy, and is very proud of it."

"That is well, Gudrid, for Astrid will be all the more pleased to have her produce turned to such good account. Milk is pleasant to the throat, and cream delights the tongue. Methinks these fellows will be tempted by it."

"Would they not like beer better?"

"Beer!" cried Karlsefin, with a shout of laughter. "You should have seen the faces they made, and the way they spat it out, the only time they were asked to taste it. Biarne was very keen to let them try it, and I did not object, for I partly expected some such result. No, no, a man must learn to like beer. Nature teaches him to like milk. But go, tell Astrid to fill twenty cans with milk, and twenty small cups with good cream. Let her also set out twenty cakes, with a pat of fresh butter and a lump of cheese on each. Let her spread all on the table in the great hall, and see that she does it speedily. I will go and fetch the company to this feast."

He left the room as he spoke, and in less than an hour his orders had been executed. When he entered the hall a short time afterwards, followed by twenty natives, he found everything prepared according to his directions.

That he was correct in his expectation was clearly proved ere many minutes had passed, for the twenty natives raised their forty eyes, and looked on each other with rapturous delight when they tasted the good things. They finished them in a twinkling, and then wished for more; but it is only justice to their good-breeding and self-restraint to add that they did not ask for more! From that day nothing would please them but that they should have dairy produce for their furs.

Some time after this Karlsefin was walking, one afternoon, on the shores of the lake with Thorward. He suddenly asked him how he should like to take a trip to Greenland.

"I should like it well," replied Thorward.

"Then if you will go in charge of the Snake I should be pleased," said the other, "for we have collected more than enough of merchandise to fill her, and if you set sail at once you will have time to bring back a cargo of such things as we need before autumn comes to an end."

"I will go," said Thorward, "to-morrow, if you choose."

"Nay, not quite so fast. The ship is only half loaded yet; but in a day or two she will be ready. There are two things I am anxious you should manage. One is to persuade Leif Ericsson to come and visit us, -- if he will not come to stay with us. The other is to tempt as many married men as you can to come over and join us -- especially those men who chance to have a good many daughters, for we would be the better of a few more busy little hands, fair faces, and silvery tones in this beautiful Vinland of ours."

"I will do what I can," replied Thorward, "and I would advise that Olaf should go with me, that his glowing descriptions may tempt his father to come."

"Nay; that would spoil all," objected Karlsefin, "for, having had a sight of his son he would be content to let him come back alone. No, no; we will keep Olaf here as a bait to tempt him. But go now and make your arrangements, for you set sail as soon as the ship is ready."

Not long after that the Snake left her anchorage with a full cargo, rowed down the river, hoisted sail, and bore away for Greenland.

While she was gone an event of deep and absorbing interest occurred in Vinland.

One fine morning in autumn the heart of the entire hamlet was moved by the sound of a new voice! It was not a musical voice -- rather squawky, indeed, than otherwise -- and it was a feeble voice, that told of utter helplessness. In short, a son had been born to Karlsefin and Gudrid, and they called him Snorro. We record it with regret -- for it went a long way to prove that, in regard to sweet sounds, Karlsefin and his wife were destitute of taste. It is our business, however, to record facts rather than to carp at them, therefore we let Snorro pass without further comment.

The little body that was attached to the little voice, although far from beautiful at first, was an object of intense affection to the parents, and of regard, almost amounting to veneration, to the rugged men by whom it was surrounded. Bertha declared enthusiastically that it was "perfectly lovely," although it was obvious to all unprejudiced eyes that it resembled nothing so much as a piece of wrinkled beef of bad colour! Astrid declared that it had "such a wise look," despite the evident fact that its expression was little short of idiotical! Karlsefin said nothing, but he smiled a good deal, and chucked it under the place where its chin ought to have been with his great forefinger in a timid way.

But when Snorro was deemed sufficiently far advanced in life to be handed out for public exhibition, then it was that the greatest number of falsehoods were uttered, with the quietest deliberation, although, to say truth, the greater number of the men said nothing, but contented themselves with taking the infant in their big rough hands as delicately as if they thought it was a bubble, and feared that it might burst and leave nothing to be handed back to Thora, who acted the part of nurse. Others merely ventured to look at it silently with their hairy lips parted and their huge eyes gazing in blank admiration.

Perhaps Krake made the most original remark in reference to the newcomer. "Ah," said he quite seriously, touching its cheek as softly as though he half feared it would bite, "only to think that myself was like that once!"

This was received with a shout of laughter, so loud that little Snorro was startled.

"Ah, then," cried Krake, with a look of great alarm, "what is it going to do?"

This question was occasioned by the sudden change on the infant's countenance, which became, if possible, redder than before, and puckered up into such a complicated series of wrinkles that all semblance to humanity was well-nigh lost. Suddenly a hole opened on the surface and a feeble squall came forth!

"Oh, you wicked men!" cried Thora, snatching the infant indignantly from them and hurrying back into the house.

"'Tis a sweet child," observed Swend tenderly, as he and his comrades sauntered away.

"You must have a good opinion of yourself, Krake," said Tyrker, "to fancy that you were once like it."

"So I have," replied Krake. "It's what my father had before me. It lies in the family, you see, and with good reason too, for we were the best of company, not to mention fighting. It was always said that we were uncommonly fine infants, though a trifle big and noisy for the peace of our neighbourhood -- quite like Turks in that way, I believe!"

"I doubt it not, Krake," said Biarne, who came up in time to hear the concluding remark; "and since you are such a noisy fellow I am going to send you on an expedition in search of these vines, that seem to me to have rooted themselves out of the land and fled, from mere spite, since Leif named it Vinland. There is but one quarter that I can think of now which has not yet been explored; you may take a party of men, and let Tyrker go too; as he discovered them on his first visit, the stupid fellow ought to have re-discovered them long before now. You can discuss by the way the little matter you have in hand, -- only see that you don't fall out about it."

Thus instructed, Krake organised a party, and set off to search for the celebrated vines, which, as Biarne said, had not up to that time been found.

That day they searched far and wide without success. Then they sat down to rest and eat. While thus engaged, Krake and Tyrker returned to the subject of the reported noisiness of Turks, and the former became so caustic in his jests that the irascible little Tyrker lost temper, much to the amusement of his comrades.

After refreshing themselves, the explorers again set out and came to a part of the country which was broken up and beautifully diversified by rocky eminences crowned with trees, and shady hollows carpeted with wild-flowers. It was difficult here to decide as to which of the innumerable valleys or hollows they should traverse; they therefore sat down again for a little to consult, but the consultation soon became a discussion, and Krake, whose spirit of fun had got the better of him, gradually edged the talk round until it came again, quite in a natural way, to the Turks. At last Tyrker became so angry that he started up, declared he would follow the party no longer, plunged into a thicket and disappeared.

He was followed by a shout of laughter, and then the others, rising, resumed their search, not doubting that their irate companion would ere long rejoin them.

But Tyrker did not join them, and when evening drew on apace they became anxious, gave up the search for vines, and went about looking for him. At last it became too dark for them to continue the search, and they were obliged to return home without their comrade.

On leaving them Tyrker had no definite idea what he meant to do or where he meant to go. He just walked straight before him in high dudgeon, taking no notice of the route by which he journeyed, or the flight of time. At length he awoke from his absent condition of mind and looked up. A vast amphitheatre of wooded hills surrounded him, and there, in the heart of a secluded dell, under a clump of trees, were the long sought and much-desired vines!

For some time Tyrker stood gazing at them in silent admiration and delight. He rubbed his eyes and looked again. Yes; there could be no question as to their reality. There hung the rich purple clusters such as he had seen on his first visit to Vinland, and such as he had been wont to see in his own land in days long gone by. He pinched himself, pulled his hair, punched his eyeballs, but no -- all that failed to awaken him; from which circumstance he naturally came to the conclusion that he was awake already. He then uttered a wild, probably a Turkish, cheer, and rushed upon the spoil.

Filling both hands with the fruit he crammed his mouth full. Then he raised his eyes upwards in ecstasy and did it again. He repeated it! After which he paused to sigh, and leaped up to cheer and sat down again to -- guzzle! Pardon the word, good reader, it is appropriate, for there is no disguising the fact that Tyrker was a tremendous glutton, and did not care a fig -- or a grape -- for appearances.

After eating for a long time he was satisfied and sat down to rest. By that time the shades of evening were falling. They proved to be soporific, for he gradually reclined backwards on the green turf and fell asleep, surrounded by and partially covered with grapes, like a drunken and disorderly Bacchus.

Now Tyrker was a man in robust health; full of energy and high spirits. Sleep therefore was to him a process which, once begun, continued till morning. Even the puckered little Snorro did not rest more soundly in his kneading-trough crib than did Tyrker on the greensward under his vinous canopy.

When next he opened his eyes, groaned, rolled over, sat up, and yawned, the sun was beginning to peep above the eastern sea.

"Ho!" exclaimed Tyrker. "I have forgot myself." To refresh his memory he scratched his head and shook it; then he raised his eyes, saw the grapes, leaped up and burst into a fit of joyous laughter.

Thereafter he again sat down and breakfasted, after which he filled his cap, his wallet, his various pockets, the breast of his coat -- every available compartment, in fact, outside as well as in -- with grapes, and hastened homeward at his utmost speed in order to communicate the joyful news to his comrades.

Now the disappearance of Tyrker had caused no small amount of anxiety to his friends at the hamlet, especially to Karlsefin, who was very fond of him, and who feared that his strength might have given way, or that he had fallen into the hands of savages or under the paws of bears. He sat up the greater part of the night watching and hoping for his return, and when the first grey light of dawn appeared he called up a number of the men, and, dividing them into several bands, organised a systematic search.

Placing himself at the head of one band he went off in the direction in which, from Krake's account of what had taken place, it seemed most probable that Tyrker might be found. They advanced so rapidly that when the sun rose they had got to within a mile or so of the spot where Krake and his party had given up their search on the previous evening. Thus it came to pass that before the red sun had ascended the eastern sky by much more than his own height, Karlsefin and Tyrker met face to face in a narrow gorge.

They stopped and gazed at each other for a few moments in silence, Karlsefin in astonishment as well -- and no wonder, for the figure that stood before him was a passing strange one. To behold Tyrker thus dishevelled and besmeared was surprising enough, but to see him with grapes and vine-leaves stuffed all about him and twined all round him was absolutely astounding. His behaviour was little less so, for, clapping his hands to his sides, he shut his eyes, opened his big mouth, and burst into an uproarious fit of laughter.

The men who came up at that moment did so also for laughter is catching.

"Why, Tyrker, where have you been?" demanded Karlsefin.

"Grapes!" shouted Tyrker, and laughed again.

"Are these grapes?" asked Karlsefin, regarding the fruit with much interest.

"Ay, grapes! vines! Vinland! hurrah!"

"But are you sure?"

Instead of answering, Tyrker laughed again and began to talk, as he always did when greatly moved, in Turkish. Altogether he was so much excited that Krake said he was certainly drunk.

"Drunk!" exclaimed Tyrker, again using the Norse language; "no, that is not possible. A man could not get drunk on grapes if he were to eat a ship-load of them. I am only joyful -- happy, happy as I can be. It seems as if my young days had returned again with these grapes. I am drunk with old thoughts and memories. I am back again in Turkey!"

"Ye couldn't be in a worse place if all accounts be true," said Krake, with a grin. "Come, don't keep all the grapes to yourself; let us taste them."

"Ay, let us taste them," said Karlsefin, advancing and plucking a bunch from Tyrker's shoulders.

The others did the same, tasted them, and pronounced the fruit excellent.

"Now, lads, we will make the strong drink from the grapes," said Tyrker. "I don't know quite how to do it, but we will soon find out."

"That you certainly shall not if I can prevent it," said Karlsefin firmly.

Tyrker looked a little surprised, and asked why not.

"Because if the effect of eating grapes is so powerful, drinking the strong drink of the grape must be dangerous. Why do you wish to make it?"

"Why? because -- because -- it does make one so happy."

"You told us just now," returned Karlsefin, "that you were as happy as you could be, did you not? You cannot be happier than that -- therefore, according to your own showing, Tyrker, there is no need of strong drink."

"That's for you," whispered Krake to Tyrker, with a wink, as he poked him in the side. "Go to sleep upon that advice, man, and it'll do ye good -- if it don't do ye harm!"

"Ease him of part of his load, boys, and we shall go back the way we came as fast as may be."

Each man relieved Tyrker of several bunches of grapes, so that in a few minutes he resumed his own ordinary appearance. They then retraced their steps, and soon afterwards presented to the women the first grapes of Vinland. Karlsefin carried a chosen bunch to Gudrid, who, after thanking him heartily, stuffed a grape into the hole in Snorro's puckered visage and nearly choked him. Thus narrowly did the first Yankee (for such one of his own countrymen has claimed him to be) escape being killed by the first-fruits of his native land!



Chapter Fifteen.

Greenland Again -- Flatface Turns Up, Also Thorward, Who Becomes Eloquent And Secures Recruits For Vinland.

Who has not heard of that solitary step which lies between the sublime and the ridiculous? The very question may seem ridiculous. And who has not, at one period or another of life, been led to make comparisons to that step? Why then should we hesitate to confess that the step in question has been suggested by the brevity of that other step which lies between the beautiful and the plain, the luxuriant and the barren, the fruitful and the sterile -- which step we now call upon the reader to take, by accompanying us from Vinland's shady groves to Greenland's rocky shores.

Leif Ericsson is there, standing on the end of the wharf at Brattalid --  bold, stalwart, and upright, as he was when, some years before, he opened up the way to Vinland. Flatface the Skraelinger is there too --  stout, hairy, and as suggestive of a frying-pan as he was when, on murderous deeds intent, not very long before, he had led his hairy friends on tiptoe to the confines of Brattalid, and was made almost to leap out of his oily skin with terror.

But his terror by this time was gone. He and the Norsemen had been reconciled, very much to the advantage of both, and his tribe was, just then, encamped on the other side of the ridge.

Leif had learned a little of the Skraelinger tongue; Flatface had acquired a little less of the Norse language -- and a pretty mess they made of it between them! As we are under the necessity of rendering both into English, we beg the reader's forbearance and consideration.

"So you are going off on a sealing expedition, are you?" said Leif, turning from the contemplation of the horizon, and regarding the Skraelinger with a comical smile.

"Yis, yo, ha, hooroo!" said Flatface, waving his arms violently to add force to his reply.

"And when do you go?" asked Leif.

"W'en? E go skrumch en cracker smorrow."

"Just so," replied Leif, "only I can't quite make that cracker out unless you mean to-morrow."

"Yis, yo, ha!" exclaimed the hairy man. "Kite right, kite right, smorrow, yis, to-morrow."

"You're a wonderful man," remarked Leif, with a smile. "You'll speak Norse like a Norseman if you live long enough."

"Eh!" exclaimed the Skraelinger, with a perplexed look.

"When are you to be back?" asked Leif.

Flatface immediately pointed to the moon, which, although it was broad daylight at the time, showed a remarkably white face in the blue sky, and, doubling his fist, hit himself four blows on the bridge of his nose, or rather on the spot where the bridge of that feature should have been, but where, as it happened, there was only a hollow in the frying-pan, with a little blob below it.

"Ha, four months. Very good. It will be a good riddance; for, to say truth, I'm tired of you and your noisy relations."

Leif said this more as a soliloquy than a remark, for he had no intention of hurting the feelings of the poor savage, who, he was aware, could not understand him. Turning again to him, he said -- "You know the kitchen, Flatface?" Flatface said nothing, but rolled his eyes, nodded violently, and rubbed that region which is chiefly concerned with food.

"Go," said Leif, "tell Anders to give you food -- food -- food!"

At each mention of the word Flatface retreated a step and nodded. When Leif stopped he turned about, and with an exclamation of delight, trundled off to the kitchen like a good-natured polar bear.

For full half an hour after that Leif walked up and down the wharf with his eyes cast down; evidently he was brooding over something. Presently Anders came towards him.

Anders was a burly middle-aged Norseman, with a happy-looking countenance; he was also cook, steward, valet, and general factotum to Leif.

"Well, Anders, hast had a visit from Flatface?" asked Leif.

"Ay -- he is in the kitchen now."

"Hast fed him?"

"Ay, gorged him," replied Anders, with a grin.

"Good," said Leif, laughing; "he goes off to-morrow, it seems, for four months, which I'm right glad to hear, for we have had him and his kindred long enough beside us for this time. I am sorry on account of the Christian teachers, however, because they were making some progress with the language, and this will throw them back."

Leif here referred to men who had recently been sent to Greenland by King Olaf Tryggvisson of Norway, with the design of planting Christianity there, and some of whom appeared to be very anxious to acquire the language of the natives. Leif himself had kept somewhat aloof from these teachers of the new faith. He had indeed suffered himself to be baptized, when on a visit to Norway, in order to please the King; but he was a very reserved man, and no one knew exactly what opinions he held in regard to religion. Of course he had been originally trained in the Odin-worship of his forefathers, but he was a remarkably shrewd man, and people said that he did not hold by it very strongly. No one ever ventured to ask him what he held until the teachers above mentioned came. When they tried to find out his opinions he quietly, and with much urbanity, asked to be informed as to some of the details of that which they had come to teach, and so managed the conversation that, without hurting their feelings, he sent them away from him as wise as they came. But although Leif was silent he was very observant, and people said that he noted what was going on keenly -- which was indeed the case.

"I know not what the teachers think," said Anders, with a careless air, "but it is my opinion that they won't make much of the Skraelingers, and the Skraelingers are not worth making much of."

"There thou art wrong, Anders," said Leif, with much gravity; "does not Flatface love his wife and children as much as you love yours?"

"I suppose he does."

"Is not his flesh and blood the same as thine, his body as well knit together as thine, and as well suited to its purposes?"

"Doubtless it is, though somewhat uglier."

"Does he not support his family as well as thou dost, and labour more severely than thou for that purpose? Is he not a better hunter, too, and a faster walker, and fully as much thought of and prized by his kindred?"

"All that may be very true," replied Anders carelessly.

"Then," pursued Leif, "if the Skraelingers be apparently as good as thou art, how can ye say that they are not worth making much of?"

"Truly, on the same ground that I say that I myself am not worth making much of. I neither know nor care anything about the matter. Only this am I sure of, that the Skraelingers do not serve you, master, as well as I do."

"Anders, thou art incorrigible!" said Leif, smiling; "but I admit the truth of your last remark; so now, if ye will come up to the house and do for me, to some extent, what ye have just done to Flatface, ye will add greatly to the service of which thou hast spoken."

"I follow, master," said Anders; "but would it not be well, first, to wait and see which of our people are returning to us, for, if I mistake not, yonder is a boat's sail coming round the ness."

"A boat's sail!" exclaimed Leif eagerly, as he gazed at the sail in question; "why, man, if your eyes were as good as those of Flatface, ye would have seen that yonder sail belongs to a ship. My own eyes have been turned inward the last half hour, else must I have observed it sooner."

"It seems to me but a boat," said Anders.

"I tell thee it is a ship!" cried Leif; "ay, and if my eyes do not deceive, it is the ship of Karlsefin. Go, call out the people quickly, and see that they come armed. There is no saying who may be in possession of the ship now."

Anders hastened away, and Leif, after gazing at the approaching vessel a little longer, walked up to the house, where some of his house-carls were hastily arming, and where he received from the hands of an old female servant his sword, helmet, and shield.

The people of Brattalid were soon all assembled on the shore, anxiously awaiting the arrival of the ship, and an active boy was sent round to Heriulfness, to convey the news to the people there -- for in Greenland the arrival of a ship was of rare occurrence in those days.

As the ship drew near, all doubt as to her being Karlsefin's vessel was removed, and, when she came close to land, great was the anxiety of the people to make out the faces that appeared above the bulwarks.

"That is Karlsefin," said one. "I know his form of face well."

"No, it is Biarne," cried another. "Karlsefin is taller by half a foot."

"'Tis Thorward," said a third. "I'd know his face among a thousand."

"There seem to be no women with them," observed Anders, who stood at the end of the wharf near his master.

"Does any one see Olaf?" asked Leif.

"No -- no," replied several voices.

When the ship was near enough Leif shouted -- "Is Olaf on board?"

"No!" replied Thorward, in a stentorian voice.

Leif's countenance fell.

"Is all well in Vinland?" he shouted.

"All is well," was the reply.

Leif's countenance brightened, and in a few minutes he was shaking Thorward heartily by the hand.

"Why did ye not bring my son?" said Leif, somewhat reproachfully, as they went up to the house together.

"We thought it best to try to induce you to go to him rather than bring him to you," answered Thorward, smiling. "You must come back with me, Leif. You cannot conceive what a splendid country it is. It far surpasses Iceland and Norway. As to Greenland, it should not be named in the same breath."

Leif made no reply at that time, but seemed to ponder the proposal.

"Now we shall feast, Thorward," said Leif, as he entered the hall. "Ho! lay the tables, good woman. -- Come, Anders, see that ye load it well. Have all the house-carls gathered; I will go fetch in our neighbours, and we shall hear what Thorward has to say of this Vinland that we have heard so much about of late."

Leif's instructions were promptly and energetically carried out. The tables were spread with all the delicacies of the season that Greenland had to boast of, which consisted chiefly of fish and wild-fowl, with seal's flesh instead of beef, for nearly all the cattle had been carried off by the emigrants, as we have seen, and the few that were left behind had died for want of proper food. The banquet was largely improved by Thorward, who loaded the table with smoked salmon. After the dishes had been removed and the tankards of beer sent round, Thorward began to relate his story to greedy ears.

He was very graphic in his descriptions, and possessed the power of detailing even commonplace conversations in such a way that they became interesting. He had a great deal of quiet humour, too, which frequently convulsed his hearers with laughter. In short, he gave such a fascinating account of the new land, that when the people retired to rest that night, there was scarcely a man, woman, or child among them who did not long to emigrate without delay. This was just what Thorward desired.

Next day he unloaded the ship, and the sight of her cargo fully confirmed many parts of his story. The upshot of it was that Leif agreed to go and spend the winter in Vinland, and a considerable number of married men made up their minds to emigrate with their wives and families.

Having discharged cargo and taken in a large supply of such goods as were most needed at the new colony, Thorward prepared for sea. Leif placed Anders in charge of his establishment, and, about grey dawn of a beautiful morning, the Snake once again shook out her square sail to the breeze and set sail for Vinland.



Chapter Sixteen.

Joyful Meetings And Hearty Greetings.

Need we attempt to describe the joy of our friends in Vinland, when, one afternoon towards the end of autumn, they saw their old ship sweep into the lake under oars and sail, and cast anchor in the bay? We think not.

The reader must possess but a small power of fancy who cannot, without the aid of description, call up vividly the gladsome faces of men and women when they saw the familiar vessel appear, and beheld the bulwarks crowded with well-known faces. Besides, words cannot paint Olaf's sparkling eyes, and the scream of delight when he recognised his father standing in sedate gravity on the poop.

Suffice it to say that the joy culminated at night, as human joys not unfrequently do, in a feast, at which, as a matter of course, the whole story of the arrival and settlement in Vinland was told over again to the newcomers, as if it had never been told before. But there was this advantage in the telling, that instead of all being told by Thorward, each man gave his own version of his own doings, or, at all events, delegated the telling to a friend who was likely to do him justice. Sometimes one or another undertook that friendly act, without having it laid upon him. Thus, Krake undertook to relate the discovery of the grapes by Tyrker, and Tyrker retaliated by giving an account of the accident in connexion with a mud-hole that had happened to Krake. This brought out Biarne, who went into a still more minute account of that event with reference to its bearing on Freydissa, and that gentle woman revenged herself by giving an account of the manner in which Hake had robbed Biarne of the honour of killing a brown bear, the mention of which ferocious animal naturally suggested to Olaf the brave deed of his dear pet the black bull, to a narrative of which he craved and obtained attention. From the black bull to the baby was an easy and natural transition -- more so perhaps than may appear at first sight -- for the bull suggested the cows, and the cows the milk, which last naturally led to thoughts of the great consumer thereof.

It is right to say here, however, that the baby was among the first objects presented to Leif and his friends after their arrival; and great was the interest with which they viewed this first-born of the American land. The wrinkles, by the way, were gone by that time. They had been filled up so completely that the place where they once were resembled a fair and smooth round ball of fresh butter, with two bright blue holes in it, a knob below them, and a ripe cherry underneath that.

Snorro happened to be particularly amiable when first presented to his new friends. Of course he had not at that time reached the crowing or smiling age. His goodness as yet was negative. He did not squall; he did not screw up his face into inconceivable formations; he did not grow alarmingly red in the face; he did not insist on having milk, seeing that he had already had as much as he could possibly hold -- no, he did none of these things, but lay in Gudrid's arms, the very embodiment of stolid and expressionless indifference to all earthly things -- those who loved him best included.

But this state of "goodness" did not last long. He soon began to display what may be styled the old-Adamic part of his nature, and induced Leif, after much long-suffering, to suggest that "that would do," and that "he had better be taken away!"

The effervescence of the colony caused by this infusion of new elements ere long settled down. The immigrants took part in the general labour and duties. Timber-cutting, grape-gathering, hay-making, fishing, hunting, exploring, eating, drinking, and sleeping, went on with unabated vigour, and thus, gradually, autumn merged into winter.

But winter did not bring in its train the total change that these Norsemen had been accustomed to in their more northern homes. The season was to them comparatively mild. True, there was a good deal of snow, and it frequently gave to the branches of the trees that silvery coating which, in sunshine, converts the winter forest into the very realms of fairyland; but the snow did not lie deep on the ground, or prevent the cattle from remaining out and finding food all the winter. There was ice, also, on the lake, thick enough to admit of walking on it, and sledging with ponies, but not thick enough to prevent them cutting easily through it, and fishing with lines and hooks, made of bone and baited with bits of fat, with which they caught enormous trout, little short of salmon in size, and quite as good for food.

Daring the winter there was plenty of occupation for every one in the colony. For one thing, it cost a large number of the best men constant and hard labour merely to supply the colonists with firewood and food. Then the felling of timber for export was carried on during winter as easily as in summer, and the trapping of wild animals for their furs was a prolific branch of industry. Sometimes the men changed their work for the sake of variety. The hunters occasionally took to fishing, the fishers to timber felling and squaring, the timber-cutters to trapping; the trappers undertook the work of the firewood-cutters, and these latter relieved the men who performed the duties of furniture-making, repairing, general home-work and guarding the settlement. Thus the work went on, and circled round.

Of course all this implied a vast deal of tear and wear. Buttons had not at that time been invented, but tags could burst off as well as buttons, and loops were not warranted to last for ever, any more than button-holes. Socks were unknown to those hardy pioneers, but soft leather shoes, not unlike mocassins, and boots resembling those of the Esquimaux of the present day, were constantly wearing out, and needed to be replaced or repaired; hence the women of the colony had their hands full, for, besides these renovating duties which devolved on them, they had also the housekeeping -- a duty in itself calling for an amount of constant labour, anxiety, and attention which that ridiculous creature man never can or will understand or appreciate -- at least so the women say, but, being a man, we incline to differ from them as to that!

Then, when each day's work was over, the men returned to their several abodes tired and hungry. Arrangements had been made that so many men should dwell and mess together, and the women were so appointed that each mess was properly looked after. Thus the men found cheerful fires, clean hearths, spread tables, smoking viands, and a pleasant welcome on their return home; and, after supper, were wont to spend the evenings in recounting their day's experiences, telling sagas, singing songs, or discussing general principles -- a species of discussion, by the way, which must certainly have originated in Eden after the Fall!

In Karlsefin's large hall the largest number of men and women were nightly assembled, and there the time was spent much in the same way, but with this difference, that the heads of the settlement were naturally appealed to in disputed matters, and conversation frequently merged into something like orations from Leif and Biarne Karlsefin and Thorward, all of whom were far-travelled, well-informed, and capable of sustaining the interest of their audiences for a prolonged period.

In those days the art of writing was unknown among the Norsemen, and it was their custom to fix the history of their great achievements, as well as much of their more domestic doings, in their memories by means of song and story. Men gifted with powers of composition in prose and verse undertook to enshrine deeds and incidents in appropriate language at the time of their occurrence, and these scalds or poets, and saga-men or chroniclers, although they might perhaps have coloured their narratives and poems slightly, were not likely to have falsified them, because they were at first related and sung in the presence of actors and eye-witnesses, to attempt imposition on whom would have been useless as well as ridiculous. Hence those old songs and sagas had their foundation in truth. After they were once launched into the memories of men, the form of words, doubtless, tended to protect them to some extent from adulteration, and even when all allowance is made for man's well-known tendency to invent and exaggerate, it still remains likely that all the truth would be retained, although surrounded more or less with fiction. To distinguish the true from the false in such cases is not so difficult a process as one at first sight might suppose. Men with penetrating minds and retentive memories, who are trained to such work, are swift to detect the chaff amongst the wheat, and although in their winnowing operations they may frequently blow away a few grains of wheat, they seldom or never accept any of the chaff as good grain.

We urge all this upon the reader, because the narratives and poems which were composed and related by Karlsefin and his friends that winter, doubtless contained those truths which were not taken out of the traditionary state, collected and committed to writing by the Icelandic saga-writers, until about one hundred years afterwards, at the end of the eleventh or beginning of the twelfth century.

On these winter evenings, too, Karlsefin sometimes broached the subject of the new religion, which had been so recently introduced into Greenland. He told them that he had not received much instruction in it, so that he could not presume to explain it all to them, but added that he had become acquainted with the name and some of the precepts of Jesus Christ, and these last, he said, seemed to him so good and so true that he now believed in Him who taught them, and would not exchange that belief for all the riches of this world, "for," said he, "the world we dwell in is passing away -- that to which we go shall never pass away." His chief delight in the new religion was that Jesus Christ was described as a Saviour from sin, and he thought that to be delivered from wicked thoughts in the heart and wicked deeds of the body was the surest road to perfect happiness.

The Norsemen listened to all this with profound interest, for none of them were so much wedded to their old religion as to feel any jealousy of the new; but although they thought much about it, they spoke little, for all were aware that the two religions could not go together -- the acceptance of the one implied the rejection of the other.

Frequently during the winter Karlsefin and Leif had earnest conversations about the prospects of the infant colony.

"Leif," said Karlsefin, one day, "my mind is troubled."

"That is bad," replied Leif; "what troubles it?"

"The thoughts that crowd upon me in regard to this settlement."

"I marvel not at that," returned Leif, stopping and looking across the lake, on the margin of which they were walking; "your charge is a heavy one, calling for earnest thought and careful management. But what is the particular view that gives you uneasiness?"

"Why, the fact that it does not stand on a foundation which is likely to be permanent. A house may not be very large, but if its foundation be good it will stand. If, however, its foundation be bad, then the bigger and grander it is, so much the worse for the house."

"That is true. Go on."

"Well, it seems to me that the foundation of our settlement is not good. It is true that some of us have our wives here, and there is, besides, a sprinkling of young girls, who are being courted by some of the men; nevertheless it remains a stubborn truth that far the greater part of the men are those who came out with Thorward and me, and have left either wives or sweethearts in Norway and in Iceland. Now these may be pleased to remain here for a time, but it cannot be expected that they will sit down contentedly and make it their home."

"There is truth in what you say, Karlsefin. Have any of your men spoken on that subject?"

"No, none as yet; but I have not failed to note that some of them are not so cheerful and hearty as they used to be."

"What is to prevent you making a voyage to Iceland and Norway next spring," said Leif, "and bringing out the wives and families, and, if you can, the sweethearts of these men?"

Karlsefin laughed heartily at this suggestion. "Why, Leif," he said, "has your sojourn on the barren coast of Greenland so wrought on your good sense, or your feelings, that you should suppose thirty or forty families will agree at once to leave home and kindred to sail for and settle in a new land of the West that they have barely, -- perhaps never --  heard of; and think you that sweethearts have so few lovers at home that they will jump at those who are farthest away from them? It is one thing to take time and trouble to collect men and households that are willing to emigrate; it is another thing altogether to induce households to follow men who have already emigrated."

"Nay, but I would counsel you to take the men home along with you, so that they might use their persuasions," returned Leif; "but, as you say, it is not a likely course to take, even in that way. What, then, do you think, is wisest to be done?"

"I cannot yet reply to that, Leif. I see no course open."

"Tell me, Karlsefin, how is it with yourself?" asked Leif, looking earnestly at his friend. "Are you content to dwell here?"

Karlsefin did not reply for a few seconds.

"Well, to tell you the truth," he said at length, "I do not relish the notion of calling Vinland home. The sea is my home. I have dwelt on it the greater part of my life. I love its free breezes and surging waves. The very smell of its salt spray brings pleasant memories to my soul. I cannot brook the solid earth. While I walk I feel as if I were glued to it, and when I lie down I am too still. It is like death. On the sea, whether I stand, or walk, or lie, I am ever bounding on. Yes; the sea is my native home, and when old age constrains me to forsake it, and take to the land, my home must be in Iceland."

"Truly if that be your state of mind," said Leif, laughing, "there is little hope of your finally coming to an anchor here."

"But," continued Karlsefin, less energetically, "it would not be right in me to forsake those whom I have led hither. I am bound to remain by and aid them as long as they are willing to stay -- at least until they do not require my services."

"That is well spoken, friend," said Leif. "Thou art indeed so bound. Now, what I would counsel is this, that you should spend another year, or perhaps two more years, in Vinland, and at the end of that time it will be pretty plain either that the colony is going to flourish and can do without you, or that it is advisable to forsake it and return home. Meanwhile I would advise that you give the land a fair trial. Put a good face on it; keep the men busy -- for that is the way to keep them cheerful and contented, always being careful not to overwork them --  provide amusements for their leisure hours if possible, and keep them from thinking too much of absent wives and sweethearts -- if you can."

"If I can," repeated Karlsefin, with a smile; "ay, but I don't think I can. However, your advice seems good, so I will adopt it; and as I shall be able to follow it out all the better with your aid, I hope that you will spend next winter with us."

"I agree to that," said Leif; "but I must first visit Greenland in spring, and then return to you. And now, tell me what you think of the two thralls King Olaf sent me."

Karlsefin's brow clouded a little as he replied that they were excellent men in all respects -- cheerful, willing, and brave.

"So should I have expected of men sent to me by the King," said Leif, "but I have noticed that the elder is very sad. Does he pine for his native land, think ye?"

"Doubtless he does," answered Karlsefin; "but I am tempted to think that he, like some others among us, pines for an absent sweetheart."

"Not unlikely, not unlikely," observed Leif, looking gravely at the ground. "And the younger lad, Hake, what of him? He, I think, seems well enough pleased to remain, if one may judge from his manner and countenance."

"There is reason for that," returned Karlsefin, with a recurrence of the troubled expression. "The truth is that Hake is in love with Bertha."

"The thrall?" exclaimed Leif.

"Ay, and he has gone the length of speaking to her of love; I know it, for I heard him."

"What! does Karlsefin condescend to turn eavesdropper?" said Leif, looking at his friend in surprise.

"Not so, but I chanced to come within earshot at the close of an interview they had, and heard a few words in spite of myself. It was in summer. I was walking through the woods, and suddenly heard voices near me in the heart of a copse through which I must needs pass. Thinking nothing about it I advanced and saw Hake and Bertha partially concealed by the bushes. Suddenly Hake cried passionately, 'I cannot help it, Bertha. I must tell you that I love you if I should die for it;' to which Bertha replied, 'It is useless, Hake; neither Leif nor Karlsefin will consent, and I shall never oppose their will.' Then Hake said, 'You are right, Bertha, right -- forgive me -- .' At this point I felt ashamed of standing still, and turned back lest I should overhear more."

"He is a thrall -- a thrall," murmured Leif sternly, as if musing.

"And yet he is a Scottish earl's son," said Karlsefin. "It does seem a hard case to be a thrall. I wonder if the new religion teaches anything regarding thraldom."

Leif looked up quickly into his friend's face, but Karlsefin had turned his head aside as if in meditation, and no further allusion was made to that subject by either of them.

"Do you think that Bertha returns Hake's love?" asked Leif, after a few minutes.

"There can be no doubt of that," said Karlsefin, laughing; "the colour of her cheek, the glance of her eye, and the tones of her voice, are all tell-tale. But since the day I have mentioned they have evidently held more aloof from each other."

"That is well," said Leif, somewhat sternly. "Bertha is free-born. She shall not wed a thrall if he were the son of fifty Scottish earls."

This speech was altogether so unlike what might have been expected from one of Leif's kind and gentle nature that Karlsefin looked at him in some astonishment and seemed about to speak, but Leif kept his frowning eyes steadily on the ground, and the two friends walked the remainder of the road to the hamlet in perfect silence.



Chapter Seventeen.

Treats Of The Friendship And Adventures Of Olaf And Snorro, And Of Sundry Surprising Incidents.

We must now pass over a considerable period of time, and carry our story forward to the spring of the third year after the settlement of the Norsemen in Vinland.

During that interval matters had progressed much in the same way as we have already described, only that the natives had become a little more exacting in their demands while engaged in barter, and were, on the whole, rather more pugnacious and less easily pleased. There had been a threatening of hostilities once or twice, but, owing to Karlsefin's pacific policy, no open rupture had taken place.

During that interval, too, Leif had made two trips to Greenland and back; a considerable amount of merchandise had been sent home; a few more colonists had arrived, and a few of the original ones had left; Thorward's ship had been also brought to Vinland; and last, but not least, Snorro had grown into a most magnificent baby!

Things were in this felicitous condition when, early one beautiful spring morning, Snorro resolved to have a ramble. Snorro was by that time barely able to walk, and he did it after a peculiar fashion of his own. He had also begun to make a few desperate efforts to talk; but even Gudrid was forced to admit that, in regard to both walking and talking, there was great room for improvement.

Now, it must be told that little Olaf was particularly fond of Snorro, and, if one might judge from appearances, Snorro reciprocated the attachment. Whenever Snorro happened to be missed, it was generally understood that Olaf had him. If any one chanced to ask the question, "Where is Snorro?" the almost invariable reply was, "Ask Olaf." In the event of Olaf not having him, it was quite unnecessary for any one to ask where he was, because the manner in which he raged about the hamlet shouting, howling, absolutely yelling, for "O'af!" was a sufficient indication of his whereabouts.

It was customary for Olaf not only to tend and nurse Snorro, in a general way, when at home, but to take him out for little walks and rides in the forest -- himself being the horse. At first these delightful expeditions were very short, but as Snorro's legs developed, and his mother became more accustomed to his absences, they were considerably extended. Nevertheless a limit was marked out, beyond which Olaf was forbidden to take him, and experience had proved that Olaf was a trustworthy boy. It must be remembered here, that although he had grown apace during these two years, Olaf was himself but a small boy, with the clustering golden curls and the red chubby cheeks with which he had left Greenland.

As we have said, then, Snorro resolved to have a walk one fine spring morning of the year one thousand and ten -- or thereabouts. In the furtherance of his design he staggered across the hall, where Gudrid had left him for those fatal "few minutes" during which children of all ages and climes have invariably availed themselves of their opportunity! Coming to a serious impediment in the shape of the door-step, he paused, plucked up heart, and tumbled over it into the road. Gathering himself up, he staggered onward through the village shouting his usual cry, -- "O'af! O'af! O'AF! O-o-o!" with his wonted vigour.

But "O'af" was deaf to the touching appeal. He chanced to have gone away that morning with Biarne and Hake to visit a bear-trap. A little black bear had been found in it crushed and dead beneath the heavy tree that formed the drop of the trap. This bear had been slung on a pole between the two men, and the party were returning home in triumph at the time that Snorro set up his cry, but they were not quite within earshot.

Finding that his cries were not attended to, Snorro staggered out of the village into the forest a short way, and there, standing in the middle of the path, began again, -- "O'af! O'af! O'AF! O-o-o!"

Still there was no reply; therefore Snorro, stirred by the blood which had descended to him through a long line of illustrious and warlike sea-kings, lost his temper, stamped his feet, and screeched with passion.

Nothing resulting, he changed his mood, shouted "O'af!" once more, in heartrending accents, and -- with his eyes half-shut and mouth wide open, his arms and hands helplessly pendent, his legs astraddle, and his whole aspect what is expressively styled in the Norse tongue begrutten -- howled in abject despair!

In this condition he was found by the bear party not many minutes later, and in another moment he was sobbing out his heart and sorrows into the sympathetic bosom of his dearly-loved friend.

"What is it, Snorrie? What's the matter?" inquired Olaf tenderly.

"Hik! -- Me -- hup! -- O! -- want -- hif! -- wak," replied the sobbing child.

"It wants to walk, does it? So it shall, my bold little man. There, dry its eyes and get on my back, hup! -- now, away we go! I'll be back soon," he said to Biarne, who stood laughing at them. "Be sure that you keep the claws of the bear for me. -- Now, Snorrie, off and away! hurrah!"

"Hoo'ah!" echoed Snorro, as, holding tight with both his fat arms round Olaf's neck, he was borne away into the wilderness.

Olaf's usual mode of proceeding was as follows:

First he dashed along the track of the woodcutters for about half a mile. It was a good broad track, which at first had been cleared by the axe, and afterwards well beaten by the constant passage of men and horses with heavy loads of timber. Then he stopped and set Snorro on his legs, and, going down on his knees before him, laughed in his face. You may be sure that Snorro returned the laugh with right good-will.

"Whereaway next, Snorrie?"

"Away! a-way!" shouted the child, throwing up his arms, losing his balance, and falling plump -- in sedentary fashion.

"Ay, anywhere you please; that means, no doubt, up to the sun or moon, if possible! But come, it must walk a bit now. Give me its hand, old man."

Snorro was obedient to Olaf -- and, reader, that was an amazing triumph of love, for to no one else, not even to his mother, did he accord obedience. He quietly took his guide's hand, trotted along by his side, and listened wonderingly while he chatted of trees, and flowers, and birds, and squirrels, and wild beasts, just as if he understood every word that Olaf said.

But Snorro's obedience was not perfect. Olaf's pace being regulated by his spirits, Snorro soon began to pant, and suddenly pulled up with a violent "'Top!"

"Ho! is it tired?" cried Olaf, seizing him and throwing him over his shoulder into the old position. "Well, then, off we go again!"

He not only went off at a run, but he went off the track also at this point, and struck across country straight through the woods in the direction of a certain ridge, which was the limit beyond which he was forbidden to go.

It was an elevated ridge, which commanded a fine view of the surrounding country, being higher than the tree-tops, and was a favourite resort of Olaf when he went out to ramble with Snorro. Beyond it lay a land that was unknown to Olaf, because that part of the forest was so dense that even the men avoided it in their expeditions, and selected more open and easier routes. Olaf, who was only allowed to accompany the men on short excursions, had never gone beyond the ridge in that direction. He longed to do so, however, and many a time had he, while playing with Snorro on the ridge, gazed with ever increasing curiosity into the deep shades beyond, and wondered what was there! To gaze at a forbidden object is dangerous. We have already said that Olaf was a trustworthy boy, but he was not immaculate. He not only sometimes wished to have his own way, but now and then took it. On this particular occasion he gave way, alas! to temptation.

"Snorro," said he, after sitting under a tree for a considerable time basking in the checkered sunshine with the child beside him, "Snorro, why should not you and I have a peep into that dark forest?"

"Eh?" said Snorro, who understood him not.

"It would be great fun," pursued Olaf. "The shade would be so pleasant in a hot day like this, and we would not go far. What does it think?"

"Ho!" said Snorro, who thought and cared nothing at all about it, for he happened to be engaged just then in crushing a quantity of wild-flowers in his fat hands.

"I see it is not inclined to talk much to-day. Well, come, get on my back, and we shall have just one peep -- just one run into it -- and then out again."

Error number one. Smelling forbidden fruit is the sure prelude to the eating of it!

He took the child on his back, descended the hill, and entered the thick forest.

The scene that met his gaze was indeed well calculated to delight a romantic boy. He found that the part of the woods immediately around him consisted of tall straight trees with thick umbrageous tops, the stems of which seemed like pillars supporting a vast roof; and through between these stems he could see a vista of smaller stems which appeared absolutely endless. There was no grass on the ground, but a species of soft moss, into which he sank ankle-deep, yet not so deep as to render walking difficult. In one direction the distance looked intensely blue, in another it was almost black, while, just before him, a long way off, there was a bright sunny spot with what appeared to be the glittering waters of a pond in the midst of it.

The whole scene was both beautiful and strange to Olaf, and would have filled him with intense delight, if he could only have got rid of that uncomfortable feeling about its being forbidden ground! However, having fairly got into the scrape, he thought he might as well go through with it.

Error number two. Having become impressed with the fact that he had sinned, he ought to have turned back at once. "In for a penny, in for a pound," is about the worst motto that ever was invented. Interpreted, it means, "Having done a little mischief, I'll shut my eyes and go crashing into all iniquity." As well might one say, "Having burnt my finger, I'll shove my whole body into the fire!"

But Olaf did not take time to think. He pushed boldly forward in the direction of the lake. As he drew near he found the moss becoming softer and deeper, besides being rather wet. Going a few steps further, he found that it changed into a swamp.

"Ho! Snorrie, this is dangerous ground," he said, turning back; "we'll take a round-about and try to get to the lake by a drier way."

He did so, but the more he diverged towards dry ground the more did the swamp force him to one side, until it compelled him to go out of sight of the pond altogether.

"Now, isn't that vexin'?" he said, looking about him.

"Iss," replied Snorro, who was becoming sleepy, and had laid his head on his friend's shoulder.

"Well, as we can't get to the lake, and as this is rather a wild place, we'll just turn back now and get out of it as fast as we can."

"Iss," murmured Snorro, with a deep sigh.

Olaf turned back and made for the edge of the wood. He was so long of coming to it that he began to be somewhat surprised, and looked about him a little more carefully, but the tall straight stems were all so much alike that they afforded him no clue to his way out of the wood. Young though he was, Olaf knew enough of woodcraft to be able to steer his course by the sun; but the sky had become clouded, and the direction of the sun could not be ascertained through the dense foliage overhead. He now became seriously alarmed. His heart beat against his ribs as if it wanted to get out, and he started off at a run in the direction in which, he felt sure, the ridge lay. Becoming tired and still more alarmed, he changed his course, eagerly advanced for a short time, hesitated, changed his course again, and finally stopped altogether, as the terrible fact flashed upon him that he was really lost in the woods. He set Snorro on the ground, and, sitting down beside him, burst into tears.

We need scarcely say that poor Olaf was neither a timid nor an effeminate boy. It was not for himself that he thus gave way. It was the sudden opening of his eyes to the terrible consequences of his disobedience that unmanned him. His quick mind perceived at once that little Snorro would soon die of cold and hunger if he failed to find his way out of that wilderness; and when he thought of this, and of the awful misery that would thus descend on the heads of Karlsefin and Gudrid, he felt a strange desire that he himself might die there and then.

This state of mind, however, did not last long. He soon dried his eyes and braced himself up for another effort. Snorro had gone to sleep the instant he was laid on the ground. As his luckless guide raised him he opened his eyes slightly, murmured "O'af," and again went off to the land of Nod.

Olaf now made a more steady and persevering effort to get out of the wood, and he was so far successful that he came to ground that was more open and broken -- more like to that through which he had been accustomed to travel with the men. This encouraged him greatly, for, although he did not recognise any part of it, he believed that he must now be at all events not far distant from places that he knew. Here he again looked for the sun, but the sky had become so thickly overcast that he could not make out its position. Laying Snorro down, he climbed a tall tree, but the prospect of interminable forest which he beheld from that point of vantage did not afford him any clue to his locality. He looked for the ridge, but there were many ridges in view, any of which might have been his ridge, but none of which looked precisely like it.

Nevertheless, the upward bound which his spirits had taken when he came to the more open country did not altogether subside. He still wandered on manfully, in the hope that he was gradually nearing home.

At last evening approached and the light began to fade away. Olaf was now convinced that he should have to spend the night in the forest. He therefore wisely resolved, while it was yet day, to search for a suitable place whereon to encamp, instead of struggling on till he could go no farther. Fortunately the weather was warm at the time.

Ere long he found a small hollow in a sand-bank which was perfectly dry and thickly overhung with shrubs. Into this he crept and carefully laid down his slumbering charge. Then, going out, he collected a large quantity of leaves. With these he made a couch, on which he laid Snorro and covered him well over. Lying down beside him he drew as close to the child as he could; placed his little head on his breast to keep it warm; laid his own curly pate on a piece of turf, and almost instantly fell into a profound slumber.

The sun was up and the birds were singing long before that slumber was broken. When at last Olaf and his little charge awoke, they yawned several times and stretched themselves vigorously; opened their eyes with difficulty, and began to look round with some half-formed notions as to breakfast. Olaf was first to observe that the roof above him was a confused mass of earth and roots, instead of the customary plank ceiling and cross-beams of home.

"Where am I?" he murmured lazily, yet with a look of sleepy curiosity.

He was evidently puzzled, and there is no saying how long he might have lain in that condition had not a very small contented voice close beside him replied:

"You's here, O'af; an' so's me."

Olaf raised himself quickly on his elbow, and, looking down, observed Snorro's large eyes gazing from out a forest of leaves in quiet satisfaction.

"Isn't it nice?" continued Snorro.

"Nice!" exclaimed Olaf in a voice of despair, when the whole truth in regard to their lost condition was thus brought suddenly to his mind. "Nice! No, Snorrie, my little man, it isn't nice. It's dread-ful! It's awful! It's -- but come, I must not give way like a big baby as I did yesterday. We are lost, Snorrie, lost in the woods."

"Lost! What's lost?" asked Snorro, sitting up and gazing into his friend's face with an anxious expression -- not, of course, in consequence of being lost, which he did not understand, but because of Olaf's woeful countenance.

"Oh! you can't understand it, Snorrie; and, after all, I'm a stupid fellow to alarm you, for that can do no good. Come, my mannie, you and I are going to wander about in the woods to-day a great long way, and try to get home; so, let me shake the leaves off you. There now, we shall start."

"Dat great fun!" cried Snorro, with sparkling eyes; "but, O'af, me want mik."

"Milk -- eh? Well, to be sure, but -- "

Olaf stopped abruptly, not only because he was greatly perplexed about the matter of breakfast thus suggested to him, but because he chanced at that moment to look towards the leafy entrance of the cave, and there beheld a pair of large black eyes glaring at him.

To say that poor Olaf's heart gave a violent leap, and then apparently ceased to beat altogether, while the blood fled from his visage, is not to say anything disparaging to his courage. Whether you be boy or man, reader, we suspect that if you had, in similar circumstances, beheld such a pair of eyes, you might have been troubled with somewhat similar emotions. Cowardice lies not in the susceptibility of the nervous system to a shock, but in giving way to that shock so as to become unfit for proper action or self-defence. If Olaf had been a coward, he would, forgetting all else, have attempted to fly, or, that being impossible, would have shrunk into the innermost recesses of the cave. Not being a coward, his first impulse was to start to his feet and face the pair of eyes; his second, to put his left arm round Snorro, and, still keeping his white face steadily turned to the foe, to draw the child close to his side.

This act, and the direction in which Olaf gazed, caused Snorro to glance towards the cave's mouth, where he no sooner beheld the apparition, than shutting his own eyes tight, and opening his mouth wide, he gave vent to a series of yells that might have terrified the wildest beast in the forest!

It did not, however, terrify the owner of the eyes, for the bushes were instantly thrust aside, and next instant Snorro's mouth was violently stopped by the black hand of a savage.

Seeing this, Olaf's blood returned to its ordinary channels with a rush. He seized a thick branch that lay on the ground, and dealt the savage a whack on the bridge of his nose, that changed it almost immediately from a snub into a superb Roman! For this he received a buffet on the ear that raised a brilliant constellation in his brain, and laid him flat on the ground.

Rising with difficulty, he was met with a shower of language from the savage in a voice which partook equally of the tones of remonstrance and abuse, but Olaf made no reply, chiefly because, not understanding what was said, he could not. Seeing this plainly indicated on his face, the savage stopped speaking and gave him a box on the other ear, by way of interpreting what he had said. It was not quite so violent as the first, and only staggered Olaf, besides lighting up a few faint stars. Very soon little Snorro became silent, from the combined effects of exhaustive squeezes and horror.

Having thus promptly brought matters to what he seemed to consider a satisfactory condition, the savage wiping his Roman nose, which had bled a little, threw Snorro over his shoulder and, seizing Olaf by the collar of his coat, so as to thrust him on in advance, left the cavern with rapid strides.

Words cannot describe the condition of poor Olaf's mind, as he was thus forced violently along through the forest, he knew not whither. Fearful thoughts went flashing swiftly through his brain. That the savage would take him and Snorro to his home, wherever that might be, and kill, roast, and eat him, was one of the mildest of these thoughts. He reflected that the hatred of the savage towards him must be very intense, in consequence of his recent treatment of his nose, and that the pain of that feature would infallibly keep his hatred for a long time at the boiling-point; so that, in addition to the roasting and eating referred to, he had every reason to expect in his own case the addition of a little extra torture. Then he thought of the fact, that little Snorro would never more behold his mother, and the torture of mind resulting from this reflection is only comparable to the roasting of the body; but the worst thought of all was, that the dreadful pass to which he and Snorro had come, was the consequence of his own wilful disobedience! The anguish of spirit that filled him, when he reflected on this, was such that it caused him almost to forget the pain caused by savage knuckles in his neck, and savage prospects in the future.

Oh how he longed for a knife! With what fearful gloating did he contemplate the exact spot in the savage groin into which he would have plunged it until the haft should have disappeared! And this, not so much from a feeling of revenge -- though that was bad enough -- as from an intense desire to rescue Snorro ere it should be too late.

Several times he thought of a final dying effort at a hand-to-hand struggle with his captor, but the power of the grip on the back of his neck induced him to abandon that idea in despair. Then he thought of a sudden wrench and a desperate flight, but as that implied the leaving of Snorro to his fate, he abandoned that idea too in disdain. Suddenly, however, he recurred to it, reflecting that, if he could only manage to make his own escape, he might perhaps find his way back to the settlement, give the alarm, and lead his friends to Snorro's rescue. The power of this thought was so strong upon him, that he suddenly stooped and gave his active body a twist, which he considered absolutely awful for strength, but, much to his astonishment, did not find himself free. On the contrary, he received such a shake, accompanied by such a kick, that from that moment he felt all hope to be gone.

Thus they proceeded through the woods, and out upon an open space beyond, and over a variety of ridges, and down into a number of hollows, and again through several forests not unlike the first, until poor Olaf began to wonder whether they had not passed the boundaries of the world altogether and got into another region beyond -- until his legs, sturdy though they were, began to give way beneath him -- until the noon-day sun shone perpendicularly down through the trees, and felt as if it were burning up his brain. Then they came to a rivulet, on the banks of which were seen several tents of a conical form, made of skins, from the tops of which smoke was issuing.

No sooner did the savage come in sight of these tents than he uttered a low peculiar cry. It was responded to, and immediately a band of half-naked savages, like himself, advanced to meet him.

There was much gesticulation and loud excited talking, and a great deal of pointing to the two captives, with looks expressive of surprise and delight, but not a word could Olaf understand; and the gestures were not definite in their expression.

When Snorro was placed sitting-wise on the ground -- nearly half dead with fatigue, alarm, and hunger -- he crept towards Olaf, hid his face in his breast, and sobbed. Then did Olaf's conscience wake up afresh and stab him with a degree of vigour that was absolutely awful -- for Olaf's conscience was a tender one; and it is a strange, almost paradoxical, fact, that the tenderer a conscience is the more wrathfully does it stab and lacerate the heart of its owner when he has done wrong!

There was, however, no uncertainty as to the disposition of the savages, when, after a thorough inspection of the children, they took them to the tents and set before them some boiled fish and roast venison.

Need we remark that, for the time, Olaf and Snorro forgot their sorrow? It would scarcely be an exaggeration to say that Snorro was as ravenous as any wolf in Vinland. From the day of his birth that well-cared-for child had, four times a day, received regular nutriment in the form of milk, bread, eggs, and other substances, and never once had he been permitted to experience the pangs of hunger, though the intimations thereof were familiar. No wonder, then, that after an evening, a night, and half a day of abstinence, he looked with a longing gaze on victuals, and, when opportunity offered, devoured them desperately. Olaf, though trained a little in endurance, was scarcely less energetic, for his appetite was keen, and his fast had been unusually prolonged.

When they had eaten as much as they could -- to the delight of the natives, excepting, of course, the man with the temporary Roman nose --  they were ordered by signals, which even Snorro understood, to remain still and behave themselves. Thereafter the natives struck their tents, packed up their goods and chattels, embarked in sixteen large canoes, and descended the rivulet a hundred yards or so to the spot where it flowed into a large river. Here they turned the canoes upstream, and silently but swiftly paddled away into the interior of the land.



Chapter Eighteen.

Anxious Times -- A Search Organised And Vigorously Carried Out.

It is not easy to conceive the state of alarm that prevailed in the settlement of the Norsemen when it came to be known that little Snorro and Olaf were lost. The terrible fact did not of course break on them all at once.

For some hours after the two adventurers had left home, Dame Gudrid went briskly about her household avocations, humming tunefully one of her native Icelandic airs, and thinking, no doubt, of Snorro. Astrid, assisted by Bertha, went about the dairy operations, gossiping of small matters in a pleasant way, and, among other things, providing Snorro's allowance of milk. Thora busied herself in the preparation of Snorro's little bed; and Freydissa, whose stern nature was always softened by the sight of the child, constructed, with elaborate care, a little coat for Snorro's body. Thus Snorro's interests were being tenderly cared for until the gradual descent of the sun induced the remark, that "Olaf must surely have taken a longer walk than usual that day."

"I must go and meet them," said Gudrid, becoming for the first time uneasy.

"Let me go with you," said Bertha.

"Come, child," returned Gudrid.

In passing the spot where the little bear had been cut up and skinned, they saw Hake standing with Biarne.

"Did you say that Olaf took the track of the woodcutters?" asked Gudrid.

"Ay, that was their road at starting," answered Biarne. "Are they not later than usual?"

"A little. We go to meet them."

"Tell Olaf that I have kept the bear's claws for him," said Biarne.

The two women proceeded a considerable distance along the woodcutters' track, chatting, as they went, on various subjects, but, not meeting the children, they became alarmed and walked on in silence.

Suddenly Gudrid stopped.

"Bertha," said she, "let us not waste time. If the dear children have strayed a little out of the right road, it is of the utmost importance to send men to search and shout for them before it begins to darken. Come, we will return."

Being more alarmed than she liked to confess, even to herself, Gudrid at once walked rapidly homewards, and, on approaching the huts, quickened her pace to a run.

"Quick, Swend, Hake, Biarne!" she cried; "the children must have lost their way -- haste you to search for them before the sun goes down. Shout as ye go. It will be ill to find them after dark, and if they have to spend the night in the woods, I fear me they will -- "

"Don't fear anything, Gudrid," said Biarne kindly. "We will make all haste, and doubtless shall find them rambling in the thickets near at hand. -- Go, Hake, find Karlsefin, and tell him that I will begin the search at once with Swend, while he gets together a few men."

Cheered by Biarne's hearty manner, Gudrid was a little comforted, and returned to the house to complete her preparation of Snorro's supper, while Hake gave the alarm to Karlsefin, who, accompanied by Leif and a body of men, at once went off to scour the woods in every direction.

Of course they searched in vain, for their attention was at first directed to the woods near home, in which it was naturally enough supposed that Olaf might have lost his way in returning. Not finding them there, Karlsefin became thoroughly alive to the extreme urgency of the case, and the necessity for a thorough and extended plan of search.

"Come hither, Hake," said he. "This may be a longer business than we thought for. Run back to the huts, call out all the men except the home-guards. Let them come prepared for a night in the woods, each man with a torch, and one meal in his pouch at least -- "

"Besides portions for the twenty men already out," suggested Hake.

"Right, right, lad, and tell them to meet me at the Pine Ridge. -- Away! If ever thy legs rivalled the wind, let them do so now."

Hake sprang off at a pace which appeared satisfactory even to the anxious father.

In half an hour Karlsefin was joined at the Pine Ridge by all the available strength of the colony, and there he organised and despatched parties in all directions, appointing the localities they were to traverse, the limits of their search, and the time and place for the next rendezvous. This last was to be on the identical ridge whence poor Olaf had taken his departure into the unknown land. Karlsefin knew well that it was his favourite haunt, and intended to search carefully up to it, never dreaming that the boy would go beyond it after the strict injunctions he had received not to do so, and the promises he had made.

"I'm not so sure as you seem to be that Olaf has not gone beyond the ridge," observed Leif to Karlsefin, after the men had left them.

"Why not?" asked the latter. "He is a most trustworthy boy."

"I know it -- who should know it so well as his own father?" returned Leif; "but he is very young. I have known him give way to temptation once or twice before now. He may have done it again."

"I trust not," said Karlsefin; "but come, let us make direct for the ridge, while the others continue the search; we can soon ascertain whether he has wandered beyond it. I know his favourite tree. Doubtless his footsteps will guide us."

Already it had begun to grow dark, so that when they reached the ridge it was necessary to kindle the torches before anything could be ascertained.

"Here are the footsteps," cried Karlsefin, after a brief search.

Leif, who was searching in another direction, hurried towards his friend, torch in hand.

"See, there is Olaf's footprint on that soft ground," said Karlsefin, moving slowly along, with the torch held low, "but there is no sign of Snorro's little feet. Olaf always carried him -- yet -- ah! here they are on this patch of sand, look. They had halted here -- probably to rest; perhaps to change Snorro's position. I've lost them again -- no! here they are, but only Olaf's. He must have lifted the child again, no doubt."

"Look here," cried Leif, who had again strayed a little from his friend. "Are not these footsteps descending the ridge?"

Karlsefin hastily examined them.

"They are," he cried, "and then they go down towards the wood -- ay, into it. Without doubt Olaf has broken his promise; but let us make sure."

A careful investigation convinced both parents that the children had entered that part of the forest, and that therefore all search in any other direction was useless. Karlsefin immediately re-ascended the ridge, and, putting both hands to his mouth, gave the peculiar halloo which had been agreed upon as the signal that some of the searchers had either found the children or fallen upon their tracks.

"You'll have to give them another shout," said Leif.

Karlsefin did so, and immediately after a faint and very distant halloo came back in reply.

"That's Biarne," observed Karlsefin, as they stood listening intently. "Hist! there is another."

A third and fourth halloo followed quickly, showing that the signal had been heard by all; and in a very short time the searchers came hurrying to the rendezvous, one after another.

"Have you found them?" was of course the first eager question of each, followed by a falling of the countenance when the reply "No" was given. But there was a rising of hope again when it was pointed out that they must certainly be in some part of the tract of dense woodland just in front of them. There were some there, however -- and these were the most experienced woodsmen -- who shook their heads mentally when they gazed at the vast wilderness, which, in the deepening gloom, looked intensely black, and the depths of which they knew must be as dark as Erebus at that hour. Still, no one expressed desponding feelings, but each spoke cheerfully and agreed at once to the proposed arrangement of continuing the search all night by torchlight.

When the plan of search had been arranged, and another rendezvous fixed, the various parties went out and searched the live-long night in every copse and dell, in every bush and brake, and on every ridge and knoll that seemed the least likely to have been selected by the lost little ones as a place of shelter. But the forest was wide. A party of ten times their number would have found it absolutely impossible to avoid passing many a dell and copse and height and hollow unawares. Thus it came to pass that although they were once or twice pretty near the cave where the children were sleeping, they did not find it. Moreover, the ground in places was very hard, so that, although they more than once discovered faint tracks, they invariably lost them again in a few minutes. They shouted lustily, too, as they went along, but to two such sleepers as Olaf and Snorro in their exhausted condition, their wildest shouts were but as the whisperings of a sick mosquito.

Gradually the searchers wandered farther and farther away from the spot, until they were out of sight and hearing.

We say sight and hearing, because, though the children were capable of neither at that time, there was in that wood an individual who was particularly sharp in regard to both. This was a scout of a party of natives who chanced to be travelling in that neighbourhood at the time. The man -- who had a reddish-brown body partially clad in a deer-skin, glittering black eyes, and very stiff wiry black hair, besides uncommonly strong and long white teeth, in excellent order -- chanced to have taken up his quarters for the night under a tree on the top of a knoll. When, in the course of his slumbers, he became aware of the fact that a body of men were going about the woods with flaring torches and shouting like maniacs, he awoke, not with a start, or any such ridiculous exclamation as "Ho!" "Ha!" or "Hist!" but with the mild operation of opening his saucer-like eyes until they were at their widest. No evil resulting from this cautious course of action, he ventured to raise his head an inch off the ground -- which was his rather extensive pillow -- then another inch and another, until he found himself resting on his elbow and craning his neck over a low bush. Being almost black, and quite noiseless, he might have been mistaken for a slowly-moving shadow.

Gradually he gained his knees, then his feet, and then, peering into space, he observed Biarne and Krake, with several others, ascending the knoll.

For the shadow to sink again to its knees, slope to its elbows, recline on its face, and glide into the heart of a thick bush and disappear, did not seem at all difficult or unnatural. At any rate that is what it did, and there it remained observing all that passed.

"Ho! hallo! Olaf! Snorro! hi-i-i!" shouted Biarne on reaching the summit of the knoll.

"Hooroo!" yelled Krake, in a tone that must have induced the shadow to take him for a half-brother.

"Nothing here," said Biarne, holding up the torch and peering round in all directions.

"Nothing whatever," responded Krake.

He little knew at the time that the shadow was displaying his teeth, and loosening in its sheath a long knife or dagger made of bone, which, from the spot where he lay, he could have launched with unerring certainty into the heart of any of those who stood before him. It is well for man that he sometimes does not know what might be!

After a brief inspection of the knoll, and another shout or two, they descended again into the brake and pushed on. The shadow rose and followed until he reached a height whence he could see that the torch-bearers had wandered far away to the westward. As the friends and relatives for whom he acted the part of scout were encamped away to the eastward, he returned to his tree and continued his nap till daybreak, when he arose and shook himself, yawned and scratched his head. Evidently he pondered the occurrences of the night, and felt convinced that if so many strange men went about looking for something with so much care and anxiety, it must undoubtedly, be something that was worth looking for. Acting on this idea he began to look.

Now, it must be well-known to most people that savages are rather smart fellows at making observations on things in general and drawing conclusions therefrom. The shouts led him to believe that lost human beings were being sought for. Daylight enabled him to see little feet which darkness had concealed from the Norsemen, whence he concluded that children were being sought for. Following out his clue, with that singular power of following a trail for which savages are noted, he came to the cave, and peered through the bushes with his great eyes, pounced upon the sleepers, and had his pug nose converted into a Roman -- all as related in the last chapter.

Sometime after sunrise the various searching parties assembled at the place of rendezvous -- fagged, dispirited, and hungry.

"Come," said Karlsefin, who would not permit his feelings to influence his conduct, "we must not allow ourselves to despond at little more than the beginning of our search. We will breakfast here, lads, and then return to the ridge where we first saw their footsteps. Daylight will enable us to track them more easily. Thank God the weather is warm, and I daresay if they kept well under cover of the trees, the dear children may have got no harm from exposure. They have not been fasting very long, so -- let us to work."

Leif and Biarne both fell in with Karlsefin's humour, and cheered the spirits of the men by their tone and example, so that when the hurried meal was finished they felt much refreshed, and ready to begin the work of another day.

It was past noon before they returned to the ridge and began the renewed search. Daylight now enabled them to trace the little footsteps with more certainty, and towards the afternoon they came to the cave where the children had slept.

"Here have they spent the night," said Leif, with breathless interest, as he and Karlsefin examined every corner of the place.

"But they are gone," returned the other, "and it behoves us to waste no time. Go, Biarne, let the men spread out -- stay! -- Is not this the foot of a man who wears a shoe somewhat different from ours?"

"'Tis a savage," said Biarne, in a tone of great anxiety.

Karlsefin made no reply, and the party being now concentrated, they followed eagerly on, finding the prints of the feet quite plain in many places.

"Unquestionably they have been captured by a savage," said Leif.

"Ay, and he must have taken Snorro on his shoulder, and made poor Olaf walk alongside," observed Biarne.

Following the trail with the perseverance and certainty of blood-hounds, they at last came to the deserted encampment on the banks of the rivulet. That it had been forsaken only a short time before was apparent from the circumstance of the embers of the fires still smoking. They examined the place closely and found the little foot-marks of the children, which were quite distinguishable from those of the native children by the difference in the form of the shoes. Soon they came to marks on the bank of the stream which indicated unmistakeably that canoes had been launched there. And now, for the first time, the countenances of Leif and Karlsefin fell.

"You think there is no hope?" asked the latter.

"I won't say that," replied Leif; "but we know not what course they have taken, and we cannot follow them on foot."

"True," observed Karlsefin, in bitter despondency.

"The case is not so bad," observed Heika, stepping forward at this point. "You know we have a number of canoes captured from the savages; some of us have become somewhat expert in the management of these. Let a few of us go back and fetch them hither on our shoulders, with provisions for a long journey, and we shall soon be in a position to give chase. They cannot have gone far yet, and we shall be sure to overtake them, for what we lack in experience shall be more than made up by the strength of our arms and wills."

"Thou art a good counsellor, Heika," said Karlsefin, with a sad smile; "I will follow that advice. Go thou and Hake back to the huts as fast as may be, and order the home-guard to make all needful preparation. Some of us will follow in thy steps more leisurely, and others will remain here to rest until you return with the canoes."

Thus directed the brothers turned their powers of speed to good account, so that, when some of their comrades returned foot-sore and jaded for want of rest, they not only found that everything was ready for a start, but that a good meal had been prepared for them.

While these remained in the settlement to rest and protect it, the home-guards were ordered to get ready for immediate service. Before night had closed in, the brothers, with torches in their hands, headed a party of fresh men carrying three canoes and provisions on their shoulders. They reached the encampment again in the early morning, and by daybreak all was ready for a start. Karlsefin, Thorward, and Heika acted as steersmen; Krake, Tyrker, and Hake filled the important posts of bowmen. Besides these there were six men in each canoe, so that the entire party numbered twenty-four strong men, fully armed with bow and arrow, sword and shield, and provisioned for a lengthened voyage.

"Farewell, friends," said Karlsefin to those who stood on the banks of the little stream. "It may be that we shall never return from this enterprise. You may rest assured that we will either rescue the children or perish in the attempt. Leif and Biarne have agreed to remain in charge of the settlement. They are good men and true, and well able to guide and advise you. Tell Gudrid that my last thoughts shall be of her -- if I do not return. But I do not anticipate failure, for the God of the Christians is with us. -- Farewell."

"Farewell," responded the Norsemen on the bank, waving their hands as the canoes shot out into the stream.

In a few minutes they reached the great river, and, turning upstream, were soon lost to view in the depths of the wide wilderness.



Chapter Nineteen.

New Experiences -- Difficulties Encountered And Overcome -- Thorward And Tyrker Make A Joint Effort, With Humbling Results.

It may be as well to remark here, that the Norsemen were not altogether ignorant of the course of the great river on which they had now embarked. During their sojourn in those regions they had, as we have said, sent out many exploring parties, and were pretty well acquainted with the nature of the country within fifty miles or so in all directions. These expeditions, however, had been conducted chiefly on land; only one of them by water.

That one consisted of a solitary canoe, manned by four men, of whom Heika was steersman, while Hake managed the bow-paddle, these having proved themselves of all the party the most apt to learn the use of the paddle and management of the canoe. During the fight with the savages, recorded in a previous chapter, the brothers had observed that the man who sat in the bow was of quite as much importance in regard to steering as he who sat in the stern; and when they afterwards ascended the river, and found it necessary to shoot hither and thither amongst the surges, cross-currents, and eddies of a rapid, they then discovered that simple steering at one end of their frail bark would not suffice, but that it was necessary to steer, as it were, at both ends. Sometimes, in order to avoid a stone, or a dangerous whirlpool, or a violent shoot, it became necessary to turn the canoe almost on its centre, as on a pivot, or at least within its own length; and in order to accomplish this, the steersman had to dip his paddle as far out to one side as possible, to draw the stern in that direction, while the bowman did the same on the opposite side, and drew the bow the other way -- thus causing the light craft to spin round almost instantly. The two guiding men thus acted in unison, and it was only by thoroughly understanding each other, in all conceivable situations, that good and safe steering could be achieved.

The canoes which had been captured from the savages were frail barks in the most literal sense of these words. They were made of the bark of the birch-tree, a substance which, though tough, was very easily split insomuch that a single touch upon a stone was sufficient to cause a bad leak. Hence the utmost care was required in their navigation. But although thus easily damaged they were also easily repaired, the materials for reparation -- or even, if necessary, reconstruction -- being always at hand in the forest.

Now although Heika and his brother were, as we have said, remarkably expert, it does not follow that those were equally so who managed the other two canoes of the expedition. On the contrary, their experience in canoeing had hitherto been slight. Karlsefin and his bowman Krake were indeed tolerably expert, having practised a good deal with the Scottish brothers, but Thorward turned out to be an uncommonly bad canoe-man; nevertheless, with the self-confidence natural to a good seaman, and one who was expert with the oar, he scouted the idea that anything connected with fresh-water voyaging could prove difficult to him, and resolutely claimed and took his position as one of the steersmen of the expedition. His bowman, Tyrker, as ill luck would have it, turned out to be the worst man of them all in rough water, although he had shown himself sufficiently good on the smooth lake to induce the belief that he might do well enough.

But their various powers in this respect were not at first put to the test, because for a very long way the river was uninterrupted by rapids, and progress was therefore comparatively easy. The scenery through which they passed was rich and varied in the extreme. At one part the river ran between high banks, which were covered to the water's edge with trees and bushes of different kinds, many of them being exceedingly brilliant in colour. At another part the banks were lower, with level spaces like lawns, and here and there little openings where rivulets joined the river, their beds affording far-reaching glimpses of woodland, in which deer might occasionally be seen gambolling. Elsewhere the river widened occasionally into something like a lake, with wooded islets on its calm surface, while everywhere the water, earth, and air teemed with animal life -- fish, flesh, fowl, and insect. It was such a sight of God's beautiful earth as may still be witnessed by those who, leaving the civilised world behind, plunge into the vast wildernesses that exist to this day in North America.

Beautiful though it was, however, the Norsemen had small leisure and not much capacity to admire it, being pre-occupied and oppressed by anxiety as to the fate of the children. Still, in spite of this, a burst of admiration would escape them ever and anon as they passed rapidly along.

The first night they came to the spot where the natives had encamped the night before, and all hands were very sanguine of overtaking them quickly. They went about the encampment examining everything, stirring up the embers of the fires, which were still hot, and searching for little footprints.

Hake's unerring bow had supplied the party with fresh venison and some wild-geese. While they sat over the fires that night roasting steaks and enjoying marrow-bones, they discussed their prospects.

"They have got but a short start of us," said Karlsefin, looking thoughtfully into the fire, before which he reclined on a couch of pine-branches, "and if we push on with vigour, giving ourselves only just sufficient repose to keep up our strength, we shall be sure to overtake them in a day or two."

"It may be so," said Thorward, with a doubtful shake of the head; "but you know, brother, that a stern chase is usually a long one."

Thorward was one of those unfortunate men who get the credit of desiring to throw wet blankets and cold water upon everything, whereas, poor man, his only fault was a tendency to view things critically, so as to avoid the evil consequences of acting on the impulse of an over-sanguine temperament. Thorward was a safe adviser, but was not a pleasant one, to those who regard all objection as opposition, and who don't like to look difficulties full in the face. However, there is no question that it would have been better for him, sometimes, if he had been gifted with the power of holding his tongue!

His friend Karlsefin, however, fully appreciated and understood him.

"True," said he, with a quiet smile, "as you say, a stern chase is a long one; nevertheless we are not far astern, and that is what I count on for shortening the chase."

"That is a just remark," said Thorward gravely, applying a marrow-bone to his lips, and drinking the semi-liquid fat therefrom as if from a cup; "but I think you might make it (this is most excellent marrow!) a still shorter chase if you would take my advice. -- Ho! Krake, hand me another marrow-bone. It seems to me that Vinland deer have a peculiar sweetness, which is not so obvious in those of Norway, though perchance it is hunger which gives the relish; and yet can I truly say that I have been hungered in Norway. However, I care not to investigate reasons too closely while I am engaged in the actual practice of consumption."

Here he put another marrow-bone to his lips, and sucked out the contents with infinite gusto.

"And what may your advice be?" asked his friend, laughing.

"I'll wager that Hake could tell you if his mouth were not too full," replied Thorward, with a smile.

"Say, thou thrall, before refilling that capacious cavern, what had best be done in order to increase our speed?"

Hake checked a piece of wild-fowl on its passage to his mouth, and, after a moment's consideration, replied that in his opinion lightening the load of the canoe was the best thing to be done.

"And say," continued Thorward, beginning to [eat] a large drumstick, "how may that be done?"

"By leaving our provisions behind," answered Hake.

"Ha! did not I say that he could tell you?" growled Thorward between his teeth, which were at that moment conflicting with the sinewy part of the drumstick.

"There is something in that," remarked Karlsefin.

"Something in it!" exclaimed Thorward, resting for a moment from his labours in order to wash all down with a cataract of water; "why, there is everything in it. Who ever heard of a man running a race with a full stomach -- much less winning it? If we would win we must voyage light; besides, what need is there to carry salt salmon and dried flesh with us when the woods are swarming with such as these, and when we have a man in our company who can bring down a magpie on the wing?"

"And that's true, if anything ever was," observed Krake, who had been too busy up to that point to do more than listen.

Hake nodded his approval of the sentiment, and Karlsefin said that he quite agreed with it, and would act upon the advice next day.

"Just take a very little salmon," suggested Tyrker, with a sigh, "for fear this good fortune should perhaps come suddenly to an end."

There was a general laugh at Tyrker's caution, and Karlsefin said he was at liberty to fill his own pockets with salmon for his own use, if he chose.

"Sure it would be much better," cried Krake, "to eat a week's allowance all at once, and so save time and trouble."

"If I had your stomach, Krake, I might try that," retorted Tyrker, "but mine is not big enough."

"Well, now," returned Krake, "if you only continue to over-eat for a week or two, as you're doing just now, you'll find it big enough -- and more!"

"We must sleep to-night, and not talk," said Karlsefin gravely, for he saw that the dispute was likely to wax hot. "Come, get you all to rest. I will call you two hours hence."

Every man of the expedition was sound asleep in a few minutes after that, with the exception of their leader, who was to keep the first half-hour watch -- Thorward, Heika, and Hake being appointed to relieve him and each other in succession.

The moon was shining brightly when the two hours had elapsed. This was very fortunate, because they expected to arrive at the rapids ere long, and would require light to ascend them. Owing to recent heavy rains, however, the current was so strong that they did not reach the rapids till sunrise. Before starting, they had buried all their provisions in such a way that they might be dug up and used, if necessary, on their return.

"'Tis as well that we have daylight here," observed Karlsefin, as he, Thorward, and Hake stood on a rocky part of the bank just below the rapids, and surveyed the place before making the attempt.

It might have been observed that Thorward's face expressed some unusual symptoms of feeling, as he looked up the river, and saw there nothing but a turbulent mass of heaving surges dashing themselves wildly against sharp forbidding rocks, which at one moment were grinning like black teeth amidst the white foam, and the next were overwhelmed by the swelling billows.

"You don't mean to say we have to go up that maelstrom?" he said, pointing to the river, and looking at Hake.

"I would there were any other road," answered Hake, smiling, "but truly I know of none. The canoes are light, and might be carried by land to the still water above the rapids, but, as you see, the banks here are sheer up and down without foothold for a crow, and if we try to go round by the woods on either side, we shall have a march of ten miles through such a country that the canoes will be torn to pieces before the journey is completed."

"Have you and Heika ever ascended that mad stream?" cried Thorward.

"Ay -- twice."

"Without overturning?"

"Yes -- without overturning."

Again Thorward bestowed on the river a long silent gaze, and his countenance wore an expression of blank surprise, which was so amusing that Karlsefin forgot for a moment the anxiety that oppressed him, and burst into a hearty fit of laughter.

"Ye have little to laugh at," said Thorward gravely. "It is all very well to talk of seamanship -- and, truly, if you will give me a good boat with a stout pair of oars, and the roughest sea you ever saw, I will show you what I can do -- but who ever heard of a man going afloat in an egg-shell on a monstrous kettle of boiling water?"

"Why, Hake says he has done it," said Karlsefin.

"When I see him do it I will believe it," replied Thorward doggedly.

"You will not, I suppose, object to follow, if I lead the way?" asked Hake.

"Go to, thrall! Dost think I am afraid?" said Thorward sternly; and then, as if he thought such talk trifling, turned on his heel with a light laugh, and was about to descend the bank of the river to the spot where the men stood in a group near the canoes, when Karlsefin called him back.

"Softly, not so fast, Thorward. Although no doubt we are valiant sailors -- and woe betide the infatuated man who shall venture to deny it! -- yet must we put our pride in our pouches for once, and accept instruction from Hake. After all, it is said that wise men may learn something from babes -- if so, why may not sea-kings learn from thralls? --  unless, indeed, we be not up to the mark of wise men."

"I am all attention," said Thorward.

"This, then," said Hake, pointing to a large rock in the middle of the stream, "is the course you must pursue, if ye would reach the upper end of the rapid in a dry skin. See you yonder rock -- the largest -- where the foam breaks most fiercely, as if in wrath because it cannot overleap it? Well, that is our first resting-place. If you follow my finger closely, you will see, near the foot of the rapid, two smaller rocks, one below the other; they only show now and then as the surges rise and fall, but each has an eddy, or a tail of smooth water below it. Do you see them?"

"I see, I see," cried Thorward, becoming interested in spite of himself; "but, truly, if thou callest that part of the river smooth and a 'tail,' I hope I may never fall into the clutches of the smooth animal to which that tail belongs."

"It is smooth compared with the rest," continued Hake, "and has a back-draught which will enable us to rest there a moment. You will observe that the stone above has also a tail, the end of which comes quite down to the head of the tail below. Well, then, you must make such a bold dash at the rapid that you shall reach the lower eddy. That gained, the men will rest a space and breathe, but not cease paddling altogether, else will you be carried down again. Then make a dash into the stream and paddle might and main till you reach the eddy above. You will thus have advanced about thirty yards, and be in a position to make a dash for the long eddy that extends from the big rock."

"That is all very plain," observed Thorward; "but does it not seem to you, Hake, that the best way to explain matters would be to go and ascend while we look on and learn a lesson through our eyes?"

"I am ready," was the youth's brief reply; for he was a little hurt by the seaman's tone and manner.

"Thorward is right, Hake," said Karlsefin. "Go, take your own canoe up. We will watch you from this spot, and follow if all goes well."

The young Scot at once sprang down the bank, and in a few minutes his canoe with its six men, and Heika steering, shot out from the bank towards the rapid.

All tendency to jest forsook Thorward as he stood beside his friend on the cliff with compressed lips and frowning brow, gazing upon the cork-like vessel which danced upon the troubled waters. In a minute it was at the foot of the broken water. Then Heika's voice rose above the roar of the stream, as he gave a shout and urged on his men. The canoe sprang into the boiling flood. It appeared to remain stationary, while the men struggled might and main.

"'Tis too strong for them!" cried Thorward, becoming excited.

"No; they advance!" said Karlsefin in a deep, earnest tone.

This was true, but their progress was very small. Gradually they overcame the power of the stream and shot into the first eddy, amid the cheers of their comrades on shore. Here they waited only a moment or two, and then made a dash for the second eddy. There was a shout of disappointment from the men, because they swept down so fast that it seemed as if all the distance gained had been lost; but suddenly the canoe was caught by the extreme tail of the eddy, the downward motion of its bow was stopped, it was turned straight upstream, and they paddled easily towards the second rock. Another brief pause was made here, and then a dash was made for the eddy below the large rock. This was more easily gained, but the turbulence of the water was so great that there was much more danger in crossing from one eddy to the other than there had been before.

Under the large rock they rested for a few minutes, and then, dashing out into the rapid, renewed the struggle. Thus, yard by yard, taking advantage of every available rock and eddy, they surmounted the difficulty and landed at the head of the rapids, where they waved their caps to their friends below.

"It's Krake that wishes he was there!" observed that worthy, wiping the perspiration from his brow and drawing a long deep breath; for the mere sight of the struggle had excited him almost as much as if he had engaged in it.

"'Tis Krake that will soon be there if all goes well," remarked Karlsefin, with a laugh, as he came forward and ordered his canoe to be pushed off. "I will be ready to follow, but you had better go first, Thorward. If anything befalls you I am here to aid."

"Well, come along, lads," cried Thorward. "Get into the bow, Tyrker, and see that you do your duty like a man. Much depends on you -- more's the pity!" He added the last words in a low voice, for Thorward, being a very self-reliant man, would like to have performed all the duties himself, had that been possible.

"Shove off!"

They shot from the bank and made for the rapid gallantly. Thorward's shout quite eclipsed that of Heika on taking the rapid. Truly, if strength of lung could have done it, he might have taken his canoe up single-handed, for he roared like a bull of Bashan when Tyrker missed a stroke of his paddle, thereby letting the bow sweep round so that the canoe was carried back to the point whence it had started.

Tremendous was the roar uttered by Thorward when they faced the rapid the second time, and fierce was the struggle of the men when in it, and anxious was Tyrker to redeem his error -- so anxious, in fact, that he missed another stroke and well-nigh fell overboard!

It is said that "Fortune favours the brave." There was no lack of bravery in Tyrker -- only lack of experience and coolness -- and Fortune favoured him on this occasion. If he had not missed a stroke and fallen forward, his miscalculation of aqueous forces would have sent the canoe past the mark in the opposite direction from the last time; but the missed stroke was the best stroke of all, for it allowed the canoe to shoot into the first eddy, and converted a terrific roar of wrath from Thorward into a hearty cheer.

Resting a few moments, as Heika and his crew had done, they then addressed themselves to the second part of the rapid. Here Thorward steered so well that the canoe took the stream at the proper angle; but Tyrker, never having perceived what the right angle was, and strongly impressed with the belief that the bow was pointing too much up the river, made a sudden stroke on the wrong side! The canoe instantly flew not only to the tail of the eddy, but right across it into the wild surges beyond, where it was all but upset, first to one side then to the other, after which it spun round like a teetotum, and was carried with fearful violence towards one of those rocky ridges which we have described as being alternately covered and uncovered by the foam. On the crest of a bulging cascade they were fortunately borne right over this ridge, which next moment showed its black teeth, as if grinning at the dire mischief it might have done if it had only chosen to bite! Next instant the canoe overturned, and left the men to flounder to land, while it went careering down towards the gravelly shallows below.

Now Karlsefin had anticipated this, and was prepared for it. In the first place, he had caused the arms, etcetera, to be removed from Thorward's canoe before it set out, saying that he would carry them up in his canoe, so that his friend's might go light. Then, having his vessel ready and manned, he at once pushed out and intercepted the other canoe before it reached the gravelly shallows, where it would have been much damaged, if not dashed to pieces.

"That is bad luck," observed Thorward, somewhat sulkily, as, after swimming ashore, he wrung the water from his garments.

"Not worse than might have been expected on a first trial," said Karlsefin, laughing. "Besides, that rascal Tyrker deceived me. Had I known he was so bad, you should have had Krake."

Poor Tyrker, very much crestfallen, kept carefully away from the party, and did not hear that remark.

"Now it is my turn," continued Karlsefin. "If we get up safely I will send Heika down to take the bow of your canoe."

Karlsefin, as we said, was somewhat more expert than most of the men in managing canoes, and Krake, besides having had more experience than many of his fellows, had once before visited and ascended this rapid. They therefore made the ascent almost as well as the Scots had done.

Arrived at the upper end, Hake and Heika were ordered to remove everything out of their canoe, and, with a full crew, to run down to the aid of their friends. Karlsefin himself went with them as one of the crew, so that he might take the steering paddle when Heika should resign it in order to act as Thorward's bowman. Thus manned, the second attempt was crowned with success, and, not long afterwards the three canoes swept into a smooth reach of the river above the rapids, and proceeded on their way.

But a great deal of time had been lost in this way, and Karlsefin felt that it must be made up for by renewed diligence and protracted labour.



Chapter Twenty.

Remarkable Experiences Of Olaf And Snorro -- The Former Suffers The Pangs Of Remorse.

A camp of savages is, in some respects, exceedingly unattractive. Indeed, it may truly be said to be in many respects repulsive. There are usually odours in such a camp which are repellent to the nose, dishes that are disgusting to the taste, sights that are disagreeable to the eyes, sounds that are abhorrent to the ear, and habits that are uncongenial to the feelings.

Nevertheless there is much in such a camp that is deeply interesting. The student of nature, the mental and moral philosopher, the anthropologist, and the philanthropist -- ay, even the cynic -- might each find much food here suited to his particular tastes and powers of mental digestion. At present, however, we have chiefly to do, good reader, with that which interests you and me -- namely, Olaf and Snorro, who were prisoners of war in a savage camp.

The camp referred to was not the small affair already described as having taken sudden flight from the rivulet which flowed into the great river, where we have left the Norsemen doing battle with the waters. It was the great parent, of which that little camp was but an offshoot -- the head-quarters of a whole tribe of savages, who dwelt in it to the extent of many hundreds. Yet it was not a fixed camp. It was a moving village of leathern tents, or wigwams, pitched without any regard to order, on the margin of what appeared to be a small lake, but which was in reality a mere widening of the great river.

Hither Olaf and Snorro were brought by their captors, and immediately conveyed to the tent of the chief, who was an aged and white-haired though vigorous and strong-boned savage. Whitepow, for such, curiously enough, was his name, opened his eyes uncommonly wide when he saw the children of the Norsemen, and, sitting up on the couch of furs on which he had been reclining, gazed at them for about five minutes without speaking, almost without winking.

Snorro did not appear to relish this, for he crept close to Olaf's side and tried to turn away his eyes, but found this to be impossible, for a sort of fascination kept them riveted on the countenance of the aged Whitepow.

At last the savage chief opened his mouth as well as his eyes, and spoke to the savage who had brought the children into the royal presence. That worthy rapidly related the circumstances of the capture -- at least so it is to be presumed, but no one can now tell for certain -- after which Whitepow turned to Olaf and said something which as near as possible resembled the words:

"Whardeekum froyoul ittlsiner?"

"I don't understand you," answered Olaf humbly. Whitepow repeated the words, and Olaf reiterated his assurance that he could make nothing of them whatever.

This concluded the interview at that time, and Whitepow gave an order which resulted in the children being conveyed to a tent where there were several women, old and young, to whom they were handed over with a message which we cannot record, not knowing what it was.

The reception which they met with from these native women was flattering, if not in all respects pleasant. First, they were placed in the centre of the group and gazed at in wondering admiration. Then they were seized and kissed and hugged all round the circle. Then they were examined carefully all over, and under as well, their white skins being as much a matter of interest as their clothing. After that their fair hair was smoothed and parted by not untender hands, and they were hugged again -- just as two new dolls might have been by a group of sisters on first making their acquaintance.

Of course there was an immense deal of talking and chatting and commenting, also no small amount of giggling, and once or twice one of the women addressed Olaf; but Olaf shook his head and stuck to his first assurance that their words were incomprehensible.

All this was borne by the captives with wonderful equanimity, because neither was old enough to be much affected by dirtiness of person or garments, and both were thoroughly able to appreciate kindness.

Finally, a stout and not bad-looking young woman took possession of Snorro, and robbed her own offspring in order to bestow on him a very acceptable drink of milk. This last act quite reconciled him to his fate, and Olaf, though not so easily won over, was somewhat mollified by a kindly old woman, who placed him at her side, and set before him a dish of dried berries.

When this feeding process was concluded, and the first blush of novelty began to wear off, the children were turned out in front of the women's tent, where, seated together on a bit of wood, they underwent the inspection of the whole tribe, old and young, male and female. This was a much more trying ordeal, but in about an hour an order was issued which resulted in the dispersion of every one save a few boys, who were either privileged individuals or rebellious subjects, for they not only came back to gaze at the children, but ventured at length to carry them off to play near the banks of the river.

Olaf was so far reconciled to his new friends that he did not object to witness and take an interest in their games, though he resolutely refused to join, fearing that if he did so his little charge might be spirited away while he was not watching.

At last one of the boys, whose head was very small and round, and whose name appeared to be Powlet, came forward with a little red paint, and offered to apply it to Olaf's face. All the boys' faces were, we may observe, more or less painted with black, red, white, and blue colours, and their heads were decorated more or less with feathers. Indeed, these feathers constituted, with the exception of a trifling shred of leather about the loins, and some feathers in their hair, all the clothing they wore at that season of the year.

Olaf refused to be painted, whereupon Powlet rubbed the red paint on the point of his own nose, an operation which so tickled the fancy of Snorro, that he burst into a hearty fit of laughter, to Olaf's ineffable joy.

"That's right, Snorrie," he cried, setting the child on his knee, "laugh again; do it heartily; it will cheer us both."

"It am so fun-ny, O'af," said Snorro, repeating the laugh as he looked at the native boy.

Observing the success of his efforts to please, Powlet put a spot of the red paint under each eye, and Snorro laughed so much at this that all the other boys came crowding round to ascertain and enjoy the joke.

Powlet now offered to anoint Snorro in the same way, but Snorro objected, and, pointing to his protector said, with a look of glee -- 

"Do O'af."

Nothing else would have induced Olaf to submit, but Snorro's wish was law to him. He therefore consented at once, and Powlet, dipping his finger in the red paint which he carried in the hollow of his hand, drew a thick stroke from Olaf's forehead down to the point of his nose, where he made it terminate in a large, round spot.

There was a tremendous shout at this, not only from Snorro, but from all the other boys; and Olaf was so pleased to see Snorro happy, that he turned to Powlet, pointed to his face, and nodded his head by way of inviting further decoration.

Powlet was an intelligent boy. He understood him at once, and went on with his work, a boy coming up at the moment with some white paint in his hand, and another with some blue. A white diamond was immediately planted on each cheek, and a blue circle under each eye, with a red spot in the centre of each. So far, the work was very striking and suggestive, but when Powlet finished off by drawing a series of blue, red, and white lines over Olaf's eyes, in the forms that usually indicate astonishment, added a red oval to the chin, with a blue spot in the middle of it, and stuck some feathers in his hair, the effect was absolutely tremendous, for it caused the native boys to yell with delight, and Snorro almost to fall off his protector's knee in a fit of juvenile hysterics.

"Don't overdo it, Snorrie," said Olaf in some alarm.

"Oh! O'af, 'oo is so fun-ny!" he cried again, giving way to mirth till the tears ran down his cheeks.

At this point a tall savage came rushing out of the chief's tent with glaring eyes, and made for the spot where the boys were assembled. They seemed to know at once what was his errand, for, with one consent, they scattered and fled. The tall savage singled out Powlet, caught him, punched his head, and flung him into the river, after which he turned, and, without taking any notice of the captives further than to gaze at them, returned leisurely to the regal tent.

Meanwhile Powlet came to the surface, swam like an otter to the shore, and, clambering up the bank, ran into the woods, seemingly none the worse of his bath.

Thus left alone, Olaf put Snorro on his back and sauntered away into the woods along the banks of the river. Forgetting his ridiculous appearance, he began to think of home and to feel very sad, while his charge, overcome with his late exertions, fell asleep on his back. The longer he walked the sadder he grew, and at last he groaned rather than said, "What shall I do?"

Suddenly it occurred to him, that as the savages appeared to be very careless about watching him, he might run away. It could do no harm to try, and he would not be in a much worse position than when lost in the woods before. Under the influence of this thought he stopped and looked cautiously round in all directions. No one was to be seen. He breathed hard, turned off the track on tiptoe until he had got into what appeared to him to be a very dense and sequestered part of the woods, then suddenly took to his heels and ran for his life!

A loud laugh sounded in the bushes in front of him, and he stopped short just as Powlet appeared, wagging his small head and laughing inordinately.

Poor Olaf guessed at once that the boy had been set to watch him; he therefore wheeled about and walked back to the river, where, going out on a spit of land that he might not be overheard, he sat down on the ground and communed bitterly with himself.

"Oh why, why did I break my promise?" he murmured in deep despondency.

After a long silence he began to think aloud.

"It all comes of disobedience!" he muttered.

"Father used to say, 'If you love me, obey me. If you want to prove that you love Gudrid, obey her.' That's it, Olaf. It's there that the sin lies. He told me never to pass the ridge, and I did pass the ridge, even though I had promised not to; and so, owing to that little bit of disobedience, here you are, Olaf -- and Snorrie too -- poor Snorrie --  and we're likely to remain here for ever, as far as I can see. Oh that I had not done it! But what good can wishing do now? If I had loved father better, perhaps I would have obeyed him better."

It would almost seem as if Olaf had heard of such a word as this -- "If ye love me, keep my commandments!"

After a few minutes he broke forth again -- "Yes, I know that I did not intend to disobey; nevertheless I did it. And I did not think such awful things would follow -- but that does not mend the matter. What shall I do? Snorrie, I think I could gladly lay down my life, if I could give you back once more to your mother."

Snorro heard not the remark. He was as sound as a top, and Olaf looked sadly at the little head that lay on his shoulder. Then it struck him that it was high time to have the child put to bed, so he rose and hurried back to the women's tent, where he was received with as much kindness as before.

Very soon Snorro's little head reposed upon a pillow of rabbit-skins, and not long after that Olaf went to rest beside him on a deer-skin couch, where, lying on his back, he could see the sky through the hole in the top of the tent whence the smoke of the fire escaped. As he lay there the burden of his thoughts was ever the same -- "Oh why did I do it? Why did I disobey?" Thus the poor boy lay, self-condemned, and gazed upwards and pondered, until sweet sleep came and carried heart and brain to the blessed refuge of oblivion.



Chapter Twenty One.

Reinforcements Sent Off To Karlsefin -- Foes Discovered In The Woods -- A Night Attack, And Other Warlike Matters.

We must return now for a little to the settlement of the Norsemen, which, by the way, had by this time come to be called by the name of Leifsgaard.

Here, from Thorward's house, there issued tones which indicated the existence of what is popularly known as a "breeze." Human breezes are usually irregular, and blow after the manner of counter-currents; but in Thorward's habitation the breezes almost invariably blew in one direction, and always issued from the lungs of Freydissa, who possessed a peculiar knack of keeping and enjoying all the breeze to herself, some passive creature being the butt against which it impinged.

On the present occasion that butt was Bertha. Indeed, Bertha was a species of practising-butt, at which Freydissa exercised herself when all other butts failed, or when she had nothing better to do.

"Don't say to me that you can't help it!" she cried, in her own amiably shrill tones. "You can help it well enough if you choose. You are always at it, morning, noon, and night; I'm quite sick of you, girl; I'm sorry I brought you here; I'd send you back to Greenland to-morrow if I could. If the ship sank with you on the passage, I'd rejoice -- I would! There! don't say it again, now; you're going to -- I can see that by your whimpering look. Don't say you can't help it. Don't! don't! Do you hear?"

"Indeed, indeed I can't -- "

"There! I knew you would," shrieked Freydissa, as she raised herself from the wash-tub in which she had been manipulating some articles of clothing as if she were tearing Bertha to pieces -- "why can't you?"

"It isn't easy to help weeping," whimpered Bertha, as she continued to drive her spinning-wheel, "when one thinks of all that has passed, and poor -- "

"Weeping! weeping!" cried Freydissa, diving again into the tub; "do you call that weeping? I call it downright blubbering. Why, your face is as much begrutten as if you were a mere baby."

This was true, for what between her grief at the sudden disappearance of Olaf and Snorro, and the ceaseless assaults of her mistress, who was uncommonly cross that morning, Bertha's pretty little face was indeed a good deal swelled and inflamed about the eyes and cheeks. She again took refuge in silence, but this made no difference to Freydissa, or rather it acted, if anything, as a provocative of wrath. "Speak, you hussy!" was usually her irate manner of driving the helpless little handmaid out of that refuge.

"What were you going to say? Poor what?" she asked sharply, after a few minutes' silence.

"I was going to say that poor Snorro and -- "

"Oh! it's all very well to talk of poor Snorro," interrupted her mistress; "you know quite well that you took to snivelling long before Snorro was lost. You're thinking of Hake, you are. You know you are, and you daren't deny it, for your red face would give you the lie if you did. Hake indeed! Even though he is a thrall, he's too good for such a silly thing as you. There, be off with you till you can stop your weeping, as you call it. Go!"

Freydissa enforced her command by sending a mass of soapy cloth which she had just wrung out after the retreating Bertha. Fortunately she was a bad shot. The missile flew past its intended object, and, hitting a hen, which had ventured to intrude, on the legs, swept it with a terrific cackle into the road, to the amazement, not to say horror, of the cock and chickens.

As Bertha disappeared Biarne entered the room -- "Hallo! Freydissa, stormy weather -- eh?"

"You can go outside and see for yourself," answered Freydissa angrily.

"So I mean to," returned Biarne, with a smile, "for the weather is pleasanter outside than in; but I must first presume to put the question that brought me here. Do you chance to know where Leif is this morning?"

"How should I know?"

"By having become acquainted with the facts of the case somehow," suggested Biarne.

"Well, then, I don't know; so you can go study the weather."

"Oho! mistress: I see that it is time we sent to Iceland for another cat!"

This allusion to her husband's former treatment of her pet was almost the only thing that could calm -- or at least restrain -- the storm! Freydissa bit her lips and flushed as she went on with her washing, but she said nothing more.

"Well, good-morning," said Biarne as he left the house to search for Leif.

He found him busily engaged in executing some repairs on board the "Snake."

"I have a thought in my head," said Biarne.

"Out with it then," replied Leif, wiping his brow, "because thoughts, if kept long in the brain, are apt to hatch, and the chicken-thoughts are prone to run away at the moment of birth, and men have a tendency to chase the chickens, to the utter forgetting of the original hens! What is thy thought, Biarne?"

"That I should take as many of the men as you can spare," he replied, "and go off by water to reinforce Karlsefin."

"That is strange," said Leif. "I sometimes think that there must be a mysterious influence which passes between mind and mind. The very same thought came into my head this morning when I was at work on this oar, and I had intended to talk with you on the subject. But why do you think this course of action needful?"

"Just because the party of savages may turn out to be larger than we imagined, or they may be joined by others, and it has occurred to me that the force which is out with Karlsefin is barely sufficient to make a good stand against heavy odds. With a small party heavy odds against you is a serious matter; but with a large party heavy odds on the side of the enemy makes little weight -- unless, indeed, their men are willing to come on and be killed in large numbers, which my experience of savages assures me that they are never willing to do."

"Your reasons, Biarne, are very much the same as my own; therefore, being of one mind, we shall go about the business without delay, for if our aid is to reach them at all it must be extended at once. Go, then, select and collect your men; I will be content to guard the place with the half of those that are now here; and make haste, Biarne, the more I think of it the more I fear delay."

Biarne was not slow to act. In a remarkably brief space of time he had selected his men, prepared the canoes, loaded them with arms and food, and got everything ready; so that before the afternoon had far advanced he was enabled to set off with four canoes and thirty-two men.

Meanwhile Leif had set those that remained to complete a small central point of defence -- a sort of fortalice -- which had been for some time in preparation as a last refuge for the colonists in the event of their ever being attacked by overwhelming numbers.

Karlsefin had long seen the propriety of building some such stronghold; but the friendly relations that had existed for a considerable period between the Norsemen and the natives had induced him to suspend building operations, until several annoying misunderstandings and threats on the part of the savages had induced him to resume the work. At the time of which we write it was almost completed.

This fortress was little more than a strong palisade of stout planks about twelve feet high, placed close together, with narrow slits on every side for the discharge of arrows, and a platform all round the top inside, on which men could stand to repel an assault or discharge stones and other missiles over the wall. But the chief strength of the place lay in its foundation, which was the summit of a small isolated rocky mound in the centre of the hamlet. The mound was not more than thirty feet high, but its sides were so steep that the top could not be reached without difficulty, and its area was so small that the little fortification embraced the whole of it. It was large enough, however, to contain the whole population of the place, exclusive of the cattle.

To the completion, then, of this place of refuge, Leif addressed himself with all the energy of his nature. A large shed was erected in one corner of it, with a strong plank roof, to protect the women from stones, arrows, and javelins, which were the only projectiles in vogue at that period of the world's history. Another shed was built just under the fortalice, on the lake side, for the safe housing of the live stock. Arrows were made in great numbers by some of the men, while others gathered and stored an immense supply of heavy ammunition in the shape of stones. Besides this a large quantity of dried provisions was stored in the women's shed, also a supply of water; but in regard to the last, being near the lake, and within easy bow-shot of their vessel, they trusted to bold night-sallies for additional supplies of the indispensable fluid. Finally, the work was carried on with such vigour that eight days after Biarne's departure it was finished.

Finished -- and not a moment too soon! At the time when Biarne started on his voyage, the woods were, unknown to the Norsemen, alive with savages. Fortunately these had not observed the departure of the canoes, the whole of them being engaged at the time deep within the woods, holding a council of war, in which it was resolved to attack the white invaders of their land, kill them all, and appropriate their property.

Leif committed a slight mistake in not sending out scouts at this time to guard against surprise, but he was so eager to have the works completed that he grudged sending away any of his small body of men.

On the day when everything had been got ready, he sent a man named Hengler, who was an expert bowman, to procure some venison. In less than an hour Hengler was seen running towards the hamlet at break-neck speed, with his eyes almost starting out of his head, his hair streaming in the breeze, and two savages close on his heels.

"To arms, men!" shouted Leif, as he snatched up a bow, and, without waiting to put on helmet or sword, ran out to meet Hengler.

Seeing this, the savages stopped, hastily fitted arrows to their bowstrings and discharged them, the one at Hengler, the other at Leif. The first just grazed the flying Norseman's ear; the other fell short, but before a second discharge was possible Leif had sent an arrow whizzing at the first savage. It pierced his thigh. Uttering a fierce yell, he plucked the shaft out of the wound, and turning round fled back to the woods followed by his companion.

"Not a moment to lose," gasped Hengler, as he ran into the hamlet. "There are hundreds of them everywhere."

"Coming towards us?" asked Leif.

"Not when I saw them, but doubtless when these two return they will come down like a mountain foss."

"Quick, get into the fort, lads! -- Stay, Hengler, assist me with the women."

"Do you think they really mean to attack us?" asked Gudrid, who, with Bertha and Freydissa, came forward at the moment.

"Assuredly they do," answered Leif; "come, follow Hengler to the fort. Whatever they intended before, the arrow in that fellow's leg will settle the question. Where are Thora and Astrid?"

"In the dairy," replied Gudrid.

"Away, then; I go to fetch them."

"Would that I were a man!" exclaimed Freydissa, catching up a spear and shaking it as she strode along with the rest. "I'd teach them to think twice before coming here to disturb peaceable folk!"

"Peaceable," thought Leif, with a grim smile, as he hurried towards the dairy; but he said nothing, for he deemed that to be a time for silence and action.

In a few minutes nearly all the population of the place had taken refuge in the fort, and soon afterwards the livestock was driven into the shed beside the rock. The gate was then shut and the men mounted the battlements, or breastwork, to watch for the expected foe.

But no foe made his appearance. Hour after hour passed away; the sun descended behind the tree-tops and below the horizon; the grey mantle of evening overspread the scene; still the watchers stood on the battlements and gazed intently into the forest -- still there was not the slightest sound or symptom of an enemy in the vast sleeping wilderness.

"Now this is passing strange," observed Hengler, who had been appointed second in command, and stood beside Leif.

"Not so strange as ye suppose," replied Leif. "Many a time have I fought with men in the mountains of Norway and on the plains of Valland, and invariably have I found that a surprise is never attempted save in the night."

"True," returned Hengler, "but when a very strong foe stands before a very weak one, it seems to me childish to delay the assault."

"Thine ignorance of war must be great, Hengler," returned Leif, regarding the man with a smile, "if thou hast yet to learn that a body of men weak in numbers becomes passing strong when posted behind good walls, with plenty of missiles and provender."

"My knowledge of war is not great," said the man, who was quite a youth, "but methinks it is like to improve now."

"I fear it is," returned Leif sadly, "but now I will give thee a job to perform that is necessary. From my experience of such matters I feel well assured that the savages intend an assault during the night, when they doubtless expect that their numbers will more easily cope with and overcome us; but in my judgment it is likely that they understand nothing of this fort-work, therefore I shall give them a surprise, instead of receiving one at their hands. Go thou, then, with six of the most active among the men, and slip as quietly as may be into the forest; gather there as many pine cones as shall fill your shields to overflowing, and bring them hither, along with a quantity of birch bark. If ye are attacked fight your way back, and we will cover your retreat from the ramparts."

While Hengler and six men were absent on this duty, another small party was sent to fetch into the fort a log about eighteen feet long, which lay on the ground close at hand; at the same time they were ordered to run down to the lake and bring up three or four old planks which had lain for a long time in the water, and were quite sodden. These things were all secured and carried into the fortress in the course of a few minutes. The log was then set up on end and sunk deep into a hole in the ground, so that it remained standing in the centre of the fort with the top just reaching a little above the walls. Pegs were driven into it all the way up, so that a man could easily ascend it. On the top of this pole was affixed a platform made of the soaked planks, about six feet square, with a hole left near the head of the pole through which a man could thrust himself. These Norsemen were smart in using their hands and axes. The contrivance which we have taken so long to describe was erected in a very few minutes. It was well-nigh completed when Hengler and his party returned with the pine cones and birch bark, both of which substances are exceedingly resinous and inflammable. Leif made the men carry them to the top of the pole, and pile them on the platform. He then ordered a small fire to be kindled in a corner of the fort, but to be kept very low and small, so that the tiny wreath of smoke which arose from it might be dissipated before it reached the battlements. After that he called all the men to him.

"Now, my lads," said he, "it is likely that these savages will try to take us by surprise. This they will not find it easy to do. From what I know of them they will come like the fox -- slily -- and try to pounce upon us. We will let them come; we will let them pounce, and not show face until such time as I give the word -- then ye will know how to quit you like men. Away, all of you, to rest -- each man with his shield above him and his sword by his side. I myself will do the part of sentinel."

The men quietly obeyed this order. Leif did not think it necessary to say more to them, but to Hengler and two others who had been selected as leaders he revealed more minutely the intended plan of action before they lay down.

Leaving Hengler for a few minutes to guard the walls, he entered the shed where the women were seated.

"You must keep well under cover, Gudrid," he said, "for it is likely that these fellows will shower some arrows upon us -- perhaps something heavier; but we are well prepared to receive them."

"Are our enemies numerous?" asked Gudrid anxiously.

"So it is said, but that will do them little service so long as we are behind these walls."

"I wish I had my fingers in their chief's hair!" muttered Freydissa between her teeth.

"I echo the wish you expressed not long ago," said Leif laughing. "Would that thou wert a man, Freydissa, for assuredly a spirit like thine is invaluable on the field of battle."

"Thankful am I that there are other fields besides battle-fields where women may be useful," observed Bertha, who was seated on a box beside Astrid, with her arm round her waist.

Freydissa merely cast on her handmaid a look of scorn, for she was aware that neither the time nor place was suited to the exercise of her peculiar talents.

"I just looked in to assure you that all goes well," said Leif, addressing the women generally, "and that you have nothing to fear."

"We fear nothing!" said Freydissa, answering for the rest.

The somewhat flippant remark, "Speak for yourself," might have been appropriately made by some of her sisterhood, but they were all too anxious about the impending danger to heed what she said.

When Leif rejoined Hengler on the walls, the shades of night had fallen on the forest. He advised his lieutenant to lie down, but Hengler begged and obtained permission to share his vigil.

There was no moon that night, and it became extremely dark -- just such a night as was suited to the purpose of the natives. Leif stood motionless, like a statue, leaning on his spear. His man sat on the rampart; both gazed and listened with painful intensity.

At last Leif pointed to what appeared to be a moving object on the space of cleared ground that intervened between the slight wall of the hamlet and the edge of the forest.

"Awake the men," he whispered, "and let not a sound of voice or clank of sword be heard."

Hengler made no reply, but glided silently away. One by one the men came up with the light tread of cats, and manned the walls, keeping well under cover of the parapet -- each taking his appointed station beside his particular pile of stones and sheaf of arrows, which lay on the platform, while below a man with a bow was stationed at every slit.

Suddenly there arose on the night air a yell so fierce, so prolonged, and so peculiar, that it made even the stout hearts of the Norsemen quail for a moment -- it was so unearthly, and so unlike any war-cry they had ever before heard. Again and again it was repeated, then a rushing sound was heard, and hundreds of dark objects were indistinctly seen leaping over the slight wall of felled trees that surrounded the hamlet.

With furious shouts the savages surrounded the houses, burst open the doors, and rushed in; but they rushed out again almost immediately, and their yells were exchanged for exclamations of surprise as they went about searching in the dark for their concealed enemies. Of course they came to the rock-fortress almost immediately after, and another war-cry was uttered as they surrounded the place in hundreds, but as there was still no sound or appearance of their expected foe, they became suddenly silent, as if under the impression that there was something mysterious in the affair which was not in accordance with their past experiences.

They nevertheless clambered to the top of the rock, and began to feel round the bottom of the wooden palisades for a door.

At that moment, while they were clustering thick as bees round the base of the building, Leif gave a preconcerted signal. One of the men applied a light to the pile of bark and fir-cones, and a bright flash of flame shot upward as Leif said, -- "Up, lads!" in deep stern tones.

Instantly a shower of heavy stones descended on the pates of the savages, who rolled down the steep sides of the mound with shrieks and cries and yells very different indeed from those which had characterised their assault. From all directions the savages now concentrated on the fortress. At the same time the fire suddenly shot up with such a glare that the whole scene was made nearly as light as day, and from the parapets and every loop-hole of the fortress a very hail of arrows poured forth into the midst of them, while their own shafts either quivered in the palisade or fell harmless from the shields and helmets of the Norsemen.

Even in that hour of extreme danger, Leif's desire to spare life, with a view to future proposals of peace, was exemplified in his ordering the men to draw their bows slightly, so as to wound without killing, as much as possible, and to aim as well as they could at the legs of the foe! One result of this was, that the wounded men were soon very numerous, and, as they fled away, filled the woods with such howls of agony that their still unhurt comrades were more alarmed than they would probably have been if the ground had been strewn with the dead.

At this point a vigorous sally from the fortress, and a deep-toned Norse cheer, settled the question for the time being. The entire army of dark-skinned warriors turned and fled into its native wilderness!

There was not, it may be well to remark here, so much danger in this sally as we moderns might suppose, for, even though the savages had not run, but had faced and surrounded their enemy, these Norsemen, with their massive limbs, sweeping swords, large shields, and defensive armour, could have cut their way back again to the fort through hundreds of such half-naked foes.

Of course Leif had expected them to fly, and had no intention of retiring immediately to the fort. He merely went the length of the outer wall, and then, with half of his men, kept up a vigorous shouting to expedite the flight of the foe, while the other half picked up as many arrows as they could find. Leif was glad to learn, on returning to the fort, that only two dead men had been discovered on the ground.

But the savages had not given in by any means, as became pretty clear from the noise they made in the woods soon afterwards. This continued all night, and Leif ordered the fire to be extinguished, lest they should be tempted by its light to send a flight of arrows among them, which might wound some of his people when off their guard.

When the first grey light of dawn appeared, it became evident to the beleaguered Norsemen what the savages had been about. Not very far from the fortress an enormous pile of dry timber had been raised, and, although it was within easy bow-shot, the savages managed, by dodging from tree to tree, to get under its shelter with fresh logs on their shoulders, and thus increased the pile continually.

"They mean to burn us out!" exclaimed Hengler anxiously.

"Rather to smoke us out," observed one of the men. "Fire can never reach us from that distance."

Leif, who was very grave, shook his head and said: -- 

"If they make the pile very big it may reach us well enough. They have plenty of hands and no lack of wood. See, they are piling it to windward. God grant that the breeze may not increase, else shall we have to forsake the fortress. Nevertheless our good ship is at hand," he added, in a more cheerful tone, "and they will find us tough to deal with when we get upon the water. -- Come, lads, we will at all events harass if we cannot stop them."

So saying, Leif ordered the men to keep up a constant discharge of arrows whenever they obtained a glimpse of the savages, and he himself headed a sally and drove them back to the woods. But as soon as he and his men had returned to the fortress, out came the savages again like a swarm of bees, and continued their work vigorously.

Thus the morning passed away, and the pile of the intended bonfire, despite the arrows and the frequent sallies of the Norsemen, continued slowly but steadily to grow.



Chapter Twenty Two.

Hake Makes A Bold Venture, But Does Not Win -- The Norsemen Find That There Is Many A Slip 'Twixt The Cup And The Lip.

When Karlsefin and his men had surmounted the rapid, as before described, they found their future advance unimpeded, and, in the natural course of things -- or of the river -- arrived, not long after the children, at the lake-like expansion on the shores of which the native village stood.

This village, it must be understood, was not a permanent one. The natives were nomads. Their tents were merely poles cut as required from the neighbouring woods, tied together at the top, spread out in a circle at the base, and covered with leather, which coverings were the only parts of their habitations the natives deigned to carry about with them. They were here to-day and away to-morrow, stopping a longer or shorter time in each encampment according to fancy, or to the measure of their success in procuring food. The particular tribe of natives which had captured the Norsemen's children had only just come to the locality; they therefore knew nothing of the arrival of the white strangers in their land, except what they had recently learned from their scouts, as we have seen.

Karlsefin's canoe led the way; hence, on turning sharp round a point of rock that jutted out into the stream, Krake was the first who caught sight of the smoke that rose above the tree-tops.

"Hist! hold on," he exclaimed in a hoarse whisper, looking over his shoulder as he backed-water suddenly. Karlsefin and the men instantly did the same, and sent the canoe back under the shelter of the point. The other canoes of course followed suit.

"The Skraelingers!" whispered Krake. "I saw the smoke of their fires."

"Did you see tents?" asked the leader.

"No; there was scarce time to see anything before we got back here."

"What do you advise?" asked Karlsefin, looking at Thorward.

"Go ashore and attack them at once," he replied.

"Ay, that's it, there's nothing like fighting it out at once!" muttered Krake in an undertone.

"My advice," said Karlsefin, "is, that we cross the river and get on yonder height, which from its position must needs overlook the camp of the savages, and there reconnoitre and form our plans."

"Well, I daresay your advice is best after all," rejoined Thorward, with a smile. "You were always a cautious and peaceful man; though I'm bound in fairness to admit that you can fight passing well when it comes to that."

"Thanks for your good opinion," said Karlsefin, laughing quietly. "So now, lads, turn about and follow me closely. Keep silence, and dip your paddles as lightly as may be."

Saying this, he returned a considerable way down the river; keeping very close in to the banks, which were overhung with bushes, until he reached a point where it seemed likely that the party could cross without being observed. There was a slight rapid at the place, so that they had only to enter it at an angle with the bank and were swept across in a few moments, almost without requiring to use their paddles.

Landing at the edge of a dense thicket, they hauled the canoes out of the water, secreted them carefully, and then, taking their arms, made a detour through the forest in the direction of the cliff before referred to by Karlsefin. In less than half an hour they reached it, and found, as had been anticipated, that it commanded a view of the native encampment, which to their dismay they now discovered was an immense one, filled with many hundreds of men, besides women and children.

Here, prone on their breasts, and scarce venturing to raise their heads above the grass, the two leaders held a consultation, while their men kept well in the background.

"This is an unfortunate business," said Karlsefin.

"Truly it is," replied Thorward; "but the question is, can this be the set of rascals who carried off the children? It seems to me that, being a small band, as we know, they did not belong to the same set."

"That may be so, Thorward; -- but I incline to the belief that the small party was but an offshoot from the large one, and that our dear little ones are even now with the people before us."

As if to put the matter beyond doubt, Olaf, with Snorro on his back, issued at that moment from the woods on the opposite side of the river, and went out upon the identical spit of sand where, on the previous evening, he had held such bitter communings with his own spirit. The Norseman leaders recognised the children at once, being almost within hail of them, and it was with difficulty they restrained the impulse to spring to their feet and shout.

"Thanks be to God for the sight of them at all events," said Karlsefin fervently; "see, the dear boy has brought my darling there to amuse him. -- Ah! little dost thou know, Olaf, the hold that thy kindness has given thee of his father's heart!"

"'Twould be well if he had a hold of the father's hand just at this time," drily observed Thorward, who was not gifted with much of a sentimental temperament.

"That is not easy of accomplishment," returned the other. "Even you would scarcely, methinks, advise so small a band of men to make an open attack on five or six hundred savages."

"I would not advise it," replied Thorward; "nevertheless, if it came to the worst I would do it. But what, then, is your advice?"

"Why, until it comes to the worst we must try strategy," answered Karlsefin. "I will call Hake to our council; the youth, I have observed, is a deep thinker, and clear-sighted."

When Hake was summoned, and had laid himself down beside his leaders, he remained for some time silently gazing on the busy scene below, where some men in canoes were spearing fish in the bay, and others were skinning and cutting up deer near the edge of the woods, while women were cooking and engaged in other domestic duties at the doors of the tents, and children and dogs were romping about everywhere.

"Could we not get into our canoes," suggested Thorward, "make a dash at the spit of sand, and carry off the children at a swoop before the brown-skinned rascals were well aware of us?"

"They would see us before we got half-way to the spit," replied Karlsefin, "carry the children into the woods, and then be ready to receive us in hundreds on shore. -- What think you, Hake; can you suggest any plan of outwitting these savages?"

"I have a plan," answered the Scot, "but I fear you will deem it foolish."

"Out with it, man, foolish or otherwise," said Thorward, who was beginning to chafe under difficulties that appeared to be insurmountable, even by his favourite method -- force of arms.

"If ye approve of it," returned Hake, "I will cross the river alone and unarmed, and walk straight to the spot where the children are now seated. Much of the way is concealed by shrubs, and when I saunter across the open part, it may be that I shall scarce be noticed until I am near them. If I be, then will I make a dash, catch them up, make for the rapid, plunge in, and, on gaining the opposite bank, run to meet you. We can then hasten to the canoes -- fight our way to them if need be -- and sweep down the river. We shall probably get a fair start; and if so, it will go hard but we reach Leifsgaard before they overtake us. If not, why -- "

Hake touched the hilt of his sword by way of completing the sentence.

"A rare plan!" said Thorward with a suppressed chuckle; "and how, my bold youth, if thou art observed and caught before getting hold of the children?"

"I will then set my wits to devise some other plan. It may be of some advantage to them that I should be a captive along with the children, and at most it is but one man lost to the expedition."

"Ay, but that would be a heavy loss," said Karlsefin; "nevertheless the plan seems to me not so unlikely -- only there are one or two points about which I have my doubts. In the first place, although your legs are marvellously good, I fear that with the additional weight of Olaf and Snorro on them, the fleet runners among the savages, of whom there must be many, would soon overtake thee."

"With Olaf on my back, Snorro under my left arm, and the right arm free to swing -- I think not," replied Hake, quietly but decidedly.

"Then as to crossing: how do you -- "

"I would swim," replied Hake.

"What! with the weight and drag of wet garments to cumber you!" exclaimed Thorward; "besides making it clear to the savages, if they caught you, that you had come from the opposite bank of the river, where your friends might be expected to be waiting for you!"

"I would tie my clothes in a tight bundle on the top of my head," said Hake. "Many a time have I crossed the streams of my native land in this manner."

"Well, ye have a ready answer for everything," returned Thorward; "nevertheless I like not the plan."

"If you cannot suggest a better, I am disposed to let Hake try it," said Karlsefin.

Thorward had no better plan to suggest. Indeed, the more he thought of it the more did he feel inclined to make a tremendous onslaught, cut as many men to pieces as he could before having his own life taken, and so have done with the whole affair for ever. Fortunately for Olaf and Snorro his counsels were not followed.

In a few minutes Hake was ready. His brother was ordered to lead the men back to the canoes, there to keep in close hiding and await further orders. Meanwhile Karlsefin remained on the cliff to watch the result.

Hake felt it to be a desperate venture, but he was possessed of that species of spirit which rejoices in such, and prefers danger to safety. Besides, he saw at a glance that there would be no chance whatever of success if his leaders made up their minds to attempt an open attack against such fearful odds.

With a light step the young Scot descended to the river, thinking of Bertha as he went. A few minutes afterwards he was seen -- or rather his head with a bundle on it -- was seen crossing the river by the watchers on the cliff. A few minutes later, and he was on the opposite shore rapidly putting on his light garments. Thereafter he entered the bushes, and a glimpse could be caught of him ever and anon as he glided swiftly, like the panther towards his prey.

When the last point capable of affording concealment was gained, Hake assumed a careless air, and, with his head down, as if in meditation, sauntered towards the spit of land where Olaf and Snorro were still playing.

"Well done!" exclaimed Thorward, with a look of admiration; "cleverly, bravely done!"

There is no doubt that such was the case, and that Hake would have reached the children unobserved by the natives had not Olaf chanced to notice him while he was yet about fifty yards off. He recognised him at once, and, with a shout of joy, ran to meet him.

Hake dashed past him, sprang toward Snorro, whom he caught up, and, stooping, cried -- "Up, Olaf! up for your life!"

Olaf understood at once, sprang on his back, and held on tight, while Hake, bending low, sped away at a pace that defied pursuit, though by that time a hundred savages were almost at his heels!

It was obvious from the first that the lithe Scot was well able to achieve his purpose. He was already nearing the rapid. His pursuers were far behind, and Karlsefin could scarcely restrain a shout of exultation as he rose to run round to his canoes, when he observed that a party of more than a dozen natives, who chanced to be ascending the river's bank on foot, met the fugitive. Observing that he was a stranger, and pursued by natives, they crossed his path at once.

Hake stopped abruptly, glanced at the bushes, then turned to the river, and was on the point of plunging in, when a canoe, with four savages in it, shot out from the bank just below him.

He saw at once that escape was impossible. Feeling intuitively that submission was his best policy, he set the children on the ground and quietly suffered himself to be taken prisoner.

"I knew it! I said it!" growled Thorward between his teeth, as he sprang up, drew his sword, and slashed down two small trees at a single stroke in his wrath, then rushing through the woods, he made for the canoes.

Karlsefin followed in a state of mind almost as furious. It was such a bitter disappointment to fail so signally on the very eve of success!

The canoes were already in the water and manned when the leaders reached them, for Heika, who had been left in charge, knew well that whatever might be the result of the enterprise, prompt action would be necessary.

"Quick, shove off!" cried Karlsefin, taking his place, and driving his paddle into the water with such force that the light craft shot from the bank like an arrow.

The men were not slow to obey. The fierce spirit of their leader seemed to be catching, and the foam curled from their respective bows, leaving a long white track behind, as they rushed up the river and swept out upon the broad expanse above.

Of course they had been seen before reaching that point, and the savages immediately lined the banks with armed men. They did not, however, go out upon the spit of sand where Olaf and Snorro had first been observed by their friends. That point was so high up the stream, that it did not seem to be considered by any one as worthy of attention. This Karlsefin observed at once, and formed his plans accordingly. He advanced as if he were about to land below the spit, but made no hostile demonstrations of any kind, and paddled so quietly on nearing the shore, that the savages did not seem to understand him, and, although ready with their arrows for instant action, they remained passive.

When within a short distance of the land, Karlsefin suddenly, but still quietly, turned the head of his canoe up the stream, and made for the spit of sand. The other canoes followed. The natives, perceiving the intention of the strangers, uttered a wild shout, and made for the same place along the shore, but before they reached it Karlsefin had landed with all his men, and, with their stalwart figures and strange arms, presented such an imposing front that the natives stopped short.

At this point the crowd opened a little to let some one pass, and Whitepow came to the front. Judging him to be the chief, Karlsefin at once laid down his sword, and, stepping a few paces in front of his men, held up his hands and made demonstrations of a peaceful kind.

But Whitepow was not peacefully inclined. Although aged, he was a sturdy fellow, stood erect, and carried a heavy club on his shoulder. To the Norseman's demonstrations he replied by frowning fiercely and shaking his head savagely, as though to intimate that he was much too old a bird to be taken in with such chaff. Then, turning to those beside him, he gave an order, which resulted in Hake being led to the front with his arms tightly bound to his sides.

"Ah!" thought Karlsefin, "if you had only brought the children to that spot, I would have rescued them at all hazards."

He did not, however, think it wise to make so desperate an attempt merely to rescue Hake, while the children were still concealed and at the mercy of the savages. He therefore put on his blandest looks and manner, and again invited confidence, but Whitepow again shook his head, pointed backwards as if in reference to the two children, and then at Hake, after which he flung his club with such violence and precision at Karlsefin's head that the stout Norseman would certainly have measured his length on the sand, if he had not been very much on the alert. As it was, he received the missile on his shield, from which it glanced with a loud clang, and went hissing into the river.

Karlsefin smiled, as if that sort of thing rather amused him than otherwise, and again held up his hands, and even advanced a step or two nearer, while the concourse of savages gave vent to a shout of surprise. It is probable that Whitepow was a hero whose artillery had hitherto been the messenger of certain death to foes. The failure of the club seemed to exasperate the old savage beyond endurance, for he instantly seized a bow, and let fly an arrow at the Norseman leader. It was well aimed, but was also caught on the shield, and fell broken to the ground.

Seeing this, some of the Norsemen hastily drew their bows, but Karlsefin, anticipating something of the kind, turned about and bade them forbear.

Meanwhile Whitepow had ordered his warriors to remove Hake, and to fall back a little. This they did, and appeared to be awaiting further orders from their chief, who had gone up towards the tents. The movement puzzled Karlsefin, who rejoined his men.

"It is my advice," said Thorward, "that we hesitate no longer. Stand or fall, we are in for a fight now, so the sooner we begin the better. No doubt the odds are great, but they don't seem to be able for much -- at least if that old chap gave us a good specimen of their powers."

Most of the Norsemen appeared to agree with this advice, but Karlsefin did not.

"You forget," said he, "that this would not be a mere trial of strength. If we once begin, and chance to fail, every man of us must die, and our colony, thus left so weak, would stand a small chance of surviving in the midst of so many savages. Besides -- the children would be lost for ever! It is my opinion that we should wait a little to see what this movement implies. Perhaps that white-haired old savage may have recovered his temper and senses by this time, and is making up his mind to have peace instead of war. God grant that it may be so."

Instead of replying Thorward frowned darkly, and with something of a savage sneer on his lip pointed to a bend in the river above them, round which, at that moment, a hundred canoes swept, and came swiftly towards them.

"Looks that like peace?" he said bitterly.

Karlsefin's countenance fell.

"All is lost!" he muttered, in a tone that was rather sad than fierce. "Oh my tender little child!"

Crushing down his feelings with a mighty effort, he turned to the men, and quietly but quickly arranged them in a circle, with their faces outwards, so that they presented a front in all directions.

"Now, ye men of Norway and Iceland," he said, "the day has come at last when ye must prove yourselves worthy descendants of a noble race. Our cause this day is a right cause, and God is with the right, whether it please Him to send death or victory. Quit you like men, and let us teach these Skraelingers how to fight -- if need be, how to die."

Taking his stand on the landward side of his men, and ordering Thorward to do the same in the direction of the water, he calmly awaited the onset.

And now, indeed, it seemed as if a fierce and bloody battle were about to begin, for when the canoes of their comrades swept round the point of land, as already described, the savages on shore, constantly reinforced by new arrivals, began to move steadily down in an overwhelming mass towards the spit of sand, and the heroes who stood there, though comparatively so few in number, were, with their superiority of weapons and courage, certain to make a fearfully prolonged and bloody resistance.

Affairs had reached this critical point, when a sudden and loud shout was heard down the river. All eyes were turned in that direction, and there several canoes were seen coming round the bend of the river, full of armed men. The descent of the native fleet was checked. The Norsemen at once recognised their comrades, and greeted their approach with a lusty cheer. In another minute the newcomers had leaped upon the sand.

"Welcome, welcome, Biarne!" exclaimed Thorward, seizing and wringing his friend's hand in great delight. "Why, man, we had all but taken leave of each other, but we shall have another tale to tell now."

"May God bless you, Biarne, for coming so opportunely," said Karlsefin. "Let your men join and extend the circle. There, spread it out wider; that will do. I won't trouble you with questions just now, Biarne, as to what made you think of coming. We have more pressing work on hand."

Thus saying, the leader busied himself in arranging his reinforcements, while the savages held back, and awaited the result of a consultation between Whitepow and the chief men of the tribe.



Chapter Twenty Three.

Difficulties Regarding Intercommunication -- The Power Of Finery Displayed -- Also The Power Of Song And Sentiment.

The additional force thus opportunely gained by the Norsemen, although hailed with so much enthusiasm, did not very materially alter their position. True, they now formed a company of above fifty stout and well-armed men, who, in the hour of extremity, could make a formidable resistance to any foe, however numerous; but what chance had they of ultimately escaping from upwards of a thousand savages, every man of whom was an adept at bush-warfare; could dart from tree to tree, and harass and cut off in detail an enemy whom he would not dare, or did not care, to face in the open field -- which latter mode of warfare was more natural and congenial to the Norsemen?

This truth soon began to force itself upon Karlsefin's understanding; but as he feared to damp the spirits of his less thoughtful comrades, he kept his anxieties to himself, and made the best disposition of his force that was possible in the circumstances.

Very soon there was a movement among the savages on shore, and its object was not long of being apparent, for presently a fleet of canoes was seen ascending the river. At the same time the other fleet renewed its advance from above, while the men on shore moved once more towards the spit of sand.

"They mean to attack on all sides at once," said Biarne.

"Let them come," growled Thorward. "'Tis death or victory now, lads."

No one spoke, but the eagle glances of the men, and their firm grasp of sword and spear, told that they were ready; and once more it seemed as if the bloody fight were about to begin, when again it was interrupted by a shout. This time the shout came from the woods, from which, a few minutes later, a solitary savage was seen to issue. He appeared to be in haste, and ran through the crowd of warriors, who made way for him, straight towards the white-haired chief, to whom he appeared to speak with great fervour and many gesticulations, though he was too far off to be heard, or his countenance to be distinctly seen, by the Norsemen.

"That fellow brings news of some sort or other. I should say," remarked Biarne.

"Whatever his news may be," replied Karlsefin, "I don't think it will be likely to do much for us."

"The rascal's figure seems not unfamiliar to me," said Thorward.

At that moment the crowd of chiefs around Whitepow shouted the word "Ho!" apparently in approbation of something that he had just remarked, and immediately after the man whom Thorward had styled a rascal began to talk and gesticulate again more violently than ever.

"What is the man after now?" said Thorward. "It seems to me that he is mad."

The savage did indeed appear to be slightly deranged, for, in the midst of his talk, he took an arrow and went through the pantomime of discharging it; then he applied the point of it to his own back, and fell down as if wounded; whereupon he rose quietly and kneeled with a tender air, as if in the act of succouring a wounded man; and thereafter went on to perform other pantomimic acts, which at last induced Thorward to open his eyes very wide and whistle, as he exclaimed -- "Why, 'tis Utway, that fellow who was half killed in our first brush with the Skraelingers."

"Ay, and who was so tenderly nursed by Bertha," added Biarne.

"There can be no doubt of it," said Karlsefin, in a cheerful voice; "and now have I some hope of a peaceful end to this affair, for what else can he be doing but pleading our cause?"

"I'm not so sure of that," replied Thorward. "He may just as likely be telling them what lots of good things might be got by killing us all and taking possession of Leifsgaard."

"The question will soon be settled, Thorward, for here comes the savage," said Biarne.

This was true. Having finished his talk, whatever it was, and heard a brief reply from Whitepow, Utway turned round and ran fearlessly towards the Norsemen.

"I will go meet him," said Karlsefin.

"There may be danger in that," suggested Biarne.

"Greater danger in showing distrust," replied Karlsefin. "Confidence should beget confidence."

Without more words he flung down sword and shield, and advanced unarmed to meet the savage, whom he shook warmly by the hand -- a style of salutation which Utway thoroughly understood, having learned it while lying wounded in Leifsgaard.

They could not of course make use of speech, but Utway was such a powerful gesticulator that it was not difficult to make out his meaning. After shaking hands he put his hand on his heart, then laid it on Karlsefin's breast, and pointed towards the old chief with an air that would have done credit to a courtier.

Karlsefin at once took the hand of the savage, and walked with him through the midst of the native chiefs, above whose heads he towered conspicuously, until he stood before Whitepow. Taking off his iron helmet he bowed to the old chief, an act which appeared to afford that worthy much satisfaction, for, although he did not venture to return the bow, he exclaimed "Ho!" with solemn emphasis.

This was all very pleasant, but it was not much. Karlsefin, therefore, tried his hand at a little gesticulation, while the natives gazed at him with speechless interest. Whitepow and Utway then replied with a variety of energetic demonstrations, some of which the Norseman understood, while of others he could make nothing at all, but the result of it all was, that Utway made a final proposal, which was very clear, to the effect that the Norsemen should approach the savages, mingle with them, and be friends.

To this Karlsefin returned a decided negative, by shaking his head and frowning portentously. At the same time he stooped and held his hand about two feet from the ground, as if to indicate something that stood pretty nearly that height. Then he tenderly patted the top of the imaginary thing, whatever it was, and took it up in his arms, kissed it, and laid it on his breast. After that he indicated another thing somewhat higher, which he also patted on the top. Thereafter he pressed his arms close to his side and struggled as if to get loose from something, but could not until he had taken hold of an imaginary knife, cut the something which bound him, and set his arms free.

All this was apparently understood and immensely relished by the natives, who nodded to each other and vociferated "Ho!" to such an extent that the repetition caused it to sound somewhat like a fiendish laugh. But here Whitepow put in his veto, shook his head and appeared inexorable, whereupon Karlsefin crossed his arms on his breast and looked frowningly on the ground.

Things had just reached this uncomfortable pass, when Karlsefin's eye chanced to fall on the end of a piece of bright scarlet cloth with which Gudrid had smilingly ornamented his neck before he set out on this expedition, -- just as a young wife might, in chivalrous ages, have tied a scarf to her knight's arm before sending him off to the wars.

A sudden idea flashed upon him. He unfastened the strip of cloth, and, advancing, presented it to Whitepow, with a bland smile.

The aged chief was not proof against this. He gazed at the brilliant cloth with intense admiration, and expressed as much delight at receiving it as if he had been a child -- which, by the way, he was, in regard to such fabrics and in his inability to restrain his feelings.

Rejoiced to observe the good effect thus produced, Karlsefin did his best to assure the chief that there was plenty more of the same in his possession, besides other things -- all of which Utway corroborated, -- and signified that he, Whitepow, should have large quantities thereof if he would restore the captives to their friends. In order to add force to what he said, he drew from his pouch or wallet several small metal ornaments strung together like beads, and presented these also to Whitepow, as well as to several of the chiefs who stood nearest to him. At the same time he uncovered, as if inadvertently, a magnificent silver brooch which hung round his neck, under his leathern war-shirt.

This brooch was by no means a trifling bauble. It was massive, beautifully carved, and hung round with little silver cups and diamond-shaped pieces of silver about the size of a man's thumb-nail. It was much prized by its owner on account of being an heirloom of his family, having been carried to Iceland by his forefathers when they were expatriated from Norway by King Harald Fairhair.

Whitepow's eye at once fell on the brooch, and he expressed a strong desire to possess it.

Karlsefin started as if in alarm, seized the brooch with both hands, held it aloft, and gazed at it in a species of veneration, then, clasping it to his breast, shook his head by way of an emphatic "No!"

Of course Whitepow became doubly anxious to have it; whereupon Karlsefin again stooped, and, placing his hand about two feet from the ground, patted the top of the thing indicated, and said that he might have the brooch for that and the other things previously referred to.

Whitepow pondered a few minutes, and Utway said something very seriously to him, which resulted in his giving an order to two of his chiefs, who at once left the group. They quickly returned, leading Hake and the children between them -- the former being still bound at the elbows.

There was something quite startling in the shout of surprise that Olaf gave on observing Karlsefin. It was only equalled by the shriek of glee that burst from Snorro when he recognised his father.

Olaf instantly seized Snorro and ran towards him. Karlsefin met them more than half-way, and, with an expression of deep thankfulness, caught up his little one and strained him to his heart, while Olaf tightly embraced his leg!

But, recollecting himself instantly, he set Snorro down, removed the silver brooch from his neck and placed it in the hand of the old chief. At the same time he pointed to Hake's bonds. Whitepow understood him, and, drawing his stone knife, cut these asunder.

"Make no haste, Hake," said his leader, "but take Snorro in your arms and Olaf by the hand, and walk slowly but steadily towards your comrades. If any one offers to intercept you, resist not, but turn and come back hither."

Hake made no reply, but did as he was bid, and was soon in the midst of his comrades. Meanwhile Karlsefin, whose joy almost prevented him from maintaining the dignity that was appropriate to the occasion, took off every scrap in the shape of ornament that he possessed and presented all to Whitepow, even to the last bauble in the bottom of his wallet, and he tried to make the old man understand that all his men had things of a similar kind to bestow, which would be brought to him if he would order the great mass of his people to retire to a considerable distance, retaining only about his person a party equal in numbers to the Norsemen.

To this the chief seemed inclined to object at first, but again Utway's eloquence and urgency prevailed. The old man stood up, shouted an order in the voice of a Stentor, and waved his hand. The whole multitude at once fell back to a considerable distance, leaving only a few of the principal men around their chief.

The active Scot instantly bounded towards him -- not less with desire to serve his deliverer than with delight at finding himself once more free!

"Go back, Hake, and tell the men to come quietly hither in a compact body, leaving their bows and spears behind them, only carrying each man his sword and shield. Let a strong guard stay with the weapons and the children, and see that Biarne and Thorward also remain with them. Quietly place the children in a canoe, and do you and Heika stand ready to man it."

"That has already been done," said Hake.

"By whose orders?" demanded Karlsefin.

"At my suggestion," replied Hake.

"Thou art a wise man, Hake. I thank thee. Go; I need not explain that two canoes at least would require to accompany you, so as to repel attack by water, and, if it be necessary, to flee, while we guard the retreat."

"That has already been arranged," said Hake.

"Good, good. Then, whatever betide us, the dear children are like to be safe. Get you gone, Hake; and, harkee, if we should not return, be sure thou bear my love to Gudrid. -- Away."

Hake bowed in silence and retired. In a few minutes the greater part of the Norsemen stood before the old chief, and, by Karlsefin's command, every man who chanced to have any trifling ornament of any kind about him took it off and presented it to the savages.

Whitepow, in return, ordered a package of furs to be brought, and presented each man with a beautiful sable. Karlsefin then made Utway explain that he had seen much valuable cloth and many ornaments in the Norsemen's camp, and that these would be given in exchange for such furs, -- a piece of news which seemed to gratify the savages, for they possessed an immense number of furs, which were comparatively of little value to them.

Thus amicable relations were established; but when Whitepow invited the Norsemen to accompany him to his village and feast, Karlsefin intimated that he intended to sup and pass the night on the spit of sand, and that in the early morning he would return to his home, whither he hoped the savages would soon follow him with their furs. That, meanwhile, a small number might accompany him, if they chose, to view his habitation and take back a report. This was agreed to, and thus happily the conferences ended.

That night the Norsemen held high carousal on the spit of sand, partly because they were rejoiced at the successful issue of the expedition as far as it had gone, and partly because they wished to display a free-and-easy spirit to the savages. They drew a line at the narrowest part of the neck of land, and there posted armed sentinels, who resolutely refused to let any one pass. On the outward edge of the spit, other sentinels were placed, who checked all tendency to approach by water, and who -- in one or two instances, when some obstinate natives attempted to force a landing -- overturned the canoes and left the occupants to swim ashore the best way they could.

The only exception to this rule was made in favour of Utway and Whitepow, with the grandson of the latter, little Powlet. These three came down to the spit after the Norsemen had kindled a magnificent bonfire of dry logs, round which they sat and ate their supper, told sagas, sang songs, cracked jokes, and drank to absent friends in cans of pure water, with an amount of dash, fervour, and uproarious laughter that evidently raised quite a new idea in the savage minds, and filled them with amazement unutterable, but not inexpressible, for their glaring eyes, and lengthened jaws, and open mouths were the material embodiment of surprise. In fact, the entire population sat on the surrounding banks and heights nearly the whole night, with their hands and chins resting on their knees, listening and gazing in silent admiration at the proceedings of the Norsemen, as a vast audience might witness the entertainments of an amphitheatre.

The utmost hospitality was of course extended by the Norsemen to their three visitors, who partook of the food set before them with much relish. Fortunately some of the men who had been left to guard the arms still possessed a few trinkets and pieces of bright cloth, so that Karlsefin was again enabled to gratify his new friends with a few more presents.

"Snorro," said Karlsefin, who sat beside Whitepow in front of the fire with the child on his knee, "are you glad to see your father again?"

"Iss," said Snorro, responding slightly to the tender embrace which he received.

We are afraid that truth requires us to state, that Snorro had not quite reached the age of reciprocal attachment -- at least in regard to men. Of course we do not pretend to know anything about the mysterious feelings which he was reported to entertain towards his mother and nurse! All we can say is, that up to this point in his history the affections of that first-born of Vinland appeared to centre chiefly in his stomach -- who fed him best he loved most! It is but simple justice to add, however, that Olaf was, in Snorro's eye, an exception to the rule. We really believe that if Olaf had starved and beaten him during the first half of a day, by way of experiment, Snorro would have clung to him and loved him throughout the other half!

"Come hither, Olaf, take this bit of cloth in your hand, and present it to that little boy," said Karlsefin, pointing to Powlet. "He seems fond of Snorro, and deserves something."

"Fond of him!" exclaimed Olaf, laughing, as he presented the cloth according to orders, and then returned to Snorro's side. "You should have seen the way he made Snorro laugh one day by painting my face."

Here Olaf went into a minute account of the operation referred to, and told it with so much humour that the Norsemen threw back their wild heads and shook their shaggy beards in fits of uproarious laughter, which awakened the echoes of the opposite cliffs, and caused the natives to think, no doubt, that the very rocks were merry.

After this Krake told a story and sang a rollicking song, and of course Hake was made to sing, which he readily did, giving them one of his native airs with such deep pathos, that the very savages -- unused though they were to music -- could not refrain from venting a murmur of admiration, which rose on the night air like a mysterious throb from the hearts of the dark concourse.

Immediately after Hake's song the old chief and his friends took their leave. The sentinels were now changed and doubled, the fire was extinguished, each Norseman lay down with his hand on his sword-hilt, and his shield above him, and the vast multitude of savages melted away to their respective places of repose.



Chapter Twenty Four.

The Burning On The Fortress -- A Threatened Fight Ends In A Feast, Which Leads To Friendship -- Happy Reunion And Proposed Desertion.

Next morning, according to arrangement, the Norsemen were up and away by daybreak; but they did not start off alone. A much larger fleet than they had bargained for accompanied them. Karlsefin, however, made no objection, partly because objection would have been unavailing, and partly because the natives were so genuinely well-disposed towards him, that he felt assured there was no reason to distrust them or to fear their numbers.

Little did Karlsefin think, as they proceeded happily and leisurely down the stream at that time, the urgent need there was for haste, or the dire extremity to which his friends at Leifsgaard had been reduced. Knowing, of course, nothing about this, they descended by easy stages and encamped in good time at night, in order to have their fires lighted and food cooked before daylight had quite disappeared, so that they might have the more time to sit chatting by the light of the camp-fires and enjoying the fine summer weather.

On the other hand, had Leif only known how soon his friends were to return, he might have held the fortress longer than he did, by continuing his desperate sallies to check the raising of the pile that was meant to burn him out; but not being aware of this, and finding that the necessity for constant vigilance and frequent sallies was wearing out his men, he resolved to abandon the castle to its fate and take to the ship.

Watching his opportunity, he had everything portable collected, and, during the darkest hour of a dark night, quietly issued from the little fortress, descended to the beach, and got on board the Snake, with all the women and men, without the savages being aware of the movement.

Once on board, he fortified the vessel as well as he could, and hung the shields round the bulwarks.

Curiously enough, the savages had fixed on that very night for setting fire to their pile of timber, which by that time towered to a height that made it almost equal to the fortress it was about to consume. At grey dawn the torch was applied to it. At the very same hour Karlsefin and his men, accompanied by their savage friends, launched their canoes and left the encampment of the previous night.

The leader of the fleet had purposely encamped when not very far from the settlement, preferring, with such a large and unexpected party, rather to arrive in the morning than at night.

Great then was the surprise of the Norsemen when, soon after starting, they saw a dense cloud of smoke rising in the far distance, and deep was their anxiety when they observed that this cloud not only spread abroad and increased in density, but appeared to float exactly over the place where the settlement lay.

"Give way, lads! push on! There is something wrong at the gaard," shouted Karlsefin when he became thoroughly alive to the fact.

There was little necessity for urging the men. Each man became an impulsive volcano and drove his paddle into the water with such force and fury that the canoes almost leaped out of the river as well as over it.

Meanwhile the sun rose in splendour, and with it rose the mighty flames of the bonfire, which soon caught the neighbouring trees and licked them up as if they had been stubble. Such intense heat could not be long withstood. The wooden fortress was soon in flames, and then arose a yell of triumph from the savages, which sent dismay to the hearts of those who were approaching, and overawed the little band that still lay undiscovered on board the Snake.

But when it was ascertained that there was no one in the fortress, a cry of fury followed the shout of triumph, and the whole band, at once suspecting that their enemies had taken to their vessel, rushed down to the shores of the lake.

There they found the Norsemen ready to receive them; but they found more than they had expected, for, just then, Karlsefin and his men swept round the point above the bay with a tremendous cheer, and were followed by a continuous stream of the canoes of their savage friends whom they had outstripped in the mad race.

Karlsefin did not wait to ascertain how affairs stood. Enough for him that the village seemed to be in flames. Observing, as he passed, that his comrades and the women were safe on board the Snake, he ran the canoes high and dry on the beach and leaped ashore. Drawing quickly up into a compact line, the Norsemen rushed with wild shout upon the foe. The natives did not await the onset. Surprise alone had kept them waiting there as long as they did. With one consent, and a hideous yell, they turned and fled like autumn leaves before the wind.

Returning to the friendly savages, who had looked on at all this in some surprise and with no little concern, Karlsefin looked very sternly at them, pointed to the woods into which his enemies had vanished, shook his fist, and otherwise attempted by signs to indicate his displeasure, and to advise the instant interference of the friendly savages in the way of bringing about peaceful relations.

The natives were intelligent enough and prompt in action. A party of them at once started off to the woods, while Karlsefin went on board the Snake, where he found Leif and his friends right glad to meet him, and the women, in a state of the wildest delight, almost devouring Olaf and Snorro, who had been sent direct to the vessel when the men landed to attack the savages.

"'Tis good for the eyes to see thy sweet face, Gudrid," he said, giving his wife a hearty kiss, "and I am quite sure that Snorro agrees with me in that."

"He does, he does," cried Gudrid, hugging the child, who clung round her neck with a tenacity that he had never before exhibited, having learned, no doubt, that "absence makes the heart grow fonder."

"Oh! I am so happy, and so thankful. My sweet bairn! Where did you find him? How did you rescue him? I felt sure you would do it. How did he look when he saw you? and -- "

"Hold, Gudrid," cried Karlsefin, laughing, "joy has upset thy judgment. I can answer but one question at a time."

Gudrid made no reply; indeed she did not seem to expect an answer to her queries, for she had turned again to Snorro and Olaf, whom she overwhelmed with embraces, endearing epithets, and questions, in all which she was ably assisted by Bertha, Astrid, and Thora. Even Freydissa became soft for once; kissed Olaf and Snorro several times in a passionate manner, and was unusually gracious to Thorward.

"Ye came in the nick of time," said Leif, as he and his friends retired to the poop for a brief consultation.

"So it would seem," said Biarne, "but it was more by good fortune than good planning, for I left you weak-handed; and if good luck had not brought us here just at the time we did, methinks there would have been heavy hearts among us."

"A higher Power than good luck brought us hither in time," said Karlsefin.

"That is true," said Leif, with a nod and an earnest look at his friend.

"I doubt it not," returned Biarne, "and the same Power doubtless led me to start off with a reinforcement in time to help you in the hour of need, Karlsefin. But it is my advice now that we go ashore and put the huts in a state of defence as quickly as may be."

"That is just my opinion," replied Karlsefin, "for it may be that the friendly natives will find it easier to be converted into foes than to turn our enemies into friends. What is your advice, Leif?"

"That we land and do as Biarne suggests without delay."

"And what if these villains come down in such overwhelming numbers -- as they now can easily do -- that they shall carry all before them and drive us into the lake?" asked Thorward.

"Why, man," cried Biarne, with a touch of ire, "if I did not know thee well I would say that thou wert timid."

"Knowing me well; then, as ye say," returned Thorward, "and reserving the matter of timidity for future discussion, what reply have ye to make to my question?"

"That we must make up our minds to be drowned, like Freydissa's cat," replied Biarne.

"Nay, not quite that," said Leif, with a smile; "we can at least have the comfort of leaving our bones on the land to mingle with those of as many savages as we can slay."

"The thought of that would prove a great comfort to the women, no doubt, when they were carried off by the savages," returned Thorward, with a touch of sarcasm in his tone.

"I see what you mean," said Karlsefin; "that we should have the Snake ready to fall back on if we chance to be beaten; but, to say truth, the idea of being beaten by such miserable savages never entered my head."

"The consideration of your head's thickness, then," said Thorward, "would be an additional element of comfort, no doubt, to the women in case of things going against us."

At this Karlsefin laughed, and asked Thorward what he would advise.

"My advice is," said he, "that we not only get the Snake ready for a long voyage, but that we haul round my ship also, -- which by good fortune is here just now -- and get her ready. There is no need to put our goods and chattels on board, for if things went ill with us we could no doubt keep the savages at bay long enough to accomplish that by means of placing Biarne at the post of danger with orders to die rather than give in; but I would leave the women and children on board at any rate to keep them out of harm's way -- "

"And it is my advice," cried Freydissa, coming up at the moment, "that ye set about it at once without more talk, else the women and children will have to set you the example."

There was a general laugh at the tone and manner in which this was said, and the four chiefs left the poop to carry out their plans. Meanwhile an immense concourse of natives assembled on the neighbouring heights, and for a long time carried on a discussion, which, to judge from the violence of their gesticulations, must have been pretty hot. At last their meeting came to an abrupt close, and a large band was seen to separate from the rest and move down towards the hamlet.

Before they reached it the Norsemen had manned the defences and awaited them.

"They come on a peaceful errand, I think," said Karlsefin, who stood at the principal opening. "At least it seems to me that they carry no arms. What say you, Hake? Your eyes are sharp."

"They are unarmed," replied Hake.

This was found to be the case; and when they had approached to within a long bow-shot of the defences, all doubt as to their intention was removed by their holding up their hands and making other peaceful demonstrations.

Judging it wise to meet such advances promptly and without suspicion, Karlsefin at once selected a number of his stoutest men, and causing them to lay aside their arms, issued forth to meet the savages. There was, as on a former occasion, a great deal of gesticulation and talking with the eyes, the upshot of which was, that the brown men and the white men vowed eternal friendship, and agreed to inaugurate the happy commencement thereof with a feast -- a sort of picnic on a grand scale -- in which food was to be supplied by both parties, arms were to be left at home on both sides, and the scene of operations was to be a plot of open ground near to, but outside, the hamlet.

It is easy to record all this briefly, but it must not therefore be supposed that it was easy of arrangement, on the part of the high contracting parties, whose tongues were unavoidably useless in the consultation.

Krake proved himself to be the most eloquent speaker in sign-language, and the manner in which he made his meaning intelligible to the savages was worthy of philosophic study. It is, however, quite beyond the powers of description; a great deal of it consisting not only of signs which might indeed be described, but of sounds -- guttural and otherwise --  which could not be spelt. We are constrained, therefore, to leave it to the reader's imagination.

At the feast an immense quantity of venison and salmon was consumed, as you may easily believe, and a great number of speeches were made by both parties -- the men of each side approving and applauding their own speakers, and listening to those of the other side with as much solemnity of attention as if they understood every word.

There were two points of great interest connected with this feast, which we must not omit to mention. One was, the unexpected arrival, in the middle of it, of the old chief, Whitepow, in a canoe, with Utway and a few of his principal men, and his grandson Powlet. These were hailed by both parties with great delight, because they formed an additional bond of union between them.

It had been arranged by Karlsefin, for the sake of security, that the savages and Norsemen should not intermingle, but that they should sit in two distinct groups opposite to each other. Whitepow, however, ignorant of, or indifferent to such arrangements, passed over at once to the Norsemen on his arrival, and went through the ceremony, which he had so recently acquired, of shaking hands all round. Powlet also followed his example, and so did Utway. They then sat down, and the latter did good service in the cause of peace by making an enthusiastic speech, which the Norsemen could see, from his pantomimic motions, related to his own good treatment at their hands in time past.

Powlet also unwittingly aided in the same good cause, by running up to Olaf and bestowing on him a variety of attentions, which were all expressive of good-will and joy at meeting with him again. He also shouted the name of Snorro several times with great energy, but Olaf could only reply by shaking his head and pointing towards the hamlet where Snorro and the women had been left under a strong and trusty guard.

The other point of interest to which we have alluded was, that a number of the savages became particularly earnest and eager, when the eating was concluded, in their endeavours to impress something on their new friends, which they could not for a long time be made to understand even by the most graphic and energetic signs.

"I fear, Krake, that you have eaten too much, or by some other means have spoilt your powers of interpretation," said Leif with a laugh, as the puzzled interpreter shook his head for the fifth time at an energetic young savage with a red spot on his chin, and a blue stripe on his nose, who had been gesticulating -- we might almost say agonising --  before him for some time.

"'Tis beyond my powers entirely," said Krake. "Try it again, Bluenose," he added, turning once more to the savage with resolute intensity of concentration; "drive about your limbs and looks a little harder. I'll make ye out if it's in the power of man."

Thus adjured, the young savage opened his mouth wide, pointed with his finger down his throat, then up at the sky, spread both hands abroad in a vague manner, and exclaimed "ho!" as though to say, "that's plain enough, surely!"

"Oh, for shame! Is it eaten too much ye have? Is that what ye want to say?"

That was evidently not what he wanted to say, for the poor savage looked round with quite a disconsolate aspect.

"Come hither, Powlet," cried Biarne; "you're a smart boy; see if you can make the matter somewhat plainer."

Powlet at all events understood his name, and Biarne's beckoning finger, for he rose and went to him. Biarne confronted him with the young savage, and told the two to talk with each other by means of signs, which consisted in his touching the lips of both and thrusting their heads together.

The young savage smiled intelligently and spoke to Powlet, who thereupon turned to Biarne, and, rolling his eyes for a few seconds, uttered a low wail.

"Sure it isn't pains you're troubled with?" asked Krake, in a voice of pity.

"I do believe it must be that they refer to some one whom we have wounded during the fight," suggested Leif, "and that they think we have him concealed in the hamlet."

"It seems to me," said Thorward, "that if they were troubled about a wounded or missing comrade, they would have asked for him sooner."

"That is true," replied Leif. "I wish we knew what it is they would communicate, for they appear to be very anxious about it."

As he spoke, a tall savage, with an unusually grave countenance, stalked from among his fellows, thrust Powlet and the young man whom Krake had styled Bluenose aside, and seated himself on the ground in imitation of the free-and-easy manner of the Norsemen. Suddenly his face lighted up. He clapped both hands to his chest and breathed hard, then raised his hands aloft, looked enthusiastically up at the sky, rolled his eyes in a fearful manner, opened his mouth wide, and gave utterance to a series of indescribable howls. Checking himself in the midst of one of these, he suddenly resumed his grave aspect, looked straight at Krake, and said "Ho!"

That he thought he had hit the mark, and conveyed the meaning of himself and his friends precisely, was made evident by the other savages, who nodded their heads emphatically, and exclaimed "Ho!" with earnestness.

"H'm! 'tis easy to say 'Ho!'" replied Krake, more perplexed than ever, "and if 'Ho' would be a satisfactory answer, I'd give ye as much as ye liked of that; but I can't make head or tail of what it is ye would be at."

"Stay," exclaimed Hake, stepping quickly forward, "I think I know what they want."

Saying this, he looked earnestly at the grave savage, and ran over one or two notes of a song.

No words in any language could convey such a powerful meaning as did the beam of intelligence and delight which overspread the faces of these sons of the wilderness. The "ho! ho! hos!" and noddings were repeated with such energy, that Krake advised them to "stop that, lest their heads should come off altogether!"

"I thought so," said Hake, turning away from them; "they want you to give them a song, Krake."

"They shall have that, and welcome," cried the jovial Norseman, striking up the "Danish Kings" at once, with all the fire of his nature.

The natives sat in rapt solemnity, and when the Norsemen joined laughingly in the chorus, they allowed a faint smile to play for a moment on their faces, and murmured their satisfaction to each other when the song was done. But it was evident that they wanted something more, for they did not seem quite satisfied until one of their number rose, and going up to Hake touched his lips with his finger.

"Ha! I thought so!" exclaimed Krake in contempt. "It's bad taste ye have to want a song from him after hearing me! But what else could we expect from ye?"

Hake willingly complied with their wish, and it then became evident that the savages had gained their point at last, for they listened with half-closed eyes, and more than half-opened mouths, while he was singing, and heaved a deep sigh when he had finished.

Thus pleasantly was the feast concluded, and thus they sealed their friendship.

But there was something still more satisfactory in store for the Norsemen, for it was soon afterwards discovered that the savages possessed a large quantity of beautiful furs, with which, of course, they were willing to part for the merest trifle, in the shape of a shred of brilliant cloth or an ornamental bauble.

This was not only fortunate, as affording an opportunity for the Norsemen to procure full and valuable cargoes for both their ships, but as creating a busy and interesting occupation, which would prevent the natives from growing weary of inaction, and, perhaps, falling into those forms of mischief which proverbially lie ready to idle hands.

"It seems to me, friends," said Leif one evening, shortly after the feast just described, while he was seated in the chief hall, polishing his iron headpiece, and occasionally watching the active hands of Gudrid and Thora as they busied themselves about domestic affairs, while Bertha sat beside him dandling Snorro on her knee, -- "It seems to me that we have got together such a rich cargo that the sooner we send our ships to Greenland the better. They can then return with fresh supplies of such things as are needed in good time. For myself, I will go with the ships, and overlook the loading of them in Greenland."

"Oh! may I go with you?" exclaimed Bertha, looking up suddenly with much eagerness.

Hake, who was seated at the lower end of the hall, busily engaged in making a bow, paused abruptly in his work, but did not raise his head.

"I have no objection, if Freydissa has none," answered Leif.

"Freydissa will be only too glad to get rid of her," replied that amiable woman, who was engaged in the manufacture of a leathern tunic for Snorro; "she is tired of milk-and-water."

"And yet milk-and-water is more likely to agree with you than anything resembling beer," said Biarne, with a laugh.

"I should be sorry to leave Vinland," returned Bertha, "but I am very very anxious to see my dear father again. Besides -- I can return hither."

Hake's hand was suddenly released, and resumed its occupation.

"If you go, Leif," asked Karlsefin, "will you return and spend the winter with us?"

"I will not promise that," replied Leif with a smile.

There was silence for some minutes, which was broken at length by a very small voice saying: -- 

"'Norro go to G'eenland too?"

Poor Snorro was as regardless of the S in his own name as he was of the l in Olaf's!

"'Norro may go, if Gudrid will allow him," answered Leif, patting the child's curly pate.

"And O'af too?" added Snorro.

"Of course I must go if Snorrie goes," cried Olaf who had just entered the hall. "We could not live separate -- could we, Snorrie?" He caught up the child and placed him on his back in his wonted fashion. "Just think," he continued, "what would it do in Greenland without O'af to give it rides and take it out for long walks?"

"Ay, and go lost with it in the woods," added Biarne.

Olaf blushed, but replied promptly -- "That would be impossible, Biarne, for there are no woods in Greenland."

"If Snorro goes so must I," said Thora. "He could not get on without his nurse."

"Methinks we had better all go together to Greenland," said Astrid, who was busy preparing supper.

"Not bad advice," observed Biarne, somewhat seriously.

"Do you mean what you say?" asked Karlsefin.

"I half mean it," replied Biarne.

There was a pause here. Karlsefin then said -- "It seems to me, friends, that our minds are all jumping together. I have thought for a long time of leaving Vinland, for it is plain to me that as we stand just now we cannot make much headway. Many of our men are longing to get back to their families, some to their sweethearts, and some to their native land; while, from what you have said, it would seem that none of us are very anxious to remain."

"Do not speak for all," said Thorward.

"Well, dost thou wish to stay?"

"It may be that I do. At any rate, we have had much trouble in coming hither and settling ourselves, and it would be a pity to lose all our labours unless we can't help it. There may be others of my way of thinking in the colony. It is my advice that before we discuss such a matter we had better call a Thing, [an assembly for discussion] and do it in an orderly way."

"By all means," said Karlsefin, "let us discuss the matter for decision in a Thing; yet our discussing here for amusement is not disorderly."

After a little more conversation it was finally arranged that a Thing, or general assembly of the people, should be called on the following day, to discuss and decide on the propriety of forsaking Vinland and returning home.



Chapter Twenty Five.

The First Congress And The Last Farewell.

At the gathering of the Vinland colonists next day a number of able speeches were made by various individuals; for the Norsemen of old were accustomed to the free discussion of public affairs, at a time when nearly all Europe was crushed under the yoke of feudalism. Some of the speeches were humorous, and some had a good deal of sound about them without much weight of matter -- a peculiarity, by the way, which marks many of the speeches made in the national and general assemblies of mankind in the present day, not less, perhaps rather more, than in the olden time.

All the men of the colony were entitled to raise their voices in the council except the thralls, so that the brothers Hake and Heika took no part in the discussion. These two therefore held a private confabulation of their own on the margin of the lake.

Thorward was among the first speakers at the assembly.

"It is my opinion," he said, in the tone of a man who expects to have his opinion opposed, "that we have not yet given Vinland a fair trial. We are only just beginning to discover the value of the land. Ye know now that it is not a small island, as was at first supposed, but a vast country of unknown extent. Who knows but that it may be as large as Norway? This lake and river on which we dwell do not owe their birth to an insignificant country; any man with half the vision of one eye remaining may see that! The woods supply all that man can desire; the waters swarm with fish; the climate is delightful; our ships are even now loaded to the bulwarks with costly furs, and the natives are friendly. What would ye more? It seems to me that we might, if we chose, lay the foundation of a new nation that would rival Iceland, perchance equal old Norway itself, if we take advantage of the great opportunities that have fallen to our hands. But if we get frightened at the yell of every savage that makes his appearance, or grow weary of good, vigorous, hard work, and begin to sigh like children for home, then there is small chance of our doing anything, and it will doubtless be the fate of a bolder race of men to people this land at some future time."

There was a good deal of applause from some of the people when Thorward finished this speech, which was uttered with great decision, but it was observable that those who thought with him, though noisy, were not numerous.

The moment Thorward sat down Krake started up and said somewhat warmly -- "'Tis all very well for Thorward to speak in this way, and ask 'What would ye more?' seeing that he has got in his house a handsome and sweet-tempered wife; but I will tell him of something more that I want, and that I haven't got just now, and am not likely to get as long as I remain in Vinland. There is a comely little woman in Iceland, who was born in that best of countries, Ireland, and who forsook the land, and her father and mother, and kith and kin, all for the sake of a red-headed thrall -- for he was no better at that time -- called Krake. Now, I want that sweet little Irishwoman! Moreover, there's a stout curly-headed boy in Iceland who's an elegant chip of the ancient tree, and the born image of his mother -- I want that curly-headed boy! Then there are six other curly-headed boys in Iceland -- only that three of them are girls, and the youngest had the curls in prospect when I saw it last, bein' as bare on the head as the palm of my hand -- all of them descending in size, one after another, from the first curly-headed boy --  I want these. Besides which there is a sweet little hut in Iceland at the edge of a swamp, with the spouting waters not far off, and the boilin' waters quite handy to cook your dinner without firin', and a lovely prospect of the burnin' hill behind -- I want all that; and I want to know how Thorward would feel if he wanted all that and couldn't get it, and was advised to go on wantin' it, and if he couldn't keep himself easy, to try his best to keep as easy as he could!"

There was some laughter and great applause at this point.

"Moreover," continued Krake, with increasing energy, "it don't give me a scrap of comfort to be told that this is a vast country, full of all that's desirable and the best of livin', when I can't enjoy it along with my sweet little Kathleen and the curly-headed boys and girls before mentioned. What does Krake care for stuffing his own ugly carcase full when mayhap the wife and bairns are dyin' for want -- anyhow dyin' to see their husband an' father? And what does Krake care to be the beginning of a new nation? No more than he does to be the middle of it, and if left to himself he'd far sooner be the end of it by not beginning it at all! As for being frightened by the yells of savages, it's not worth my while to mention that, but when Thorward talks about beginning to sigh like children for home, he misses his mark entirely. It's not sighing I am for home, but roaring, bellowing, howling for it in my wearied spirit, and it's my opinion, comrades, as I gaze round upon your speaking faces, that there's a good many here howling along with me."

There could be no doubt that Krake's sentiments were largely entertained and appreciated, for his speech was followed by prolonged and enthusiastic applause, in which the Norsemen not only raised their voices, but rattled their arms on their shields by way of emphasis. Thorward smiled grimly and shrugged his shoulders, but made no reply.

After several others had spoken in various strains -- a few in favour of Thorward's opinion, but many more in sympathy with Krake, -- Leif made a short speech, advising immediate return to Greenland, Biarne followed suit, and Karlsefin wound up with a few remarks, in which he urged, among other things, that although the savages were friendly just then, it was not likely they would remain so very long, and in the event of a quarrel it was certain, considering their great numbers, that the infant colony would be kept in perpetual hot water, if not actual warfare. He suggested, moreover, that the proper way to establish a colony, that would have some chance to survive and flourish, would be to organise it thoroughly in Iceland or Norway, and induce so many married men with their families to emigrate, that they would be able to feel at home in the new land, and thus wish to remain. He concluded by saying that those who now desired to remain in Vinland might join together and devote their energies to the getting up of such a band of colonists if so disposed. For his own part, since the majority were evidently in favour of returning home, he was free to confess that he had no taste for colonising. The ocean was his home, and when that failed him he hoped that God might permit him to end his days and lay his bones in Iceland.

It was finally agreed that the country should be abandoned, and that, having made up their minds, they should set about preparations without delay.

We have said that the Scottish brothers had gone to the margin of the lake to hold a little consultation by themselves, while the affairs of the nation were being settled in the grand parliament.

"What think you? Will these men of Iceland decide to return home or to remain here?" said Hake, seating himself on a bank of wild-flowers, which he began to pluck and scatter with an absent air.

"They will decide to forsake Vinland," answered Heika.

"You appear to be very sure, brother."

"I am; because I have been watching the men for some time past, and occasionally leading them on to talk about the matter."

"Which way do you hope they will decide?" asked Hake.

"I hope they will leave."

"Do you? For my part I care but little. It seems to me that we have as small a chance of escaping from Greenland as from this land."

"Brother, ye think in this way because you are content to remain where Bertha dwells. If Bertha were with Emma in bonny Scotland, your wits would be sharp enough to perceive that the voyage from Vinland to Scotland, with an unknown sea between, would be a more hazardous venture than a voyage from Greenland to Scotland, with Iceland between."

"That may be true, brother, but methinks my wits are sharp enough to perceive that neither voyage concerns us, seeing that we have no ship, and are not likely to succeed in persuading a whale to carry us over."

"Nevertheless," replied Heika, "I mean to go over to Scotland this summer if I can."

Hake looked earnestly in his brother's face.

"From your tones and words," said he, "I know that you have some plan in your head."

"That have I," rejoined Heika firmly, yet with a look of sadness. -- "Listen, Hake: the thought that I shall never more see Emma or my father is more than I can bear. I will now make the effort to escape from Greenland -- for well assured am I that we shall soon be there again -- or die in the attempt. Of what value is a thrall's life? The plan that I have in my head is this. You know that when in Greenland we were often sent out beyond the fiord to fish and to hunt the walrus and the seal -- sometimes in large, sometimes in small, boats. The boats on Eric's fiord are numerous now. The absence of one for a time would not be much noticed. There is a man there whose life I saved not long before we set sail for Vinland. He has a good boat, which I will borrow, take it round to the western skerries, to which our men seldom go, and there quietly fit it out for a long voyage. When a fitting time arrives I will set sail for Scotland."

Hake shook his head.

"What wild thoughts are these, brother? Who ever heard of a man crossing the ocean in a small boat?"

"The thing may be done," replied Heika. "It is risky, no doubt; but is not everything more or less risky? Besides, I had rather die than remain in thraldom."

He paused, and Hake gazed at the ground in silence.

"I see," he continued sadly, "you do not like my project, and will not aid me in the enterprise. After all, how could I expect that you would be willing to forsake Bertha and face so great a danger?"

Hake still continued to gaze in silence, and with a strangely perplexed air, at the ground.

"Well, well, Hake," resumed the other, in a tone of reproach, "I did not expect that ye would go with me on this venture, but truly I had counted on your sympathy and counsel as well as your aid."

"Ye do wrong me," cried Hake, suddenly starting up and seizing his brother's hand; "I not only sympathise with you, but I will go with you. It is not easy all at once to make up one's mind on a point of such importance. Forsake Bertha I never will as long as one drop of Scottish blood flows in my veins, for I know that she loves me, though her sense of duty keeps her aloof -- for which I love her all the more. Nevertheless, I will leave her for a time. I will make this venture with you. If we perish, we perish. If we succeed I will return to Greenland with a force that will either induce or compel the surrender of my bride."

"Thou art a bold lover," said Heika, smiling. "What! wilt thou carry her off whether she will or no?"

"Not so; but I will carry her off whether Leif or Karlsefin, or Biarne or Thorward, or all Greenland put together, will or no!"

"Nay, brother, that may not be. It were the maddest venture of all. I will run this risk alone."

For some time the brothers disputed upon this point and held out against each other pretty stoutly. At length Heika reluctantly gave in, and it was finally agreed that Hake should join him in the proposed attempt to regain his liberty.

It did not take long to make the necessary arrangements for leaving Vinland. The little colony had not struck its roots very deeply into the soil. They were easily torn out without damage to the feelings of any one, for little Snorro, as Krake said, was the only creature that had to bid farewell to his native land -- always excepting some of the cattle and chickens -- and he was too young to take it much to heart.

In a few weeks the Snake, and Thorward's ship, the Dragon, were loaded with everything that was of value in the colony, including much even of the rude furniture of the huts.

Before leaving, Karlsefin resolved to give a last grand feast to the savages. He therefore called them together and explained, as he best could, that he and his friends were going to leave them, but that perhaps some of them might return again with large supplies of the gay cloth and ornaments they were so fond of, and he recommended them in the meantime to make as large a collection of furs as they could, in order to be ready to trade when the white men returned. He then spread before them the most sumptuous feast the land could provide, including a large quantity of dairy produce, which the savages regarded as the most luxurious of fare.

After the feast he presented Whitepow, Utway, and Powlet with a large quantity of bright-coloured cloth and a few silver and iron ornaments, to be distributed among the members of the tribe as they should see fit after helping themselves. He also gave them a few cattle and domestic fowls, after which, weighing anchors, putting out the oars, and hoisting their sails, the Norsemen bade farewell to Leifsgaard. As they swept round the point which shut it out from view, they gave vent to one vigorous parting cheer, which was replied to by the savages with a feeble imitation and a waving of arms.

Dropping down the river, they passed the spit of sand where the first night in Vinland had been spent so pleasantly; caught an offshore breeze that carried them swiftly beyond the island betwixt which and the shore they had captured the whale, and finally leaped out upon the swell of the great ocean.

"Aha! now am I at home," exclaimed Karlsefin, with heightened colour and sparkling eyes, as he stood at the helm, and glanced from the bulging sail to the heaving swell, where Thorward's Dragon was bending over to the breeze about a cable's length to leeward, -- "Now am I at home once more!"

"So am not I," murmured poor Bertha, whose white face betrayed the miserable emotions -- or commotions -- within.

All the women, we may remark, had expressed a desire to keep together during the voyage, hence they had embarked in the Snake, which was a better sea-boat than Thorward's vessel.

"Of course you are not at home. You are never contented or at home anywhere!" cried Freydissa sharply.

Hake wished with all his heart that Bertha was at home in Scotland, and that her home was his; and Snorro, who was seated on Olaf's knee, said -- 

"Never mind, Bert'a, oos be a tome soon."

There was a general laugh at this consolatory remark; even Bertha smiled faintly as she patted Snorro's head, while Astrid and Thora -- not to mention Gudrid -- agreed between themselves that he was the dearest, sweetest, and in every way the most delightful Vinlander that had ever been born.

"Of that there can be no doubt," said Leif, with a laugh, "since he is the only white Vinlander that ever was born."

But although the party assembled on the poop indulged at first in a few humorous remarks, they soon became silent and sad, for they were fast leaving behind them a spot which, with all its drawbacks, had been a pleasant and happy home for upwards of three years.

As they stood leaning on the rails that guarded the poop, and gazed regretfully on the lessening hills, each recalled many pleasant or stirring incidents which had occurred there, incidents which would remain -- however far or long that land might be left behind -- for ever engraven on their memories. And, long after twilight and distance had concealed the coast from view, the Norsemen continued to strain their vision towards the horizon, mentally bidding a long and last farewell to Vinland.



Chapter Twenty Six.

Changes In Brattalid -- The Scots Continue To Plot And Plan.

Greenland again! Flatface standing on the wharf at Brattalid; Anders beside him; groups of Norse men, women, and children, and Skraelingers, around and scattered along the bay.

What a commotion there was in the colony, to be sure, when it was discovered that two large ships were sailing up the fiord; and what a commotion it created in the breasts of those on board these ships when it was discovered that two other large ships were already at anchor in the harbour!

It is not necessary to detain the reader with the details of question and reply, by which the truth was at last elicited on both sides. Suffice it to say that the two ships were found to be merchant-vessels from Iceland, and that, among other colonists, they had brought out several men whose purpose was to teach and plant the new religion. Already a small building had been set up, with a short tower on the roof, which the Norsemen were told was a church, and in which some of the services of the Christian religion were performed. Elsewhere several new houses had been built, and everywhere there were signs of increasing population and prosperity.

Leif was half pleased, half disappointed at all this. It was gratifying to find things prospering so well, but it was not pleasant to see the old place so greatly changed, and to have much of the old home-feeling done away.

However, little was said on the subject. The Vinland colonists were too busy at first, meeting with relations and old companions, and being introduced to new friends, to say or think much about the matter. After a few days they became reconciled to the change, and settled down into a regular busy life.

One evening Heika went to the house of his friend Edwinsson, who owned the boat that he wished to become possessed of. He found that the man was not at home, but there was a serving-woman in the house.

"Edwinsson no longer lives here," said the girl. "He has gone to live with old Haraldson and manage his boats, for the old man is not able for that work now."

"Do you mean Bertha's father?" asked Heika.

"Yes; Haraldson is Bertha's father."

Heika went at once to search for his friend. By the way he chanced to meet with his brother.

"Come, Hake," said he, "I want you to go with me to find Edwinsson."

"With all my heart," said Hake.

They soon came to old Haraldson's house, which lay at the extreme west of Brattalid; and when Heika opened the door, there he saw the old man seated in a large chair, propped up with eider-down pillows. Bertha was seated on a stool at his feet holding one of his hands.

"Come in, Heika," she cried, springing up and hasting forward with pleasure. "I have been trying to tell dear father about the whale you killed in Vinland."

She stopped abruptly on observing that Hake was behind his brother. Recovering herself quickly, however, she welcomed him also with a slight blush.

"I want you, Heika," she continued, "to tell the story to my father."

"Ay, sit down here, young man, and tell it me," said Haraldson, in a tremulous voice. "I love to hear anything about Vinland, especially what pleases Bertha. Dear Bertha! I have become very frail since she went away -- very frail; and it has been a weary time -- a weary time. But come, tell me about the whale."

"Gladly would I do that," said Heika; "but I have business with your man Edwinsson -- business which I want to put out of hands at once. But Hake will tell the story of the whale. He is a better sagaman than I."

"Let Hake tell it, then," returned the old man. "You will find Edwinsson somewhere about among my boats."

Hake gladly sat down beside Bertha, and began the story of the whale, while his brother went down to the beach, where he found his friend.

"Edwinsson," said Heika, after some conversation had passed between them, "you have a good boat near Leif's wharf. Will you lend it to me?"

"Right willingly," replied his friend.

"But I am bound on an excursion that may chance to end in the wreck of the boat," said Heika. "Will you hold me responsible if I lose it?"

"'Twill be difficult to hold thee responsible," returned Edwinsson, laughing, "if ye lose your life along with it. But that matters not. I gift thee the boat if thou wilt have it. I count it a small gift to the man who saved my life."

"Thanks, Edwinsson -- thanks. I accept the gift, and, if my venture is successful, I shall try to let you share the benefit in some way or other."

"Hast discovered a new fishing-ground, Heika? What venture do ye intend?" asked the other.

"That I will keep secret just now," said Heika, laughing carelessly. "I don't want to be followed at first. Ye shall know all about it soon. But hearken, friend, make no mention of it. One does not like to be laughed at if one fails, you know."

So saying, Heika went off to Leif's wharf, loosed the boat which he found there, hoisted the sail, and dropped down with the tide to the mouth of the fiord. Here a light breeze was blowing, under the influence of which he soon ran round the point of land that divided Ericsfiord from Heriulfness. In the course of another hour he reached the western skerries.

The skerries or islets in question were little better than bare rocks, which lay about fifty yards from the mainland, along which they formed a sort of breakwater for a distance of nearly a quarter of a mile. Within this breakwater there were several narrow and well-sheltered inlets. Into one of these Heika ran his boat, and made it fast in a place which was so well overshadowed by rocks, that the boat could neither be seen from the land nor from the sea.

On the landward side this inlet could be reached by a path, which, though it appeared somewhat rugged, was nevertheless easy to traverse. Up this path Heika hastened after making the boat fast, intending to return to Brattalid by land. The distance over land was much shorter than by water, so that he could soon reach Leif's house, and his brief absence would attract no attention.

Just as the Scot issued from behind the rocks which concealed the path to the inlet, he was suddenly bereft almost of the power to move by the unexpected sight of Leif himself advancing towards him!

Poor Heika's heart died within him. He felt that all his long-cherished and deeply-laid plans were crushed, just as they were about to be carried into effect, and a feeling of fierce despair prompted him, for a moment, to commit some wild deed of violence, but he observed that Leif's head was bent forward and his eyes rested on the ground, as he advanced slowly, like one who meditates. Heika drew swiftly back behind the rock, from the shelter of which he had barely passed, and breathed freely again when Leif passed by, without showing any symptom of having observed him. Waiting till he had sauntered beyond the next turn in the path, he started at his utmost speed, and was soon beyond the reach of Leif's eyes, and back in Brattalid with a relieved mind.

Had the Scot waited to observe the motions of his master after passing the turn in the path above mentioned, he would not have experienced so much mental relief; for no sooner had Leif got behind a small but thick bush than he turned abruptly, raised his head with an intelligent smile, lay down behind the bush, and looked quietly through its foliage. He saw Heika issue from behind the rock, observed his cautious glances from side to side, and, with something like a chuckle, witnessed his rapid flight in the direction of the settlement.

"Hem! something i' the wind," muttered Leif, rising and walking towards the spot whence his thrall had issued.

He found the rugged path, descended to the inlet, discovered the boat, and stood looking at it with a perplexed air for full ten minutes. Thereafter he shook his head once or twice, smiled in a grave manner, and slowly sauntered home absorbed in meditation.

"Hake," whispered Heika to his brother that night, as they sat down together in the little sleeping-closet off Leif's hall, that had been allotted to their use, "all my hopes and plans were on the point of being ruined to-day."

"Ruined! brother. How was that?"

Heika related to him all that had occurred at the inlet near the western skerries.

"Art thou sure he saw thee not?" asked Hake earnestly.

"There can be no doubt of that," replied Heika, "for he had no cause to suspect that anything was wrong; and if he had seen me as I first stood before him, motionless with surprise, he would doubtless have hailed me. No, no; something was working very hard in his brain, for he passed on without the least sign of having seen me."

"That is well, brother, yet I do not feel easy, for it is well-known that Leif is a shrewd man, with great command over his feelings. But now, tell me how best I shall aid you in this enterprise."

"That is best done by using your bow well, for we shall require a large supply of dried meat for the voyage, and we must work diligently as well as secretly during our few hours of leisure, if we would get ready in time to sail before the rough winds of autumn set in. There are some tight casks in Leif's old store which I mean to take possession of, at the last, for water. Our service will more than pay for these and any other trifles we may find it needful to appropriate."

Hake thought in his heart that the enterprise was a wild and foolish one, but, having promised to engage in it, he resolved not to cast the slightest hindrance in the way, or to say a single word of discouragement. He therefore approved of all that Heika suggested, and said that he would give his aid most vigorously.

"Moreover," he continued, "I have had some consolation to-day which will spur me on, for I have got Bertha to admit that she loves me, and to promise that if I can obtain my freedom she will wed me. She even gave me to understand that she would wed me as a thrall, if only Leif and Karlsefin would give their consent. But that shall not be. Bertha shall never be a thrall's bride. I will return and claim her, as I have said."

Heika made no reply, but continued to gaze at the floor in silence.

"Methinks ye are perplexed by something, brother," said Hake.

"I am thinking," replied Heika, "that it is a pity we cannot use those curious marks made on skins, wherewith, we are told, men can communicate one with another when they are absent from each other."

"What causes the regret just now?"

"I grudge to quit Leif without a parting word," returned Heika, looking at his brother with peculiar earnestness; "it seems so ungrateful, so unkind to one who has ever treated us well."

"I think with you in that, brother," said Hake.

"It would be so easy too," continued Heika, "to have some method of letting him know what I think, if we could only agree about the signs or signals beforehand."

Hake laughed softly.

"That would not be easy; for we could scarcely go to him and say, 'Leif, when you see these particular marks on a certain stone, you are to understand that we take leave of you for ever with hearty good-will!' I fear that his suspicions might be aroused thereby."

"Nay, but I only express regret that we have not some such mode of intercourse," returned Heika, smiling. "Ye know the sign of the split arrow which tells of war. Why might we not multiply such signs? For instance, by laying a billet of firewood across a man's bed, one might signify that he bade him farewell with tender affection and goodwill!"

"Why, brother," said Hake, laughing, "ye look at me as earnestly as if you had said something smart; whereas I regard your idea as but a clumsy one. A billet of wood laid across your friend's bed might more fitly suggest that you wanted to knock out his brains, or damage his skin, or burn him alive!"

Heika laughed heartily, and said that he feared he had nothing of the spirit of the skald about him, and that his power of invention was not great.

"But I have more news to give thee, brother, besides that regarding Bertha," said Hake. "Do you know there is a countryman of ours on board of one of the ships that brought out the men of the new religion, and he has but lately seen our father and Emma?"

Heika started and laid his hand on his brother's arm, while he gazed earnestly into his face.

"It is ill jesting on such a subject," he said somewhat sternly.

"So think I, brother; therefore I recommend you not to jest," returned Hake gravely.

"Nay, but is it true?"

"Ay, true as that the sky is over our heads. I have had a long talk with him, and when he found I was a countryman he gave me a hug that made my ribs bend. His name is Sawneysson, a very giant of a man, with hair that might have grown on the back of a Greenland bear, only that it is red instead of white. He told me that he knew our father well by sight, and last saw him taking a ramble on Dunedin hill, whither he had walked from our village on the Forth, which shows that the old man's vigour has improved. Emma was with him too, so Sawneysson said, looking beautiful, but somewhat sad."

"How knew he her name?" asked Heika.

"He knew it not," replied Hake. "He did but say that a fair maiden walked with our father, and I knew at once from his description that it was Emma. But you can inquire for yourself at his own mouth, for this countryman of ours is an enthusiastic fellow, and fond of talking about home."

"Brother," said Heika, with a sad but earnest look, "I must give this man the cold shoulder."

"Nay, then, disappointment must have changed thee much," said Hake, in surprise, "for that is the last thing I had expected thee to say."

"It is not disappointment but caution that makes me speak and think as I do. If we seem to be too eager about our native land it may tend to make Leif more watchful of us, which of all things would be the greatest misfortune that could befall us just at this time."

"There is something in that," returned Hake; "but will it not suffice to exercise a little caution and self-restraint, without giving our countryman the cold shoulder?"

"I know not," replied Heika, with a troubled air; "but I would that he had not turned up just now, though I confess it gladdens me to hear of our father and Emma. -- Now, Hake, we must to bed if we would be up betimes to secure a little leisure for the carrying out of our enterprise."

Without further conversation the brothers threw off their coats and shoes, and lay down together with the rest of their clothing on, so as to be ready for an early start. The shield and helmet of each hung on the wall just over the bed, and their two swords leaned against the bed itself, within reach of their hands, for thus guardedly did men deem it necessary to take their rest in the warlike days of old.



Chapter Twenty Seven.

Disappointment Terminates In Unlooked-For Success, And The Saga Comes To An End.

During some weeks after the events narrated in the last chapter, the Scottish brothers continued quietly, stealthily, and steadily to collect provisions and all things necessary for the projected voyage across the Atlantic.

During the same period the general business of the settlement was prosecuted with activity. The Christian missionaries not only instructed the people in the new faith, and baptised those that believed, but assisted and guided them in the building of huts and houses, the planning of wharves and the laying out of townships; [see Note at end of Chapter] while the crews of the two recently arrived ships, having found it necessary to make up their minds to winter in Greenland, busied themselves in collecting fats, oil, skins, feathers, etcetera, to be packed and got ready for shipment in the following spring.

Karlsefin also made preparations for a voyage in spring to Iceland, and Thorward, Biarne, Krake, and the other Vinland heroes assisted in that work, or in some other of the multifarious duties that had to be attended to in the colony, while Olaf undertook the responsible duty of superintending the education, mental and physical, of that rampant little Vinlander, Snorro, the son of Karlsefin.

Leif Ericsson exercised a sort of general superintendence of the whole colony. It seemed to be tacitly agreed on and admitted that he was the national chief or governor, and as no one was disposed to dispute his claim to that position all was peace and harmony.

Nevertheless there was something unusual in Leif's manner at that time which rather perplexed his friends, and quite puzzled Anders, his major-domo.

That free and easy individual could not understand the dreamy moods into which his master fell, still less could he comprehend the gleams of quiet humour and expressions of intense seriousness, with other contradictory appearances, which occasionally manifested themselves in Leif's visage and demeanour. It was plain that there was much on his mind, and that much of that was gay as well as grave. Anders made several attempts to find out what was the matter, but was met at one time with grave evasion, at another with quiet jocularity, which left him as wise as before.

Towards the Scottish brothers Leif maintained an unvarying aspect of reserve, which filled them with uneasiness; but with the female members of his household, and the children, he was all gentleness, and often playful.

"Leif," said Karlsefin to him one day, "it appears to me that something weighs on your mind, or else ye have left some of your wits in Vinland."

"Think ye not that the cares of such a large and growing colony are sufficient to account for any new wrinkles that may appear on my brow?" replied Leif, with a peculiar smile, and a glance from the corner of his eye.

"Well, I daresay that might account for it, and yet things are swimming on so well that these cares do not seem to be much increased."

"Sometimes domestic cares trouble a man more than public ones, Karlsefin. Look at thy friend Thorward, now. 'Tis little that he would care for a mountain of outside troubles on his broad shoulders if he might only drop them when he crossed the threshold of his own door."

"That is true," returned the other; "if a man have not peace in his own house, there is no peace for him on earth. Nevertheless my friend Thorward is not in such a bad case. Freydissa has improved vastly of late, and Thorward has also grown more amiable and less contradictions --  add to which, he and she love each other dearly. But, Leif, there can be no domestic troubles in your case, for your household is well ordered."

"Thank God there are none," said Leif seriously. It was the first time that Leif had used that expression, and his friend heard it with some surprise and pleasure, but said nothing.

"Still," continued Leif, "I am not destitute of troubles. Has not that thrall Hake overturned the peace of my sweet kinswoman Bertha? The girl loves the thrall -- I can see that, as plain as I can see the vane on yonder mast-head -- and there is no cure for love!"

Karlsefin looked earnestly at his friend as if about to speak, but observing the stern frown on Leif's countenance, he forbore.

In a minute or so Karlsefin remarked quietly that Hake was a faithful thrall.

"I'm not so sure of that as ye seem to be," returned Leif, with increasing sternness, "but, whether faithful or not, no thrall shall ever wed Bertha."

"What is that you say about Bertha?" asked Biarne, coming up just then.

"Nothing of moment," replied Leif. "What news bring you, Biarne? for that ye bring news is plain by the glance of your eye."

"My eye is an incorrigible tell-tale," cried Biarne, laughing. "However, it has not much to tell at present. Only that you are about to receive a visit from some old friends, and that Anders will have to keep his kettles full for some time to come. A band of Skraelingers are -- . But here they come to speak for themselves."

At that moment a troop of the Greenland savages came round the point --  the identical point where they had received such a terrible shock some years before -- with Flatface dancing joyously in front of them.

Flatface had heard of their coming, had gone out to meet them, had found several of his relations among them, and was now returning, scarce able to contain himself with delight, as he made their mouths water by dilating at great length on the delicious things contained in Anders's capacious kettles.

While Leif and the others went to meet the Skraelingers, Heika and his brother sat in their own sleeping-closet, talking in a low tone, and making the final arrangements for their flight.

"Now are ye sure that all is on board -- nothing omitted?" asked Hake, "for it will be hard to obtain anything once we are out on the sea, and we can't well return to fetch what we have forgotten."

"All is ready," answered Heika sadly. "I cannot tell how much it grieves me to go away in this fashion; but freedom must be regained at any price. Now remember, meet me exactly when the moon shows its upper edge above the sea to-night. Not later, and not sooner, for the longer ye can remain about the hall the less likely will any one be to inquire after me."

"I will be sure not to fail you; but, Heika, is that not a little too late? The flood-tide will be past, and if there is any sea on, it will be ill passing the skerries, many of which are but little covered, even at high water."

"Trust me, Hake; it will not be too late. Be sure that ye come no sooner -- else evil may ensue."

"My heart sinks when I think of Bertha," said Hake, with a deep sigh. "It will seem so cold, so hard, so unaccountable, to leave her without one word, one farewell."

"Think better of it, brother," said Heika eagerly; "I am prepared to start alone even now!"

"Never!" exclaimed Hake, flushing, -- "What? shall I draw back like a coward at the last moment, after pledging my word to go? and shall I leave you to face this enterprise alone? Nay, Heika, we have suffered for many years together, we shall triumph now together -- or perish."

"My poor brother," said Heika, grasping Hake's hand, and kissing it with deep feeling. -- "But go now to the hall, and leave me; I hear them laying the tables for supper. The window is easily removed; I will hasten at once and get things ready. Take good care not to re-enter this closet after leaving it, for the carls are moving about the hall, and may chance to observe that it is empty. Be circumspect, brother."

They squeezed hands again, and Hake went into the hall, where he mingled with the house-carls, and chatted carelessly about the events of the day.

The instant he was gone Heika rose and removed the parchment window, took a billet of firewood and laid it across the bed, then, leaping out, he walked smartly towards the west end of the village.

It was beginning to grow dark, and few of the people were about. To those whom he passed Heika nodded familiarly, but did not stop. The moment he had rounded the cliff which hid Brattalid from view, he ran westward at full speed.

Meanwhile supper was laid in the hall, and all were awaiting the entrance of the master of the house and Karlsefin, but there was no appearance of either. After a quarter of an hour had passed, and they were beginning to wonder what had become of them, the door opened and Biarne entered, saying that Leif had sent him to say that as he had business which would keep him out late, they were not to wait supper for him.

Hake began to feel somewhat uneasy at this, and when supper was finished he resolved to leave the house a little before the appointed time. For that purpose he entered the sleeping-closet, intending to pass out by the window.

The first thing that caught his eye was the billet of firewood lying across the bed! His heart almost stood still at the sight, for this, coupled with Heika's display of deep feeling, and their recent conversation about signs, caused the truth to flash upon him.

With one bound he passed through the window and flew westward like the wind-round the point, over the ridge, and down towards the appointed rendezvous at the skerries.

But, to return to Heika. When he neared the inlet he changed his pace to a rapid walk, and glanced cautiously from side to side, to make quite sure that he was not observed by any one who might chance to have wandered in that direction.

Now, it is a well-known fact in the affairs of this world, that many strange things occur in a most unaccountable manner. Who can tell how it was, or why it was that, just a few minutes before Heika approached the inlet from the landward side, a small boat entered it from the seaward side, out of which stepped Leif Ericsson and Karlsefin? They drew their boat into a corner in deep shadow, and then, going to another corner, also in deep shadow, sat down on a ledge of rock without uttering a single word.

They had never been in that inlet before; had never seen it, probably never thought of it before, yet there they were, quietly seated in it --  and, just in the nick of time!

From the place where they sat neither their own boat nor Leif's could be seen -- only the landward opening of the inlet.

Presently approaching footsteps were heard. The two friends rose. A moment later and Heika stood before them. He stopped abruptly on beholding them, and his eyes blazed with astonishment, rage, and despair. Suddenly he looked round as if in search of a weapon, or of a way of escape.

"Be wise, lad," said Leif, kindly yet very gravely; "no evil will come of it if ye are wise, and take your misfortunes like a man."

Heika was subdued by the gentle tone. He crossed his arms on his heaving chest, and stood erect before them with his head slightly drooped, and a look of profound sadness, rather than disappointment, on his countenance.

"Come hither, Heika," said Leif, pointing seaward, "I have somewhat to show thee."

They went down the beach till they stood beside the boat, which was ready for sea.

"This is a strange sight," he continued; "here is an excellent boat, well found, well loaded, well busked in every way for a long voyage. Knowest thou aught in regard to it, Heika?"

"I know," answered the Scot, bitterly, "that if ye had come hither only half-an-hour later, that boat would have been on its way with me to Scotland."

"What, with you alone?"

"Ay -- with me alone."

"That is strange," said Leif, somewhat perplexed; "I had fancied that you brothers loved each other passing well; but I suppose that a man who can be guilty of ingratitude is not to be much depended on in the matter of affection."

Heika winced at these words -- not that the charge of ingratitude affected him, but he could not submit calmly to the unjust supposition that in his contemplated flight he had been actuated by selfish indifference to his brother. At the same time he would not condescend to give any explanation of his conduct. Drawing himself up, he looked Leif full in the face.

"Norseman," he said, "small is the gratitude I owe to thee. 'Tis true, ye have treated me and my brother kindly since we came hither, and for that I owe thee thanks, and would gladly have paid this debt before leaving, had such been consistent with flight; but kindness, however great, is not a worthy price for liberty, and when King Olaf Tryggvisson sent me to thee, I made no promise to sell my liberty at such a price. But in regard to Hake -- "

"Ay, in regard to Hake, go on; why dost thou stop?" said Leif, in a stern tone. "There is some truth in what ye say about gratitude; but what of Hake?"

The Scot still remained silent, with his lips compressed, and dropped his eyes sternly on the ground.

"This seems to me a bad business," said Karlsefin, who had hitherto listened with an expression of anxiety and disappointment gradually deepening on his countenance. "I had thought better of thee, Heika. Surely Hake's longing to be free and in his own native land must be to the full as strong as thine. I am puzzled, moreover, for two were better than one in the mad voyage ye thought to undertake."

Heika smiled at this.

"Truly," he said, "my brother loves his native land and freedom, nevertheless he prefers bondage to freedom, and Greenland to his native land. And yet would he fain have sacrificed his preference, and resigned his bondage out of love to me, if I would have allowed him."

"Resigned his bondage, Heika!" exclaimed Leif. "Ye speak in riddles, man; what mean you?"

Instead of replying the Scot looked at Leif with an intelligent smile, and held up his forefinger as if to call attention. At the same moment the sound as if of some one running at full speed was heard faintly in the distance.

Leif and Karlsefin looked at the Scot in surprise.

"It is my brother," he said, sadly.

In a few seconds the steps were close at hand. Leif seized Karlsefin by the arm, and dragged him swiftly under the deep shadow of the cliffs just as Hake came through the narrow opening with such a rush that on seeing Heika he could not avoid plunging violently into his extended arms.

"Was this right in thee, brother?" he cried, laying his hand on Heika's shoulder, on recovering himself; "was it wise to treat me thus like a child?"

"It was kindly meant," said Heika, much perplexed as to how he should act in existing circumstances.

"Kindly meant!" exclaimed Hake, vehemently. "Ay, well do I know that, yet it was not wisely kind to forsake me after promising to take me with you, when ye knew that I did but leave Bertha for a time, and meant to come back and win or demand her from -- ."

"Hush! brother, hush!" cried Heika, laying his hand on the other's mouth. "Whatever I thought or meant to do matters little now, for I have found it impossible to undertake this voyage after all."

"Impossible!" echoed Hake; "why, what craven spirit has come over thee? Is not the boat ready? am not I ready, and is not the opportunity favourable?"

"All is ready, no doubt," replied Heika, hesitating, "but -- "

"But the truth is," cried Leif, as he and Karlsefin issued from their place of concealment, laughing heartily, "the truth is, that the opportunity is not favourable, for I have some objection to either of you leaving me at present -- though the objection is not so strong but that it might give way if ye desired it greatly. Come hither, all of you."

He went a few steps towards the boat, and pointing to it, said -- "Tell me, Hake, for thou art not a bad counsellor at need, dost think that vessel there is a sufficiently large one to venture a voyage in it on these northern seas at this time of year?"

"It is large enough for men who would be free," replied Hake moodily, for his astonishment on first beholding his master had given place to deep mortification, now that he perceived his brother's hopes and plans were frustrated.

"Nay, as to being free," returned Leif, with a laugh, "thy brother hinted not long ago something about thy preference for thraldom, in regard to which I now perceive some glimmering of reason; but I ask thee for a matter-of-fact opinion. Dost think there would be much risk in the voyage thy brother contemplated?"

"There would be some risk, doubtless, yet not so much but that we would have run it for the sake of freedom."

"H'm! In my opinion it would have been a mad venture," rejoined Leif. "What say you, Karlsefin?"

"A useless venture, as well as mad," he replied; "for death, not freedom, would have been the end of it."

"So I think," returned Leif, "and that is my only objection to your undertaking it, Hake. Nevertheless if you and Heika are still willing to venture, ye may do so. There lies the boat; a fair wind is blowing outside; get on board, shove off, hoist the sail and away to bonny Scotland if you will, for I grant you freedom to go!"

"It is ill to jest with thralls," said Heika, looking sternly at his master.

"Nay, I do not jest -- nor are ye thralls," replied Leif, assuming a look and tone of unwonted seriousness. "Give me your attention, friends; and thou, Karlsefin, take note of what I say, for I care not to talk much on this subject until my mind is more clear upon it. My opinion is that this new religion which we hear so much of just now, is true. It is of God -- not of man, and I believe that Jesus Christ, my Lord, has come in the flesh to save His people from their sins. Many things have led me to this opinion, in regard to which I will not speak. I have thought and heard much for some years past, and woefully have I been staggered, as well as helped on, by the men who have been sent to Greenland with the Good News. Some have, by their conduct squaring with their profession, led me to believe. Others have, by their conduct belying their profession, hindered me. But the Lord Himself has led me into a certain measure of light; and there is one law of His in particular, which just now comes home to me with much power, namely this -- 'Whatsoever ye would that men should do unto you, do ye even so unto them.' This law, I am persuaded, is of God. Long have I lived, and never before have I seen it acted on till these Christians came amongst us. They do not, indeed, always practise as they teach; but they are imperfect, therefore they cannot practise fully as they teach, because they teach perfection. This law I shall henceforth follow as I best can. I follow it to-day. If I were in thraldom to you, Heika, just now, I would wish you to set me free, therefore I now set you and your brother free. The rule is very simple of application. It only wants a willing spirit. And let me add -- ye have to thank the Lord, not me, for your freedom."

The brothers stood speechless with surprise on hearing this, but Karlsefin grasped Leif's hand and said very earnestly -- "Ye have done well, brother. Long have I thought to urge thee to this, and frequently have I asked of Him that it might be as it has turned out. Now, my prayer is answered. But what say Heika and Hake to this?"

"Never mind what they say," returned Leif brusquely. "Doubtless their thoughts interfere with their speech at present. And hark 'ee, all; as I said before, I desire to have no further talk at present on this point. Ye are welcome to tell whom ye please what I have said, and what I have done, and why I have done it -- there let the matter rest. So now, Heika and Hake," he added, in a gay tone, "I mean what I say. There lies the boat, and ye are free to go if it please you. Only, if ye will accept my advice you will make up your minds to spend this winter in Greenland as my guests, and in spring there will be better weather and a more fitting craft to carry you over the sea to Scotland. Meanwhile Hake will have ample opportunity to woo, win, and wed -- without demanding -- the fair Bertha!"

Need we say that the brothers gladly accepted this generous invitation, and endeavoured, in spite of Leif's prohibition, to express their gratitude in a few earnest though broken sentences.

Great was the surprise that night in Brattalid, when it was made known that Leif Ericsson had given freedom to his thralls out of regard to the Christian religion. Leif afterwards told his friends that it was out of regard to the Founder of that religion, but it was long before many of the people could see a distinction in that. Numerous were the theological discussions, too, which this act of emancipation called forth in every household, and great was the joy which it created in one or two hearts.

To say nothing of the young Scots themselves, it caused the heart of timid little Bertha to sing for joy, while Gudrid, Astrid, and Thora rejoiced sympathetically, and looked forward with pleasant anticipation to the approaching marriage. Even Freydissa opened out in a new light on the occasion, and congratulated her handmaiden heartily, telling her with real sincerity that marriage was the only thing she was fit for!

But it was Olaf who displayed the greatest amount of feeling on the occasion, and it was Snorro on whom he expended himself!

On the morning after the great event, he hoisted Snorro on his back with his wonted care and tenderness, and hurried off with him to the solitude of the sea-shore -- for, alas! there were no umbrageous solitudes in Greenland. There, not far from the spot where Flatface and his friends had once been made to wriggle their coat-tails with terror, he set Snorro down, and, sitting on a rock beside him, said -- 

"Now, old man, it is going to have a talk with me."

"Iss," replied Snorro, very contentedly.

"Does it know what has happened to Hake and Heika?"

Snorro shook his head.

"Well, my father has set them both free."

"Bof f'ee?" repeated Snorro, with a puzzled look.

"Yes, both."

"W'at's f'ee?" asked Snorro.

Olaf was greatly perplexed, for he knew not how to convey an idea of the meaning of that word to his little friend. He made various attempts, however, by means of simple illustrations and words, to explain it, but without success -- as was made plain by Snorro's usually intelligent countenance remaining a perfect blank.

At last he seized the child by both wrists and held him fast for a few seconds.

"Snorro," he said, "you are not free while I hold you. Now," he added, releasing the wrists, "you are free."

Snorro's countenance was no longer blank, but, on the contrary, extremely perplexed.

"Leif," he said, "no' hold Heika an' Hake by e hands!"

"No," replied Olaf, "but he holds them by the spirit."

"W'at's spiwit?" asked Snorro.

Olaf was in despair!

"Well, well," he cried, after stroking his chin and pulling his nose, and knuckling his forehead in the vain hope of hitting on some other mode of explaining his meaning; "it don't matter, old man. They are free, and that has made them very happy; and oh! I am very glad, because I am so fond of Hake. Don't you remember how he came to save us from the Skraelingers, and nearly did it too? And he is going to be married to Bertha. Isn't that nice? It knows what married means, don't it?"

"No," said Snorro.

"Well, no matter; it's what seems to make everybody very happy; and Bertha is very happy, and so am I, for I'm fond of Bertha, as well as of Hake; and so is Snorro, isn't he?"

"Iss," replied Snorro, with a very decided nod.

"Well, that's all very pleasant," continued Olaf, running on with the subject until it led him into another subject, which led him into a third and fourth, and so on, with the ever-varying moods of his gay and fanciful mind, until he was led in spirit to Vinland, where he and Snorro remained lost in the woods, perfectly contented and happy, for the remainder of the day.

And now, patient reader, we must lead you in spirit away from the scenes on which we have dwelt so long, across the wide ocean to Scotland.

There, on the heights of a lion-like hill, stand Heika and Hake. A precipitous crag rises behind them. In front towers a rock, from which Edwin's castle frowns down on the huts of an embryo city. The undulating woodland between resounds with the notes of the huntsman's horn. Away in the distance lie the clear waters of the fiord of Forth, and the background of Scotia's highland hills mingling with the sky.

The brothers stand in rapt and silent admiration of the scene, as well they may, for it is surpassingly beautiful. But they do not stand alone. Bertha leans on Hake's arm, and a tall girl with dark hair leans on Heika's. Beside them stands a fine-looking though somewhat delicate old man; whose benignant gaze seems to be more attracted by the young people than the scenery.

Need we say that this is the Scottish Earl, the father of our fleet-footed thralls, and that the dark-haired girl is Emma? We will not violate your sense of propriety, gentle reader, by talking of Mrs Heika; nor will we venture to make reference to the little Heikas left at home!

But these are not all the party. Karlsefin, Biarne, and Thorward are there -- on a visit to the Earl -- with Gudrid and Freydissa; and away on the fiord they can see their two Norse galleys towering like quaint giants at rest among the small craft that ply and skim about there.

Shall we listen to what our friends say? We think not. Too long already have we caused them to break the silence which they have maintained for the last eight hundred years. Let us rather bid their shades depart with a kind farewell.

But before the memory of them is quite gone, let us say a word or two in conclusion.

Whether the Norsemen ever returned again to Vinland is a matter of uncertainty, for the saga is silent on that point; and it is to be feared that Snorro, the first American, did not return to take possession of his native land, for when the great continent was re-discovered about five hundred years later, only "red-skins" were found there; and the Pilgrim Fathers make no mention of having met with descendants of any colony of white men.

What ultimately became of Snorro and Olaf is, we regret to say, unknown. This, however, is certain, that Karlsefin, according to his oft-expressed intention, retired to Iceland, where he dwelt happily with Gudrid, Leif, Biarne, and Thorward for many years. It is therefore probable that Snorro and Olaf took to a seafaring life, which was almost the only life open to enterprising men in those days. If they did, they distinguished themselves -- there can be no doubt whatever upon that point.

As to the other personages who have figured in our tale, we can only surmise -- at least hope -- that they lived long and happily, for the saga relates nothing as to the end of their respective careers. But of this we are quite sure, that wherever they went, or however long they lived, they never failed to retain a lively recollection of that romantic period of their lives when they sojourned in the pleasant groves of Vinland -- that mighty continent which, all unsuspected by these men of old, was destined, in the course of time, to play such a grand and important part in the world's history.

Thus ends all that we have got to tell of the adventures of the Norsemen in the West, and the Discovery of America before Columbus.

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We And The World: A Book For Boys. Part I.

By

Juliana Horatia Ewing



Chapter I.

"All these common features of English landscape evince a calm and settled security, and hereditary transmission of home-bred virtues and local attachments, that speak deeply and touchingly for the moral character of the nation." -- WASHINGTON IRVING'S Sketch Book.


It was a great saying of my poor mother's, especially if my father had been out of spirits about the crops, or the rise in wages, or our prospects, and had thought better of it again, and showed her the bright side of things, "Well, my dear, I'm sure we've much to be thankful for."

Which they had, and especially, I often think, for the fact that I was not the eldest son. I gave them more trouble than I can think of with a comfortable conscience as it was; but they had Jem to tread in my father's shoes, and he was a good son to them -- GOD bless him for it!

I can remember hearing my father say -- "It's bad enough to have Jack with his nose in a book, and his head in the clouds, on a fine June day, with the hay all out, and the glass falling: but if Jem had been a lad of whims and fancies, I think it would have broken my poor old heart."

I often wonder what made me bother my head with books, and where the perverse spirit came from that possessed me, and tore me, and drove me forth into the world. It did not come from my parents. My mother's family were far from being literary or even enterprising, and my father's people were a race of small yeomen squires, whose talk was of dogs and horses and cattle, and the price of hay. We were north-of-England people, but not of a commercial or adventurous class, though we were within easy reach of some of the great manufacturing centres. Quiet country folk we were; old-fashioned, and boastful of our old-fashionedness, albeit it meant little more than that our manners and customs were a generation behindhand of the more cultivated folk, who live nearer to London. We were proud of our name too, which is written in the earliest registers and records of the parish, honourably connected with the land we lived on; but which may be searched for in vain in the lists of great or even learned Englishmen.

It never troubled dear old Jem that there had not been a man of mark among all the men who had handed on our name from generation to generation. He had no feverish ambitions, and as to books, I doubt if he ever opened a volume, if he could avoid it, after he wore out three horn-books and our mother's patience in learning his letters -- not even the mottle-backed prayer-books which were handed round for family prayers, and out of which we said the psalms for the day, verse about with my father. I generally found the place, and Jem put his arm over my shoulder and read with me.

He was a yeoman born. I can just remember -- when I was not three years old and he was barely four -- the fright our mother got from his fearless familiarity with the beasts about the homestead. He and I were playing on the grass-plat before the house when Dolly, an ill-tempered dun cow we knew well by sight and name, got into the garden and drew near us. As I sat on the grass -- my head at no higher level than the buttercups in the field beyond -- Dolly loomed so large above me that I felt frightened and began to cry. But Jem, only conscious that she had no business there, picked up a stick nearly as big as himself, and trotted indignantly to drive her out. Our mother caught sight of him from an upper window, and knowing that the temper of the cow was not to be trusted, she called wildly to Jem, "Come in, dear, quick! Come in! Dolly's loose!"

"I drive her out!" was Master Jem's reply; and with his little straw hat well on the back of his head, he waddled bravely up to the cow, flourishing his stick. The process interested me, and I dried my tears and encouraged my brother; but Dolly looked sourly at him, and began to lower her horns.

"Shoo! shoo!" shouted Jem, waving his arms in farming-man fashion, and belabouring Dolly's neck with the stick. "Shoo! shoo!"

Dolly planted her forefeet, and dipped her head for a push, but catching another small whack on her face, and more authoritative "Shoos!" she changed her mind, and swinging heavily round, trotted off towards the field, followed by Jem, waving, shouting, and victorious. My mother got out in time to help him to fasten the gate, which he was much too small to do by himself, though, with true squirely instincts, he was trying to secure it.

But from our earliest days we both lived on intimate terms with all the live stock. "Laddie," an old black cart-horse, was one of our chief friends. Jem and I used to sit, one behind the other, on his broad back, when our little legs could barely straddle across, and to "grip" with our knees in orthodox fashion was a matter of principle, but impossible in practice. Laddie's pace was always discreet, however, and I do not think we should have found a saddle any improvement, even as to safety, upon his warm, satin-smooth back. We steered him more by shouts and smacks than by the one short end of a dirty rope which was our apology for reins; that is, if we had any hand in guiding his course. I am now disposed to think that Laddie guided himself.

But our beast friends were many. The yellow yard-dog always slobbered joyfully at our approach; partly moved, I fancy, by love for us, and partly by the exciting hope of being let off his chain. When we went into the farmyard the fowls came running to our feet for corn, the pigeons fluttered down over our heads for peas, and the pigs humped themselves against the wall of the sty as tightly as they could lean, in hopes of having their backs scratched. The long sweet faces of the plough horses, as they turned in the furrows, were as familiar to us as the faces of any other labourers in our father's fields, and we got fond of the lambs and ducks and chickens, and got used to their being killed and eaten when our acquaintance reached a certain date, like other farm-bred folk, which is one amongst the many proofs of the adaptability of human nature.

So far so good, on my part as well as Jem's. That I should like the animals "on the place" -- the domesticated animals, the workable animals, the eatable animals -- this was right and natural, and befitting my father's son. But my far greater fancy for wild, queer, useless, mischievous, and even disgusting creatures often got me into trouble. Want of sympathy became absolute annoyance as I grew older, and wandered farther, and adopted a perfect menagerie of odd beasts in whom my friends could see no good qualities: such as the snake I kept warm in my trousers-pocket; the stickleback that I am convinced I tamed in its own waters; the toad for whom I built a red house of broken drainpipes at the back of the strawberry bed, where I used to go and tickle his head on the sly; and the long-whiskered rat in the barn, who knew me well, and whose death nearly broke my heart, though I had seen generations of unoffending ducklings pass to the kitchen without a tear.

I think it must have been the beasts that made me take to reading: I was so fond of Buffon's Natural History, of which there was an English abridgment on the dining-room bookshelves.

But my happiest reading days began after the bookseller's agent came round, and teased my father into taking in the Penny Cyclopedia; and those numbers in which there was a beast, bird, fish, or reptile were the numbers for me!

I must, however, confess that if a love for reading had been the only way in which I had gone astray from the family habits and traditions, I don't think I should have had much to complain of in the way of blame.

My father "pish"ed and "pshaw"ed when he caught me "poking over" books, but my dear mother was inclined to regard me as a genius, whose learning might bring renown of a new kind into the family. In a quiet way of her own, as she went gently about household matters, or knitted my father's stockings, she was a great day-dreamer -- one of the most unselfish kind, however; a builder of air-castles, for those she loved to dwell in; planned, fitted, and furnished according to the measure of her affections.

It was perhaps because my father always began by disparaging her suggestions that (by the balancing action of some instinctive sense of justice) he almost always ended by adopting them, whether they were wise or foolish. He came at last to listen very tolerantly when she dilated on my future greatness.

"And if he isn't quite so good a farmer as Jem, it's not as if he were the eldest, you know, my dear. I'm sure we've much to be thankful for that dear Jem takes after you as he does. But if Jack turns out a genius, which please God we may live to see and be proud of, he'll make plenty of money, and he must live with Jem when we're gone, and let Jem manage it for him, for clever people are never any good at taking care of what they get. And when their families get too big for the old house, love, Jack must build, as he'll be well able to afford to do, and Jem must let him have the land. The Ladycroft would be as good as anywhere, and a pretty name for the house. It would be a good thing to have some one at that end of the property too, and then the boys would always be together."

Poor dear mother! The kernel of her speech lay in the end of it -- "The boys would always be together." I am sure in her tender heart she blessed my bookish genius, which was to make wealth as well as fame, and so keep me "about the place," and the home birds for ever in the nest.

I knew nothing of it then, of course; but at this time she used to turn my father's footsteps towards the Ladycroft every Sunday, between the services, and never wearied of planning my house.

She was standing one day, her smooth brow knitted in perplexity, before the big pink thorn, and had stood so long absorbed in this brown study, that my father said, with a sly smile,

"Well, love, and where are you now?"

"In the dairy, my dear," she answered quite gravely. "The window is to the north of course, and I'm afraid the thorn must come down."

My father laughed heartily. He had some sense of humour, but my mother had none. She was one of the sweetest-tempered women that ever lived, and never dreamed that any one was laughing at her. I have heard my father say she lay awake that night, and when he asked her why she could not sleep he found she was fretting about the pink thorn.

"It looked so pretty to-day, my dear; and thorns are so bad to move!"

My father knew her too well to hope to console her by joking about it. He said gravely: "There's plenty of time yet, love. The boys are only just in trousers; and we may think of some way to spare it before we come to bricks and mortar."

"I've thought of it every way, my dear, I'm afraid," said my mother with a sigh. But she had full confidence in my father -- a trouble shared with him was half cured, and she soon fell asleep.

She certainly had a vivid imagination, though it never was cultivated to literary ends. Perhaps, after all, I inherited that idle fancy, those unsatisfied yearnings of my restless heart, from her! Mental peculiarities are said to come from one's mother.

It was Jem who inherited her sweet temper.

Dear old Jem! He and I were the best of good friends always, and that sweet temper of his had no doubt much to do with it. He was very much led by me, though I was the younger, and whatever mischief we got into it was always my fault.

It was I who persuaded him to run away from school, under the, as it proved, insufficient disguise of walnut-juice on our faces and hands. It was I who began to dig the hole which was to take us through from the kitchen-garden to the other side of the world. (Jem helped me to fill it up again, when the gardener made a fuss about our having chosen the asparagus-bed as the point of departure, which we did because the earth was soft there.) In desert islands or castles, balloons or boats, my hand was first and foremost, and mischief or amusement of every kind, by earth, air, or water, was planned for us by me.

Now and then, however, Jem could crow over me. How he did deride me when I asked our mother the foolish question -- "Have bees whiskers?"

The bee who betrayed me into this folly was a bumble of the utmost beauty. The bars of his coat "burned" as "brightly" as those of the tiger in Wombwell's menagerie, and his fur was softer than my mother's black velvet mantle. I knew, for I had kissed him lightly as he sat on the window-frame. I had seen him brushing first one side and then the other side of his head, with an action so exactly that of my father brushing his whiskers on Sunday morning, that I thought the bee might be trimming his; not knowing that he was sweeping the flower-dust off his antenne with his legs, and putting it into his waistcoat pocket to make bee bread of.

It was the liberty I took in kissing him that made him not sit still any more, and hindered me from examining his cheeks for myself. He began to dance all over the window, humming his own tune, and before he got tired of dancing he found a chink open at the top sash, and sailed away like a spot of plush upon the air.

I had thus no opportunity of becoming intimate with him, but he was the cause of a more lasting friendship -- my friendship with Isaac Irvine, the bee-keeper. For when I asked that silly question, my mother said, "Not that I ever saw, love;" and my father said, "If he wants to know about bees, he should go to old Isaac. He'll tell him plenty of queer stories about them."

The first time I saw the bee-keeper was in church, on Catechism Sunday, in circumstances which led to my disgracing myself in a manner that must have been very annoying to my mother, who had taken infinite pains in teaching us.

The provoking part of it was that I had not had a fear of breaking down. With poor Jem it was very different. He took twice as much pains as I did, but he could not get things into his head, and even if they did stick there he found it almost harder to say them properly. We began to learn the Catechism when we were three years old, and we went on till long after we were in trousers; and I am sure Jem never got the three words "and an inheritor" tidily off the tip of his tongue within my remembrance. And I have seen both him and my mother crying over them on a hot Sunday afternoon. He was always in a fright when we had to say the Catechism in church, and that day, I remember, he shook so that I could hardly stand straight myself, and Bob Furniss, the blacksmith's son, who stood on the other side of him, whispered quite loud, "Eh! see thee, how Master Jem dodders!" for which Jem gave him an eye as black as his father's shop afterwards, for Jem could use his fists if he could not learn by heart.

But at the time he could not even compose himself enough to count down the line of boys and calculate what question would come to him. I did, and when he found he had only got the First Commandment, he was more at ease, and though the second, which fell to me, is much longer, I was not in the least afraid of forgetting it, for I could have done the whole of my duty to my neighbour if it had been necessary.

Jem got through very well, and I could hear my mother blessing him over the top of the pew behind our backs; but just as he finished, no less than three bees, who had been hovering over the heads of the workhouse boys opposite, all settled down together on Isaac Irvine's bare hand.

At the public catechising, which came once a year, and after the second lesson at evening prayer, the grown-up members of the congregation used to draw near to the end of their pews to see and hear how we acquitted ourselves, and, as it happened on this particular occasion, Master Isaac was standing exactly opposite to me. As he leaned forward, his hands crossed on the pew-top before him, I had been a good deal fascinated by his face, which was a very noble one in its rugged way, with snow-white hair and intense, keenly observing eyes, and when I saw the three bees settle on him without his seeming to notice it, I cried, "They'll sting you!" before I thought of what I was doing; for I had been severely stung that week myself, and knew what it felt like, and how little good powder-blue does.

With attending to the bees I had not heard the parson say, "Second Commandment?" and as he was rather deaf he did not hear what I said. But of course he knew it was not long enough for the right answer, and he said, "Speak up, my boy," and Jem tried to start me by whispering, "Thou shalt not make to thyself" -- but the three bees went on sitting on Master Isaac's hand, and though I began the Second Commandment, I could not take my eyes off them, and when Master Isaac saw this he smiled and nodded his white head, and said, "Never you mind me, sir. They won't sting the old bee-keeper." This assertion so completely turned my head that every other idea went out of it, and after saying "or in the earth beneath" three times, and getting no further, the parson called out, "Third Commandment?" and I was passed over -- "out of respect to the family," as I was reminded for a twelvemonth afterwards -- and Jem pinched my leg to comfort me, and my mother sank down on the seat, and did not take her face out of her pocket-handkerchief till the workhouse boys were saying "the sacraments."

My mother was our only teacher till Jem was nine and I was eight years old. We had a thin, soft-backed reading book, bound in black cloth, on the cover of which in gold letters was its name, Chick-seed without Chick-weed; and in this book she wrote our names, and the date at the end of each lesson we conned fairly through. I had got into Part II., which was "in words of four letters," and had the chapter about the Ship in it, before Jem's name figured at the end of the chapter about the Dog in Part I.

My mother was very glad that this chapter seemed to please Jem, and that he learned to read it quickly, for, good-natured as he was, Jem was too fond of fighting and laying about him: and though it was only "in words of three letters," this brief chapter contained a terrible story, and an excellent moral, which I remember well even now.

It was called "The Dog."

"Why do you cry? The Dog has bit my leg. Why did he do so? I had my bat and I hit him as he lay on the mat, so he ran at me and bit my leg. Ah, you may not use the bat if you hit the Dog. It is a hot day, and the Dog may go mad. One day a Dog bit a boy in the arm, and the boy had his arm cut off, for the Dog was mad. And did the boy die? Yes, he did die in a day or two. It is not fit to hit a Dog if he lie on the mat and is not a bad Dog. Do not hit a Dog, or a cat, or a boy."

Jem not only got through this lesson much better than usual, but he lingered at my mother's knees, to point with his own little stumpy forefinger to each recurrence of the words "hit a Dog," and read them all by himself.

"Very good boy," said Mother, who was much pleased. "And now read this last sentence once more, and very nicely."

"Do -- not -- hit -- a -- dog -- or -- a -- cat -- or -- a -- boy," read Jem in a high sing-song, and with a face of blank indifference, and then with a hasty dog's-ear he turned back to the previous page, and spelled out, "I had my bat and I hit him as he lay on the mat" so well, that my mother caught him to her bosom and covered him with kisses.

"He'll be as good a scholar as Jack yet!" she exclaimed. "But don't forget, my darling, that my Jem must never 'hit a dog, or a cat, or a boy.' Now, love, you may put the book away."

Jem stuck out his lips and looked down, and hesitated. He seemed almost disposed to go on with his lessons. But he changed his mind, and shutting the book with a bang, he scampered off. As he passed the ottoman near the door, he saw Kitty, our old tortoise-shell puss, lying on it, and (moved perhaps by the occurrence of the word cat in the last sentence of the lesson) he gave her such a whack with the flat side of Chick-seed that she bounced up into the air like a sky-rocket, Jem crying out as he did so, "I had my bat, and I hit him as he lay on the mat."

It was seldom enough that Jem got anything by heart, but he had certainly learned this; for when an hour later I went to look for him in the garden, I found him panting with the exertion of having laid my nice, thick, fresh green crop of mustard and cress flat with the back of the coal-shovel, which he could barely lift, but with which he was still battering my salad-bed, chanting triumphantly at every stroke, "I had my bat, and I hit him as he lay on the mat." He was quite out of breath, and I had not much difficulty in pummelling him as he deserved.

Which shows how true it is, as my dear mother said, that "you never know what to do for the best in bringing up boys."

Just about the time that we outgrew Chick-seed, and that it was allowed on all hands that even for quiet country-folk with no learned notions it was high time we were sent to school, our parents were spared the trouble of looking out for a school for us by the fact that a school came to us instead, and nothing less than an "Academy" was opened within three-quarters of a mile of my father's gate.

Walnut-tree Farm was an old house that stood some little way from the road in our favourite lane -- a lane full of wild roses and speedwell, with a tiny footpath of disjointed flags like an old pack-horse track. Grass and milfoil grew thickly between the stones, and the turf stretched half-way over the road from each side, for there was little traffic in the lane, beyond the yearly rumble of the harvesting waggons; and few foot-passengers, except a labourer now and then, a pair or two of rustic lovers at sundown, a few knots of children in the blackberry season, and the cows coming home to milking.

Jem and I played there a good deal, but then we lived close by.

We were very fond of the old place and there were two good reasons for the charm it had in our eyes. In the first place, the old man who lived alone in it (for it had ceased to be the dwelling-house of a real farm) was an eccentric old miser, the chief object of whose existence seemed to be to thwart any attempt to pry into the daily details of it. What manner of stimulus this was to boyish curiosity needs no explanation, much as it needs excuse.

In the second place, Walnut-tree Farm was so utterly different from the house which was our home, that everything about it was attractive from mere unaccustomedness.

Our house had been rebuilt from the foundations by my father. It was square-built and very ugly, but it was in such excellent repair that one could never indulge a more lawless fancy towards any chink or cranny about it than a desire to "point" the same with a bit of mortar.

Why it was that my ancestor, who built the old house, and who was not a bit better educated or farther-travelled than my father, had built a pretty one, whilst my father built an ugly one, is one of the many things I do not know, and wish I did.

From the old sketches of it which my grandfather painted on the parlour handscreens, I think it must have been like a larger edition of the farm; that is, with long mullioned windows, a broad and gracefully proportioned doorway with several shallow steps and quaintly-ornamented lintel; bits of fine work and ornamentation about the woodwork here and there, put in as if they had been done, not for the look of the thing, but for the love of it, and whitewash over the house-front, and over the apple-trees in the orchard.

That was what our ancestor's home was like; and it was the sort of house that became Walnut-tree Academy, where Jem and I went to school.



Chapter II.

Sable: -- "Ha, you! A little more upon the dismal (forming their countenances); this fellow has a good mortal look, place him near the corpse; that wainscoat face must be o' top of the stairs; that fellow's almost in a fright (that looks as if he were full of some strange misery) at the end of the hall. So -- but I'll fix you all myself. Let's have no laughing now on any provocation." -- The Funeral, STEELE.


At one time I really hoped to make the acquaintance of the old miser of Walnut-tree Farm. It was when we saved the life of his cat.

He was very fond of that cat, I think, and it was, to say the least of it, as eccentric-looking as its master. One eye was yellow and the other was blue, which gave it a strange, uncanny expression, and its rust-coloured fur was not common either as to tint or markings.

How dear old Jem did belabour the boy we found torturing it! He was much older and bigger than we were, but we were two to one, which we reckoned fair enough, considering his size, and that the cat had to be saved somehow. The poor thing's forepaws were so much hurt that it could not walk, so we carried it to the farm, and I stood on the shallow doorsteps, and under the dial, on which was written -- 

"Tempora mutantur!" -- 

and the old miser came out, and we told him about the cat, and he took it and said we were good boys, and I hoped he would have asked us to go in, but he did not, though we lingered a little; he only put his hand into his pocket, and very slowly brought out sixpence.

"No, thank you," said I, rather indignantly. "We don't want anything for saving the poor cat."

"I am very fond of it," he said apologetically, and putting the sixpence carefully back; but I believe he alluded to the cat.

I felt more and more strongly that he ought to invite us into the parlour -- if there was a parlour -- and I took advantage of a backward movement on his part to move one shallow step nearer, and said, in an easy conversational tone, "Your cat has very curious eyes."

He came out again, and his own eyes glared in the evening light as he touched me with one of his fingers in a way that made me shiver, and said, "If I had been an old woman, and that cat had lived with me in the days when this house was built, I should have been hanged, or burned as a witch. Twelve men would have done it -- twelve reasonable and respectable men!" He paused, looking over my head at the sky, and then added, "But in all good conscience -- mind, in all good conscience!"

And after another pause he touched me again (this time my teeth chattered), and whispered loudly in my ear, "Never serve on a jury." After which he banged the door in our faces, and Jem caught hold of my jacket and cried, "Oh! he's quite mad, he'll murder us!" and we took each other by the hand and ran home as fast as our feet would carry us.

We never saw the old miser again, for he died some months afterwards, and, strange to relate, Jem and I were invited to the funeral.

It was a funeral not to be forgotten. The old man had left the money for it, and a memorandum, with the minutest directions, in the hands of his lawyer. If he had wished to be more popular after his death than he had been in his lifetime, he could not have hit upon any better plan to conciliate in a lump the approbation of his neighbours than that of providing for what undertakers call "a first-class funeral." The good custom of honouring the departed, and committing their bodies to the earth with care and respect, was carried, in our old-fashioned neighbourhood, to a point at which what began in reverence ended in what was barely decent, and what was meant to be most melancholy became absolutely comical. But a sense of the congruous and the incongruous was not cultivated amongst us, whereas solid value (in size, quantity and expense) was perhaps over-estimated. So our furniture, our festivities, and our funerals bore witness.

No one had ever seen the old miser's furniture, and he gave no festivities; but he made up for it in his funeral.

Children, like other uneducated classes, enjoy domestic details, and going over the ins and outs of other people's affairs behind their backs; especially when the interest is heightened by a touch of gloom, or perfected by the addition of some personal importance in the matter. Jem and I were always fond of funerals, but this funeral, and the fuss that it made in the parish, we were never likely to forget.

Even our own household was so demoralized by the grim gossip of the occasion that Jem and I were accused of being unable to amuse ourselves, and of listening to our elders. It was perhaps fortunate for us that a favourite puppy died the day before the funeral, and gave us the opportunity of burying him.

"As if our whole vocation Were endless imitation --  -- "

Jem and I had already laid our gardens waste, and built a rude wall of broken bricks round them to make a churchyard; and I can clearly remember that we had so far profited by what we had overheard among our elders, that I had caught up some phrases which I was rather proud of displaying, and that I quite overawed Jem by the air with which I spoke of "the melancholy occasion" -- the "wishes of deceased" -- and the "feelings of survivors" when we buried the puppy.

It was understood that I could not attend the puppy's funeral in my proper person, because I wished to be the undertaker; but the happy thought struck me of putting my wheelbarrow alongside of the brick wall with a note inside it to the effect that I had "sent my carriage as a mark of respect."

In one point we could not emulate the real funeral: that was carried out "regardless of expense." The old miser had left a long list of the names of the people who were to be invited to it and to its attendant feast, in which was not only my father's name, but Jem's and mine. Three yards was the correct length of the black silk scarves which it was the custom in the neighbourhood to send to dead people's friends; but the old miser's funeral-scarves were a whole yard longer, and of such stiffly ribbed silk that Mr. Soot, the mourning draper, assured my mother that "it would stand of itself." The black gloves cost six shillings a pair, and the sponge-cakes, which used to be sent with the gloves and scarves, were on this occasion ornamented with weeping willows in white sugar.

Jem and I enjoyed the cake, but the pride we felt in our scarves and gloves was simply boundless. What pleased us particularly was that our funeral finery was not enclosed with my father's. Mr. Soot's man delivered three separate envelopes at the door, and they looked like letters from some bereaved giant. The envelopes were twenty inches by fourteen, and made of cartridge-paper; the black border was two inches deep, and the black seals must have consumed a stick of sealing-wax among them. They contained the gloves and the scarves, which were lightly gathered together in the middle with knots of black gauze ribbon.

How exquisitely absurd Jem and I must have looked with four yards of stiff black silk attached to our little hats I can imagine, if I cannot clearly remember. My dear mother dressed us and saw us off (for, with some curious relic of pre-civilized notions, women were not allowed to appear at funerals), and I do not think she perceived anything odd in our appearance. She was very gentle, and approved of everything that was considered right by the people she was used to, and she had only two anxieties about our scarves: first, that they should show the full four yards of respect to the memory of the deceased; and secondly, that we should keep them out of the dust, so that they might "come in useful afterwards."

She fretted a little because she had not thought of changing our gloves for smaller sizes (they were eight and a quarter); but my father "pish"ed and "pshaw"ed, and said it was better than if they had been too small, and that we should be sure to be late if my mother went on fidgeting. So we pulled them on -- with ease -- and picked up the tails of our hatbands -- with difficulty -- and followed my father, our hearts beating with pride, and my mother and the maids watching us from the door. We arrived quite half-an-hour earlier than we need have done, but the lane was already crowded with complimentary carriages, and curious bystanders, before whom we held our heads and hatbands up; and the scent of the wild roses was lost for that day in an all-pervading atmosphere of black dye. We were very tired, I remember, by the time that our turn came to be put into a carriage by Mr. Soot, who murmured -- "Pocket-handkerchiefs, gentlemen" -- and, following the example of a very pale-faced stranger who was with us, we drew out the clean handkerchiefs with which our mother had supplied us, and covered our faces with them.

At least Jem says he shut his eyes tight, and kept his face covered the whole way, but he always was so conscientious! I held my handkerchief as well as I could with my gloves; but I contrived to peep from behind it, and to see the crowd that lined the road to watch us as we wound slowly on.

If these outsiders, who only saw the procession and the funeral, were moved almost to enthusiasm by the miser's post-mortem liberality, it may be believed that the guests who were bidden to the feast did not fail to obey the ancient precept, and speak well of the dead. The tables (they were rickety) literally groaned under the weight of eatables and drinkables, and the dinner was so prolonged that Jem and I got terribly tired, in spite of the fun of watching the faces of the men we did not know, to see which got the reddest.

My father wanted us to go home before the reading of the will, which took place in the front parlour; but the lawyer said, "I think the young gentlemen should remain," for which we were very much obliged to him; though the pale-faced man said quite crossly -- "Is there any special reason for crowding the room with children, who are not even relatives of the deceased?" which made us feel so much ashamed that I think we should have slipped out by ourselves; but the lawyer, who made no answer, pushed us gently before him to the top of the room, which was soon far too full to get out of by the door.

It was very damp and musty. In several places the paper hung in great strips from the walls, and the oddest part of all was that every article of furniture in the room, and even the hearthrug, was covered with sheets of newspaper pinned over to preserve it. I sat in the corner of a sofa, where I could read the trial of a man who murdered somebody twenty-five years before, but I never got to the end of it, for it went on behind a very fat man who sat next to me, and he leaned back all the time and hid it. Jem sat on a little footstool, and fell asleep with his head on my knee, and did not wake till I nudged him, when our names were read out in the will. Even then he only half awoke, and the fat man drove his elbow into me and hurt me dreadfully for whispering in Jem's ear that the old miser had left us ten pounds apiece, for having saved the life of his cat.

I do not think any of the strangers (they were distant connections of the old man; he had no near relations) had liked our being there; and the lawyer, who was very kind, had had to tell them several times over that we really had been invited to the funeral. After our legacies were known about they were so cross that we managed to scramble through the window, and wandered round the garden. As we sat under the trees we could hear high words within, and by and by all the men came out and talked in angry groups about the will. For when all was said and done, it appeared that the old miser had not left a penny to any one of the funeral party but Jem and me, and that he had left Walnut-tree Farm to a certain Mrs. Wood, of whom nobody knew anything.

"The wording is so peculiar," the fat man said to the pale-faced man and a third who had come out with them; "'left to her as a sign of sympathy, if not an act of reparation.' He must have known whether he owed her any reparation or not, if he were in his senses."

"Exactly. If he were in his senses," said the third man.

"Where's the money? -- that's what I say," said the pale-faced man.

"Exactly, sir. That's what I say, too," said the fat man.

"There are only two fields, besides the house," said the third. "He must have had money, and the lawyer knows of no investments of any kind, he says."

"Perhaps he has left it to his cat," he added, looking very nastily at Jem and me.

"It's oddly put, too," murmured the pale-faced relation. "The two fields, the house and furniture, and everything of every sort therein contained." And the lawyer coming up at that moment, he went slowly back into the house, looking about him as he went, as if he had lost something.

As the lawyer approached, the fat man got very red in the face.

"He was as mad as a hatter, sir," he said, "and we shall dispute the will."

"I think you will be wrong," said the lawyer, blandly. "He was eccentric, my dear sir, very eccentric; but eccentricity is not insanity, and you will find that the will will stand."

Jem and I were sitting on an old garden-seat, but the men had talked without paying any attention to us. At this moment Jem, who had left me a minute or two before, came running back and said: "Jack! Do come and look in at the parlour window. That man with the white face is peeping everywhere, and under all the newspapers, and he's made himself so dusty! It's such fun!"

Too happy at the prospect of anything in the shape of fun, I followed Jem on tiptoe, and when we stood by the open window with our hands over our mouths to keep us from laughing, the pale-faced man was just struggling with the inside lids of an old japanned tea-caddy.

He did not see us, he was too busy, and he did not hear us, for he was talking to himself, and we heard him say, "Everything of every sort therein contained."

I suppose the lawyer was right, and that the fat man was convinced of it, for neither he nor any one else disputed the old miser's will. Jem and I each opened an account in the Savings Bank, and Mrs. Wood came into possession of the place.

Public opinion went up and down a good deal about the old miser still. When it leaked out that he had worded the invitation to his funeral to the effect that, being quite unable to tolerate the follies of his fellow-creatures, and the antics and absurdities which were necessary to entertain them, he had much pleasure in welcoming his neighbours to a feast, at which he could not reasonably be expected to preside -- everybody who heard it agreed that he must have been mad.

But it was a long sentence to remember, and not a very easy one to understand, and those who saw the plumes and the procession, and those who had a talk with the undertaker, and those who got a yard more than usual of such very good black silk, and those who were able to remember what they had had for dinner, were all charitably inclined to believe that the old man's heart had not been far from being in the right place, at whatever angle his head had been set on.

And then by degrees curiosity moved to Mrs. Wood. Who was she? What was she like? What was she to the miser? Would she live at the farm?

To some of these questions the carrier, who was the first to see her, replied. She was "a quiet, genteel-looking sort of a grey-haired widow lady, who looked as if she'd seen a deal of trouble, and was badly off."

The neighbourhood was not unkindly, and many folk were ready to be civil to the widow if she came to live there.

"But she never will," everybody said. "She must let it. Perhaps the new doctor might think of it at a low rent, he'd be glad of the field for his horse. What could she do with an old place like that, and not a penny to keep it up with?"

What she did do was to have a school there, and that was how Walnut-tree Farm became Walnut-tree Academy.



Chapter III.

"What are little boys made of, made of? What are little boys made of?" Nursery Rhyme.


When the school was opened, Jem and I were sent there at once. Everybody said it was "time we were sent somewhere," and that "we were getting too wild for home."

I got so tired of hearing this at last, that one day I was goaded to reply that "home was getting too tame for me." And Jem, who always backed me up, said, "And me too." For which piece of swagger we forfeited our suppers; but when we went to bed we found pieces of cake under our pillows, for my mother could not bear us to be short of food, however badly we behaved.

I do not know whether the trousers had anything to do with it, but about the time that Jem and I were put into trousers we lived in a chronic state of behaving badly. What makes me feel particularly ashamed in thinking of it is, that I know it was not that we came under the pressure of any overwhelming temptations to misbehave and yielded through weakness, but that, according to an expressive nursery formula, we were "seeing how naughty we could be." I think we were genuinely anxious to see this undesirable climax; in some measure as a matter of experiment, to which all boys are prone, and in which dangerous experiments, and experiments likely to be followed by explosion, are naturally preferred. Partly, too, from an irresistible impulse to "raise a row," and take one's luck of the results. This craving to disturb the calm current of events, and the good conduct and composure of one's neighbours as a matter of diversion, must be incomprehensible by phlegmatic people, who never feel it, whilst some Irishmen, I fancy, never quite conquer it, perhaps because they never quite cease to be boys. In any degree I do not for an instant excuse it, and in excess it must be simply intolerable by better-regulated minds.

But really, boys who are pickles should be put into jars with sound stoppers, like other pickles, and I wonder that mothers and cooks do not get pots like those that held the forty thieves, and do it.

I fancy it was because we happened to be in this rough, defiant, mischievous mood, just about the time that Mrs. Wood opened her school, that we did not particularly like our school-mistress. If I had been fifteen years older, I should soon have got beyond the first impression created by her severe dress, close widow's cap and straight grey hair, and have discovered that the outline of her face was absolutely beautiful, and I might possibly have detected, what most people failed to detect, that an odd unpleasing effect, caused by the contrast between her general style, and an occasional lightness and rapidity and grace of movement in her slender figure, came from the fact that she was much younger than she looked and affected to be. The impression I did receive of her appearance I communicated to my mother in far from respectful pantomime.

"Well, love, and what do you think of Mrs. Wood?" said she.

"I think," chanted I, in that high brassy pitch of voice which Jem and I had adopted for this bravado period of our existence -- "I think she's like our old white hen that turned up its eyes and died of the pip. Lack-a-daisy-dee! Lack-a-daisy-dee!"

And I twisted my body about, and strolled up and down the room with a supposed travesty of Mrs. Wood's movements.

"So she is," said faithful Jem. "Lack-a-daisy-dee! Lack-a-daisy-dee!" and he wriggled about after me, and knocked over the Berlin wool-basket.

"Oh dear, oh dear!" said our poor mother.

Jem righted the basket, and I took a run and a flying leap over it, and having cleared it successfully, took another, and yet another, each one soothing my feelings to the extent by which it shocked my mother's. At the third bound, Jem, not to be behindhand, uttered a piercing yell from behind the sofa.

"Good gracious, what's the matter?" cried my mother.

"It's the war-whoop of the Objibeway Indians," I promptly explained, and having emitted another, to which I flattered myself Jem's had been as nothing for hideousness, we departed in file to raise a row in the kitchen.

Summer passed into autumn. Jem and I really liked going to school, but it was against our principles at that time to allow that we liked anything that we ought to like.

Some sincere but mistaken efforts to improve our principles were made, I remember, by a middle-aged single lady, who had known my mother in her girlhood, and who was visiting her at this unlucky stage of our career. Having failed to cope with us directly, she adopted the plan of talking improvingly to our mother and at us, and very severe some of her remarks were, and I don't believe that Mother liked them any better than we did.

The severest she ever made were I think heightened in their severity by the idea that we were paying unusual attention, as we sat on the floor a little behind her one day. We were paying a great deal of attention, but it was not so much to Miss Martin as to a stock of wood-lice which I had collected, and which I was arranging on the carpet that Jem might see how they roll themselves into smooth tight balls when you tease them. But at last she talked so that we could not help attending. I dared not say anything to her, but her own tactics were available. I put the wood-lice back in my pocket, and stretching my arms yawningly above my head, I said to Jem, "How dull it is! I wish I were a bandit."

Jem generally outdid me if possible, from sheer willingness and loyalty of spirit.

"I should like to be a burglar," said he.

And then we both left the room very quietly and politely. But when we got outside I said, "I hate that woman."

"So do I," said Jem; "she regularly hectors over mother -- I hate her worst for that."

"So do I. Jem, doesn't she take pills?"

"I don't know -- why?"

"I believe she does; I'm certain I saw a box on her dressing-table. Jem, run like a good chap and see, and if there is one, empty out the pills and bring me the pill-box."

Jem obeyed, and I sat down on the stairs and began to get the wood-lice out again. There were twelve nice little black balls in my hand when Jem came back with the pill-box.

"Hooray!" I cried; "but knock out all the powder, it might smother them. Now, give it to me."

Jem danced with delight when I put the wood-lice in and put on the lid.

"I hope she'll shake the box before she opens it," I said, as we replaced it on the dressing-table.

"I hope she will, or they won't be tight. Oh, Jack! Jack! How many do you suppose she takes at a time?"

We never knew, and what is more, we never knew what became of the wood-lice, for, for some reason, she kept our counsel as well as her own about the pill-box.

One thing that helped to reconcile us to spending a good share of our summer days in Walnut-tree Academy was that the school-mistress made us very comfortable. Boys at our age are not very sensitive about matters of taste and colour and so forth, but even we discovered that Mrs. Wood had that knack of adapting rooms to their inhabitants, and making them pleasant to the eye, which seems to be a trick at the end of some people's fingers, and quite unlearnable by others. When she had made the old miser's rooms to her mind, we might have understood, if we had speculated about it, how it was that she had not profited by my mother's sound advice to send all his "rubbishy odds and ends" (the irregularity and ricketiness and dustiness of which made my mother shudder) to be "sold at the nearest auction-rooms, and buy some good solid furniture of the cabinet-maker who furnished for everybody in the neighbourhood, which would be the cheapest in the long-run, besides making the rooms look like other people's at last." That she evaded similar recommendations of paperhangers and upholsterers, and of wall-papers and carpets, and curtains with patterns that would "stand," and wear best, and show dirt least, was a trifle in the eyes of all good housekeepers, when our farming-man's daughter brought the amazing news with her to Sunday tea, that "the missus" had had in old Sally, and had torn the paper off the parlour, and had made Sally "lime-wash the walls, for all the world as if it was a cellar." Moreover, she had "gone over" the lower part herself, and was now painting on the top of that. There was nothing for it, after this news, but to sigh and conclude that there was something about the old place which made everybody a little queer who came to live in it.

But when Jem and I saw the parlour (which was now the school-room), we decided that it "looked very nice," and was "uncommonly comfortable." The change was certainly amazing, and made the funeral day seem longer ago than it really was. The walls were not literally lime-washed; but (which is the same thing, except for a little glue!) they were distempered, a soft pale pea-green. About a yard deep above the wainscot this was covered with a dark sombre green tint, and along the upper edge of this, as a border all round the room, the school-mistress had painted a trailing wreath of white periwinkle. The border was painted with the same materials as the walls, and with very rapid touches. The white flowers were skilfully relieved by the dark ground, and the varied tints of the leaves, from the deep evergreen of the old ones to the pale yellow of the young shoots, had demanded no new colours, and were wonderfully life-like and pretty. There was another border, right round the top of the room; but that was painted on paper and fastened on. It was a Bible text -- "Keep Innocency, and take heed to the thing that is right, for that shall bring a man Peace at the last." And Mrs. Wood had done the text also.

There were no curtains to the broad, mullioned window, which was kept wide open at every lattice; and one long shoot of ivy that had pushed in farther than the rest had been seized, and pinned to the wall inside, where its growth was a subject of study and calculation, during the many moments when we were "trying to see" how little we could learn of our lessons. The black-board stood on a polished easel; but the low seats and desks were of plain pine like the floor, and they were scrupulously scrubbed. The cool tint of the walls was somewhat cheered by coloured maps and prints, and the school-mistress's chair (an old carved oak one that had been much revived by bees-wax and turpentine since the miser's days) stood on the left-hand side of the window -- under "Keep Innocency," and looking towards "Peace at the last." I know, for when we were all writing or something of that sort, so that she could sit still, she used to sit with her hands folded and look up at it, which was what made Jem and me think of the old white hen that turned up its eyes; and made Horace Simpson say that he believed she had done one of the letters wrong, and could not help looking at it to see if it showed. And by the school-mistress's chair was the lame boy's sofa. It was the very old sofa covered with newspapers on which I had read about the murder, when the lawyer was reading the will. But she had taken off the paper, and covered it with turkey red, and red cushions, and a quilt of brown holland and red bordering, to hide his crumpled legs, so that he looked quite comfortable.

I remember so well the first day that he came. His father was a parson on the moors, and this boy had always wanted to go to school in spite of his infirmity, and at last his father brought him in a light cart down from the moors, to look at it; and when he got him out of the cart, he carried him in. He was a big man, I remember, with grey hair and bent shoulders, and a very old coat, for it split a little at one of the seams as he was carrying him in, and we laughed.

When they got into the room, he put the boy down, keeping his arm round him, and wiped his face and said -- "How deliciously cool!" -- and the boy stared all round with his great eyes, and then he lifted them to his father's face and said -- "I'll come here. I do like it. But not to-day, my back is so bad."

And what makes me know that Horace was wrong, and that Mrs. Wood had made no mistake about the letters of the text, is that "Cripple Charlie" -- as we called him -- could see it so well with lying down. And he told me one day that when his back was very bad, and he got the fidgets and could not keep still, he used to fix his eyes on "Peace," which had gold round the letters, and shone, and that if he could keep steadily to it, for a good bit, he always fell asleep at the last. But he was very fanciful, poor chap!

I do not think it was because Jem and I had any real wish to become burglars that we made a raid on the walnuts that autumn. I do not even think that we cared very much about the walnuts themselves.

But when it is understood that the raid was to be a raid by night, or rather in those very early hours of the morning which real burglars are said almost to prefer; that it was necessary to provide ourselves with thick sticks; that we should have to force the hedge and climb the trees; that the said trees grew directly under the owner's bedroom window, which made the chances of detection hazardously great; and that walnut juice (as I have mentioned before) is of a peculiarly unaccommodating nature, since it will neither disguise you at the time nor wash off afterwards -- it will be obvious that the dangers and delights of the adventure were sufficient to blunt, for the moment, our sense of the fact that we were deliberately going a-thieving.

"Shall we wear black masks?" said Jem.

On the whole I said "No," for I did not know where we should get them, nor, if we did, how we should keep them on.

"If she has a blunderbuss, and fires," said I, "you must duck your head, remember; but if she springs the rattle we must cut and run."

"Will her blunderbuss be loaded, do you think?" asked Jem. "Mother says the one in their room isn't; she told me so on Saturday. But she says we're never to touch it, all the same, for you never can be sure about things of that sort going off. Do you think Mrs. Wood's will be loaded?"

"It may be," said I, "and of course she might load it if she thought she heard robbers."

"I heard father say that if you shoot a burglar outside it's murder," said Jem, who seemed rather troubled by the thought of the blunderbuss; "but if you shoot him inside it's self-defence."

"Well, you may spring a rattle outside, anyway," said I; "and if hers makes as much noise as ours, it'll be heard all the way here. So mind, if she begins, you must jump down and cut home like mad."

Armed with these instructions and our thick sticks, Jem and I crept out of the house before the sun was up or a bird awake. The air seemed cold after our warm beds, and the dew was so drenching in the hedge bottoms, and on the wayside weeds of our favourite lane, that we were soaked to the knees before we began to force the hedge. I did not think that grass and wild-flowers could have held so much wet. By the time that we had crossed the orchard, and I was preparing to grip the grandly scored trunk of the nearest walnut-tree with my chilly legs, the heavy peeling, the hard cracking, and the tedious picking of a green walnut was as little pleasurable a notion as I had in my brain.

All the same, I said (as firmly as my chattering teeth would allow) that I was very glad we had come when we did, for that there certainly were fewer walnuts on the tree than there had been the day before.

"She's been at them," said I, almost indignantly.

"Pickling," responded Jem with gloomy conciseness; and spurred by this discovery to fresh enthusiasm for our exploit, we promptly planned operations.

"I'll go up the tree," said I, "and beat, and you can pick them as they fall."

Jem was, I fear, only too well accustomed to my arrogating the first place in our joint undertakings, and after giving me "a leg up" to an available bit of foothold, and handing up my stick, he waited patiently below to gather what I beat down.

The walnuts were few and far between, to say nothing of leaves between, which in walnut-trees are large. The morning twilight was dim, my hands were cold and feebler than my resolution. I had battered down a lot of leaves and twigs, and two or three walnuts; the sun had got up at last, but rather slowly, as if he found the morning chillier than he expected, and a few rays were darting here and there across the lane, when Jem gave a warning "Hush!" and I left off rustling in time to hear Mrs. Wood's bedroom lattice opened, and to catch sight of something pushed out into the morning mists.

"Who's there?" said the school-mistress.

Neither Jem nor I took upon us to inform her, and we were both seized with anxiety to know what was at the window. He was too low down and I too much buried in foliage to see clearly. Was it the rattle? I took a hasty step downwards at the thought. Or was it the blunderbuss? In my sudden move I slipped on the dew-damped branch, and cracked a rotten one with my elbow, which made an appalling crash in the early stillness, and sent a walnut -- pop! on to Jem's hat, who had already ducked to avoid the fire of the blunderbuss, and now fell on his face under the fullest conviction that he had been shot.

"Who's there?" said the school-mistress, and (my tumble having brought me into a more exposed position) she added, "Is that you, Jack and Jem?"

"It's me," said I, ungrammatically but stoutly, hoping that Jem at any rate would slip off.

But he had recovered himself and his loyalty, and unhesitatingly announced, "No, it's me," and was picking the bits of grass off his cheeks and knees when I got down beside him.

"I'm sorry you came to take my walnuts like this," said the voice from above. She had a particularly clear one, and we could hear it quite well. "I got a basketful on purpose for you yesterday afternoon. If I let it down by a string, do you think you can take it?"

Happily she did not wait for a reply, as we could not have got a word out between us; but by and by the basketful of walnuts was pushed through the lattice and began to descend. It came slowly and unsteadily, and we had abundant leisure to watch it, and also, as we looked up, to discover what it was that had so puzzled me in Mrs. Wood's appearance -- that when I first discovered that it was a head and not a blunderbuss at the window I had not recognized it for hers.

She was without her widow's cap, which revealed the fact that her hair, though the two narrow, smooth bands of it which appeared every day beyond her cap were unmistakably grey, was different in some essential respects from (say) Mrs. Jones's, our grey-haired washer-woman. The more you saw of Mrs. Jones's head, the less hair you perceived her to have, and the whiter that little appeared. Indeed, the knob into which it was twisted at the back was much of the colour as well as of the size of a tangled reel of dirty white cotton. But Mrs. Wood's hair was far more abundant than our mother's, and it was darker underneath than on the top -- a fact which was more obvious when the knot into which it was gathered in her neck was no longer hidden. Deep brown streaks were mingled with the grey in the twists of this, and I could see them quite well, for the outline of her head was dark against the white-washed mullion of the window, and framed by ivy-leaves. As she leaned out to lower the basket we could see her better and better, and, as it touched the ground, the jerk pulled her forward, and the knot of her hair uncoiled and rolled heavily over the window-sill.

By this time the rays of the sun were level with the windows, and shone full upon Mrs. Wood's face. I was very much absorbed in looking at her, but I could not forget our peculiar position, and I had an important question to put, which I did without more ado.

"Please, madam, shall you tell Father?"

"We only want to know," added Jem.

She hesitated a minute, and then smiled. "No; I don't think you'll do it again;" after which she disappeared.

"She's certainly no sneak," said I, with an effort to be magnanimous, for I would much rather she had sprung the rattle or fired the blunderbuss.

"And I say," said Jem, "isn't she pretty without her cap?"

We looked ruefully at the walnuts. We had lost all appetite for them, and they seemed disgustingly damp, with their green coats reeking with black bruises. But we could not have left the basket behind, so we put our sticks through the handles, and carried it like the Sunday picture of the spies carrying the grapes of Eshcol.

And Jem and I have often since agreed that we never in all our lives felt so mean as on that occasion, and we sincerely hope that we never may.

Indeed, it is only in some books and some sermons that people are divided into "the wicked" and "the good," and that "the wicked" have no consciences at all. Jem and I had wilfully gone thieving, but we were far from being utterly hardened, and the school-mistress's generosity weighed heavily upon ours. Repentance and the desire to make atonement seem to go pretty naturally together, and in my case they led to the following dialogue with Jem, on the subject of two exquisite little bantam hens and a cock, which were our joint property, and which were known in the farmyard as "the Major and his wives."

These titles (which vexed my dear mother from the first) had suggested themselves to us on this wise. There was a certain little gentleman who came to our church, a brewer by profession, and a major in the militia by choice, who was so small and strutted so much that to the insolent observation of boyhood he was "exactly like" our new bantam cock. Young people are very apt to overhear what is not intended for their knowledge, and somehow or other we learned that he was "courting" (as his third wife) a lady of our parish. His former wives are buried in our churchyard. Over the first he had raised an obelisk of marble, so costly and affectionate that it had won the hearts of his neighbours in general, and of his second wife in particular. When she died the gossips wondered whether the Major would add her name to that of her predecessor, or "go to the expense" of a new monument. He erected a second obelisk, and it was taller than the first (height had a curious fascination for him), and the inscription was more touching than the other. This time the material was Aberdeen granite, and as that is most difficult to cut, hard to polish, and heavy to transport, the expense was enormous. These two monstrosities of mortuary pomp were the pride of the parish, and they were familiarly known to us children (and to many other people) as "the Major's wives."

When we called the cock "the Major," we naturally called the hens "the Major's wives."

"My dears, I don't like that name at all," said my mother. "I never like jokes about people who are dead. And for that matter, it really sounds as if they were both alive, which is worse."

It was during our naughty period, and I strutted on my heels till I must have looked very like the little brewer himself, and said, "And why shouldn't they both be alive? Fancy the Major with two wives, one on each arm, and both as tall as the monuments! What fun!"

As I said the words "one on each arm," I put up first one and then the other of my own, and having got a satisfactory impetus during the rest of my sentence, I crossed the parlour as a catherine-wheel under my mother's nose. It was a new accomplishment, of which I was very proud, and poor Jem somewhat envious. He was clumsy and could not manage it.

"Oh!" ejaculated my mother, "Jack, I must speak to your father about those dangerous tricks of yours. And it quite shocks me to hear you talk in that light way about wicked things."

Jem was to my rescue in a moment, driving his hands into the pockets of his blouse, and turning them up to see how soon he might hope that his fingers would burst through the lining.

"Jacob had two wives," he said; and he chanted on, quoting imperfectly from Dr. Watts's Scripture Catechism, "And Jacob was a good man, therefore his brother hated him."

"No, no, Jem," said I, "that was Abel. Jacob was Isaac's younger son, and --  -- "

"Hush! Hush! Hush!" said my mother. "You're not to do Sunday lessons on week-days. What terrible boys you are!" And, avoiding to fight about Jacob's wives with Jem, who was pertinacious and said very odd things, my mother did what women often do and are often wise in doing -- she laid down her weapons and began to beseech.

"My darlings, call your nice little hens some other names. Poor old mother doesn't like those."

I was melted in an instant, and began to cast about in my head for new titles. But Jem was softly obstinate, and he had inherited some of my mother's wheedling ways. He took his hands from his pockets, flung his arms recklessly round her clean collar, and began stroking (or pooring, as we called it) her head with his grubby paws. And as he poored he coaxed -- "Dear nice old mammy! It's only us. What can it matter? Do let us call our bantams what we like."

And my mother gave in before I had time to.

The dialogue I held with Jem about the bantams after the walnut raid was as follows:

"Jem, you're awfully fond of the 'Major and his wives,' I suppose?"

"Ye-es," said Jem, "I am. But I don't mind, Jack, if you want them for your very own. I'll give up my share," -- and he sighed.

"I never saw such a good chap as you are, Jem. But it's not that. I thought we might give them to Mrs. Wood. It was so beastly about those disgusting walnuts."

"I can't touch walnut pickle now," said Jem, feelingly.

"It'd be a very handsome present," said I.

"They took a prize at the Agricultural," said Jem.

"I know she likes eggs. She beats 'em into a froth and feeds Charlie with 'em," said I.

"I think I could eat walnut pickle again if I knew she had the bantams," sighed Jem, who was really devoted to the little cock-major and the auburn-feathered hens.

"We'll take 'em this afternoon," I said.

We did so -- in a basket, Eshcol-grape wise, like the walnuts. When we told Mother, she made no objection. She would have given her own head off her shoulders if, by ill-luck, any passer-by had thought of asking for it. Besides, it solved the difficulty of the objectionable names.

Mrs. Wood was very loth to take our bantams, but of course Jem and I were not going to recall a gift, so she took them at last, and I think she was very much pleased with them.

She had got her cap on again, tied under her chin, and nothing to be seen of her hair but the very grey piece in front. It made her look so different that I could not keep my eyes off her whilst she was talking, though I knew quite well how rude it is to stare. And my head got so full of it that I said at last, in spite of myself, "Please, madam, why is it that part of your hair is grey and part of it dark?"

Her face got rather red, she did not answer for a minute; and Jem, to my great relief, changed the subject, by saying, "We were very much obliged to you for not telling Father about the walnuts."

Mrs. Wood leaned back against the high carving of her old chair and smiled, and said very slowly, "Would he have been very angry?"

"He'd have flogged us, I expect," said I.

"And I expect," continued Jem, "that he'd have said to us what he said to Bob Furniss when he took the filberts: 'If you begin by stealing nuts, you'll end by being transported.' Do you think Jack and I shall end by being transported?" added Jem, who had a merciless talent for applying general principles to individual cases.

Mrs. Wood made no reply, neither did she move, but her eyelids fell, and then her eyes looked far worse than if they had been shut, for there was a little bit open, with nothing but white to be seen. She was still rather red, and she did not visibly breathe. I have no idea for how many seconds I had gazed stupidly at her, when Jem gasped, "Is she dead?"

Then I became terror-struck, and crying, "Let's find Mary Anne!" fled into the kitchen, closely followed by Jem.

"She's took with them fits occasional," said Mary Anne, and depositing a dripping tin she ran to the parlour. We followed in time to see her stooping over the chair and speaking very loudly in the school-mistress's ear,

"I'll lay ye down, ma'am, shall I?"

But still the widow was silent, on which Mary Anne took her up in her brawny arms, and laid her on "Cripple Charlie's" sofa, and covered her with the quilt.

We settled the Major and his wives into their new abode, and then hurried home to my mother, who put on her bonnet, and took a bottle of something, and went off to the farm.

She did not come back till tea-time, and then she was full of poor Mrs. Wood. "Most curious attacks," she explained to my father; "she can neither move nor speak, and yet she hears everything, though she doesn't always remember afterwards. She said she thought it was 'trouble,' poor soul!"

"What brought this one on?" said my father.

"I can't make out," said my mother. "I hope you boys did nothing to frighten her, eh? Are you sure you didn't do one of those dreadful wheels, Jack?"

This I indignantly denied, and Jem supported me.

My mother's sympathy had been so deeply enlisted, and her report was so detailed, that Jem and I became bored at last, besides resenting the notion that we had been to blame. I gave one look into the strawberry jam pot, and finding it empty, said my grace and added, "Women are a poor lot, always turning up their eyes and having fits about nothing. I know one thing, nobody 'll ever catch me being bothered with a wife."

"Nor me neither," said Jem.



Chapter IV.

"The bee, a more adventurous colonist than man." W.C. BRYANT.

"Some silent laws our hearts will make, Which they shall long obey; We for the year to come may take Our temper from to-day." -- WORDSWORTH.


"You know what an Apiary is, Isaac, of course?"

I was sitting in the bee-master's cottage, opposite to him, in an arm-chair, which was the counterpart of his own, both of them having circular backs, diamond-shaped seats, and chintz cushions with frills. It was the summer following that in which Jem and I had tried to see how badly we could behave; this uncivilized phase had abated: Jem used to ride about a great deal with my father, and I had become intimate with Isaac Irvine.

"You know what an Apiary is, Isaac?" said I.

"A what, sir?"

"An A-P-I-A-R-Y."

"To be sure, sir, to be sure," said Isaac. "An appyary" (so he was pleased to pronounce it), "I should be familiar with the name, sir, from my bee-book, but I never calls my own stock anything but the beehives. Beehives is a good, straightforward sort of a name, sir, and it serves my turn."

"Ah, but you see we haven't come to the B's yet," said I, alluding to what I was thinking of.

"Does your father think of keeping 'em, sir?" said Isaac, alluding to what he was thinking of.

"Oh, he means to have them bound, I believe," was my reply.

The bee-master now betrayed his bewilderment, and we had a hearty laugh when we discovered that he had been talking about bees whilst I had been talking about the weekly numbers of the Penny Cyclopedia, which had not as yet reached the letter B, but in which I had found an article on Master Isaac's craft, under the word Apiary, which had greatly interested me, and ought, I thought, to be interesting to the bee-keeper. Still thinking of this I said,

"Do you ever take your bees away from home, Isaac?"

"They're on the moors now, sir," said Isaac.

"Are they?" I exclaimed. "Then you're like the Egyptians, and like the French, and the Piedmontese; only you didn't take them in a barge."

"Why, no, sir. The canal don't go nigh-hand of the moors at all."

"The Egyptians," said I, leaning back into the capacious arms of my chair, and epitomizing what I had read, "who live in Lower Egypt put all their beehives into boats and take them on the river to Upper Egypt. Right up at that end of the Nile the flowers come out earliest, and the bees get all the good out of them there, and then the boats are moved lower down to where the same kind of flowers are only just beginning to blossom, and the bees get all the good out of them there, and so on, and on, and on, till they've travelled right through Egypt, with all the hives piled up, and come back in the boats to where they started from."

"And every hive a mighty different weight to what it was when they did start, I'll warrant," said Master Isaac enthusiastically. "Did you find all that in those penny numbers, Master Jack?"

"Yes, and oh, lots more, Isaac! About lots of things and lots of countries."

"Scholarship's a fine thing," said the bee-master, "and seeing foreign parts is a fine thing, and many's the time I've wished for both. I suppose that's the same Egypt that's in the Bible, sir?"

"Yes," said I, "and the same river Nile that Moses was put on in the ark of bulrushes."

"There's no countries I'd like to see better than them Bible countries," said Master Isaac, "and I've wished it more ever since that gentleman was here that gave that lecture in the school, with the Holy Land magic-lantern. He'd been there himself, and he explained all the slides. They were grand, some of 'em, when you got 'em straight and steady for a bit. They're an awkward thing to manage, is slides, sir, and the school-master he wasn't much good at 'em, he said, and that young scoundrel Bob Furniss and another lad got in a hole below the platform and pulled the sheet. But when you did get 'em, right side up, and the light as it should be, they were grand! There was one they called the Wailing Place of the Jews, with every stone standing out as fair as the flags on this floor. John Binder, the mason, was at my elbow when that came on, and he clapped his hands, and says he, 'Well, yon beats all!' But the one for my choice, sir, was the Garden of Gethsemane by moonlight. I'd only gone to the penny places, for I'm a good size and can look over most folks' heads, but I thought I must see that a bit nearer, cost what it might. So I found a shilling, and I says to the young fellow at the door (it was the pupil-teacher), 'I must go a bit nearer to yon.' And he says, 'You're not going into the reserved seats, Isaac?' So I says, 'Don't put yourself about, my lad, I shan't interfere with the quality; but if half a day's wage 'll bring me nearer to the Garden of Gethsemane, I'm bound to go.' And I went. I didn't intrude myself on nobody, though one gentleman was for making room for me at once, and twice over he offered me a seat beside him. But I knew my manners, and I said, 'Thank you, sir, I can see as I stand.' And I did see right well, and kicked Bob Furniss too, which was good for all parties. But I'd like to see the very places themselves, Master Jack."

"So should I," said I; "but I should like to go farther, all round the world, I think. Do you know, Isaac, you wouldn't believe what curious beasts there are in other countries, and what wonderful people and places! Why, we've only got to ATH -- No. 135 -- now; it leaves off at Athanagilde, a captain of the Spanish Goths -- he's nobody, but there are such apes in that number! The Mono -- there's a picture of him, just like a man with a tail and horrid feet, who used to sit with the negro women when they were at work, and play with bits of paper; and a Quata, who used to be sent to the tavern for wine, and when the children pelted him he put down the wine and threw stones at them. And there are pictures in all the numbers, of birds and ant-eaters and antelopes, and I don't know what. The Mono and the Quata live in the West Indies, I think. You see, I think the A's are rather good numbers; very likely, for there's America, and Asia, and Africa, and Arabia, and Abyssinia, and there'll be Australia before we come to the B's. Oh, Isaac! I do wish I could go round the world!"

I sighed, and the bee-master sighed also, with a profundity that made his chair creak, well-seasoned as it was. Then he said, "But I'll say this, Master Jack, next to going to such places the reading about 'em must come. A penny a week's a penny a week to a poor man, but I reckon I shall have to make shift to take in those numbers myself."

Isaac did not take them in, however, for I used to take ours down to his cottage, and read them aloud to him instead. He liked this much better than if he had had to read to himself -- he said he could understand reading better when he heard it than when he saw it. For my own part I enjoyed it very much, and I fancy I read rather well, it being a point on which Mrs. Wood expended much trouble with us.

"Listen, Isaac," said I on my next visit; "this is what I meant about the barge" -- and resting the Penny Number on the arm of my chair, I read aloud to the attentive bee-master -- "'Goldsmith describes from his own observation a kind of floating apiary in some parts of France and Piedmont. They have on board of one barge, he says, threescore or a hundred beehives --  -- '"

"That's an appy-ary if ye like, sir!" ejaculated Master Isaac, interrupting his pipe and me to make way for the observation.

"Somebody saw 'a convoy of four thousand hives --  -- ' on the Nile," said I.

The bee-master gave a resigned sigh. "Go on, Master Jack," said he.

"' -- well defended from the inclemency of an accidental storm,'" I proceeded; "'and with these the owners float quietly down the stream; one beehive yields the proprietor a considerable income. Why, he adds, a method similar to this has never been adopted in England, where we have more gentle rivers and more flowery banks than in any other part of the world, I know not; certainly it might be turned to advantage, and yield the possessor a secure, though perhaps a moderate, income.'"

I was very fond of the canal which ran near us (and was, for that matter, a parish boundary): and the barges, with their cargoes, were always interesting to me; but a bargeful of bees seemed something quite out of the common. I thought I should rather like to float down a gentle river between flowery banks, surrounded by beehives on which I could rely to furnish me with a secure though moderate income; and I said so.

"So should I, sir," said the bee-master. "And I should uncommon like to ha' seen the one beehive that brought in a considerable income. Honey must have been very dear in those parts, Master Jack. However, it's in the book, so I suppose it's right enough."

I made no defence of the veracity of the Cyclopedia, for I was thinking of something else, of which, after a few moments, I spoke.

"Isaac, you don't stay with your bees on the moors. Do you ever go to see them?"

"To be sure I do, Master Jack, nigh every Sunday through the season. I start after I get back from morning church, and I come home in the dark, or by moonlight. My missus goes to church in the afternoons, and for that bit she locks up the house."

"Oh, I wish you'd take me the next time!" said I.

"To be sure I will, and too glad sir, if you're allowed to go."

That was the difficulty, and I knew it. No one who has not lived in a household of old-fashioned middle-class country folk of our type has any notion how difficult it is for anybody to do anything unusual therein. In such a well-fitted but unelastic establishment the dinner-hour, the carriage horses, hot water, bedtime, candles, the post, the wash-day, and an extra blanket, from being the ministers of one's comfort, become the stern arbiters of one's fate. Spring cleaning -- which is something like what it would be to build, paint, and furnish a house, and to "do it at home" -- takes place as naturally as the season it celebrates; but if you want the front door kept open after the usual hour for drawing the bolts and hanging the robbers' bell, it's odds if the master of the house has not an apoplectic fit, and if servants of twelve and fourteen years' standing do not give warning.

And what is difficult on week-days is on Sundays next door to impossible, for obvious reasons.

But one's parents, though they have their little ways like other people, are, as a rule -- oh, my heart! made sadder and wiser by the world's rough experiences, bear witness! -- very indulgent; and after a good many ups and downs, and some compromising and coaxing, I got my way.

On one point my mother was firm, and I feared this would be an insuperable difficulty. I must go twice to church, as our Sunday custom was -- a custom which she saw no good reason for me to break. It is easy to smile at her punctiliousness on this score; but after all these years, and on the whole, I think she was right. An unexpected compromise came to my rescue, however: Isaac Irvine's bees were in the parish of Cripple Charlie's father, within a stone's throw (by the bee-master's strong arm) of the church itself, which was a small minster among the moors. Here I promised faithfully to attend Evening Prayer, for which we should be in time; and I started, by Isaac Irvine's side, on my first real "expedition" on the first Sunday in August, with my mother's blessing and a threepenny-bit with a hole in it, "in case of a collection."

We dined before we started, I with the rest, and Isaac in our kitchen; but I had no great appetite -- I was too much excited -- and I willingly accepted some large sandwiches made with thick slices of home-made bread and liberal layers of home-made potted meat, "in case I should feel hungry" before I got there.

It pains me to think how distressed my mother was because I insisted on carrying the sandwiches in a red and orange spotted handkerchief, which I had purchased with my own pocket-money, and to which I was deeply attached, partly from the bombastic nature of the pattern, and partly because it was big enough for any grown-up man. "It made me look like a tramping sailor," she said. I did not tell her that this was precisely the effect at which I aimed, though it was the case; but I coaxed her into permitting it, and I abstained from passing a certain knowing little ash stick through the knot, and hoisting the bundle over my left shoulder, till I was well out of the grounds.

My efforts to spare her feelings on this point, however, proved vain. She ran to the landing-window to watch me out of sight, and had a full view of my figure as I swaggered with a business-like gait by Isaac's side up the first long hill, having set my hat on the back of my head with an affectation of profuse heat, my right hand in the bee-master's coat-pocket for support, and my left holding the stick and bundle at an angle as showy and sailor-like as I could assume.

"And they'll just meet the Ebenezer folk coming out of chapel, ma'am!" said our housemaid over my mother's shoulder, by way of consolation.

Our journey was up-hill, for which I was quite prepared. The blue and purple outline of the moors formed the horizon line visible from our gardens, whose mistiness or clearness was prophetic of the coming weather, and over which the wind was supposed to blow with uncommon "healthfulness." I had been there once to blow away the whooping-cough, and I could remember that the sandy road wound up and up, but I did not appreciate till that Sunday how tiring a steady ascent of nearly five miles may be.

We were within sight of the church and within hearing of the bells, when we reached a wayside trough, whose brimming measure was for ever overflowed by as bright a rill as ever trickled down a hill-side.

"It's only the first peal," said Master Isaac, seating himself on the sandy bank, and wiping his brows.

My well-accustomed ears confirmed his statement. The bells moved too slowly for either the second or the third peal, and we had twenty minutes at our disposal.

It was then that I knew (for the first but not the last time) what refreshment for the weary a spotted handkerchief may hold. The bee-master and I divided the sandwiches, and washed them down with handfuls of the running rill, so fresh, so cold, so limpid, that (like the saints and martyrs of a faith) it would convert any one to water-drinking who did not reflect on the commoner and less shining streams which come to us through lead pipes and in evil communication with sewers.

We were cool and tidy by the time that the little "Tom Tinkler" bell began to "hurry up."

"You're coming, aren't you?" said I, checked at the churchyard gate by an instinct of some hesitation on Isaac's part.

"Well, I suppose I am, sir," said the bee-master, and in he came.

The thick walls, the stained windows, and the stone floor, which was below the level of the churchyard, made the church very cool. Master Isaac and I seated ourselves so that we had a good view within, and could also catch a peep through the open porch of the sunlit country outside. Charlie's father was in his place when we got in; his threadbare coat was covered by the white linen of his office, and I do not think it would have been possible even to my levity to have felt anything but a respectful awe of him in church.

The cares of this life are not as a rule improving to the countenance. No one who watches faces can have failed to observe that more beauty is marred and youth curtailed by vulgar worry than by almost any other disfigurement. In the less educated classes, where self-control is not very habitual, and where interests beyond petty and personal ones are rare, the soft brows and tender lips of girlhood are too often puckered and hardened by mean anxieties, even where these do not affect the girls personally, but only imitatively, and as the daily interests of their station in life. In such cases the discontented, careworn look is by no means a certain indication of corresponding suffering, but there are too many others in which tempers that should have been generous, and faces that should have been noble, and aims that should have been high, are blurred and blunted by the real weight of real everyday care.

There are yet others; in which the spirit is too strong for mortal accidents to pull it down -- minds that the narrowest career cannot vulgarize -- faces to which care but adds a look of pathos -- souls which keep their aims and faiths apart from the fluctuations of "the things that are seen." The personal influence of natures of this type is generally very large, and it was very large in the case of Cripple Charlie's father, and made him a sort of Prophet, Priest, and King over a rough and scattered population, with whom the shy, scholarly poor gentleman had not otherwise much in common.

It was his personal influence, I am sure, which made the congregation so devout! There is one rule which, I believe, applies to all congregations, of every denomination, and any kind of ritual, and that is, that the enthusiasm of the congregation is in direct proportion to the enthusiasm of the minister; not merely to his personal worth, nor even to his popularity, for people who rather dislike a clergyman, and disapprove of his service, will say a louder Amen at his giving of thanks if his own feelings have a touch of fire, than they would to that of a more perfunctory parson whom they liked better. As is the heartiness of the priest, so is the heartiness of the people -- with such strictness that one is disposed almost to credit some of it to actual magnetism. Response is no empty word in public worship.

It was no empty word on this occasion. From the ancient clerk (who kept a life-interest in what were now the duties of a choir) to some gaping farm-lads at my back, everybody said and sang to the utmost of his ability. I may add that Isaac and I involuntarily displayed a zeal which was in excess of our Sunday customs; and if my tongue moved glibly enough with the choir, the bee-master found many an elderly parishioner besides himself and the clerk who "took" both prayer and praise at such independent paces as suited their individual scholarship, spectacles, and notions of reverence.

It crowned my satisfaction when I found that there was to be a collection. The hymn to which the churchwardens moved about, gathering the pence, whose numbers and noisiness seemed in keeping with the rest of the service, was a well-known one to us all. It was the favourite evening hymn of the district. I knew every syllable of it, for Jem and I always sang hymns (and invariably this one) with my dear mother, on Sunday evening after supper. When we were good, we liked it, and, picking one favourite after another, we often sang nearly through the hymn-book. When we were naughty, we displayed a good deal of skill in making derisive faces behind my mother's back, as she sat at the piano, without betraying ourselves, and in getting our tongues out and in again during the natural pauses and convolutions of the tune. But these occasional fits of boyish profanity did not hinder me from having an equally boyish fund of reverence and enthusiasm at the bottom of my heart, and it was with proud and pleasurable emotions that I heard the old clerk give forth the familiar first lines,

"Soon shall the evening star with silver ray Shed its mild lustre o'er this sacred day,"

and got my threepenny-bit ready between my finger and thumb.

Away went the organ, which was played by the vicar's eldest daughter -- away went the vicar's second daughter, who "led the singing" from the vicarage pew with a voice like a bird -- away went the choir, which, in spite of surplices, could not be cured of waiting half a beat for her -- and away went the congregation -- young men and maidens, old men and children -- in one broad tide of somewhat irregular harmony. Isaac did not know the words as well as I did, so I lent him my hymn-book; one result of which was, that the print being small, and the sense of a hymn being in his view a far more important matter than the sound of it, he preached rather than sang -- in an unequal cadence which was perturbing to my more musical ear -- the familiar lines,

"Still let each awful truth our thoughts engage, That shines revealed on inspiration's page; Nor those blest hours in vain amusement waste Which all who lavish shall lament at last."

During the next verse my devotions were a little distracted by the gradual approach of a churchwarden for my threepenny-bit, which was hot with three verses of expectant fingering. Then, to my relief, he took it, and the bee-master's contribution, and I felt calmer, and listened to the little prelude which it was always the custom for the organist to play before the final verse of a hymn. It was also the custom to sing the last verse as loudly as possible, though this is by no means invariably appropriate. It fitted the present occasion fairly enough. From where I stood I could see the bellows-blower (the magnetic current of enthusiasm flowed even to the back of the organ) nerve himself to prodigious pumping -- Charlie's sister drew out all the stops -- the vicar passed from the prayer-desk to the pulpit with the rapt look of a man who walks in a prophetic dream -- we pulled ourselves together, Master Isaac brought the hymn book close to his glasses, and when the tantalizing prelude was past we burst forth with a volume which merged all discrepancies. As far as I am able to judge of my own performance, I fear I bawled (I'm sure the boy behind me did),

"Father of Heaven, in Whom our hopes confide, Whose power defends us, and Whose precepts guide, In life our Guardian, and in death our Friend, Glory supreme be Thine till time shall end!"

The sermon was short, and when the service was over Master Isaac and I spent a delightful afternoon with his bees among the heather. The "evening star" had come out when we had some tea in the village inn, and we walked home by moonlight. There was neither wind nor sun, but the air was almost oppressively pure. The moonshine had taken the colour out of the sandy road and the heather, and had painted black shadows by every boulder, and most things looked asleep except the rill that went on running. Only we and the rabbits, and the night moths and the beetles, seemed to be stirring. An occasional bat appeared and vanished like a spectral illusion, and I saw one owl flap across the moor with level wings against the moon.

"Oh, I have enjoyed it!" was all I could say when I parted from the bee-master.

"And so have I, Master Jack," was his reply, and he hesitated as if he had something more to say, and then he said it. "I never enjoyed it as much, and you can thank your mother, sir, with old Isaac's duty, for sending us to church. I'm sure I don't know why I never went before when I was up yonder, for I always took notice of the bells. I reckon I thought I hadn't time, but you can say, with my respects, sir, that please GOD I shan't miss again."

I believe he never did; and Cripple Charlie's father came to look on him as half a parishioner.

I was glad I had not shirked Evening Prayer myself, though (my sex and age considered) it was not to be expected that I should comfort my mother's heart by confessing as much. Let me confess it now, and confess also that if it was the first time, it was not the last that I have had cause to realize -- oh women, for our sakes remember it! -- into what light and gentle hands GOD lays the reins that guide men's better selves.

*    *    *    *    *

The most remarkable event of the day happened at the end of it. Whilst Isaac was feeling the weight of one of his hives, and just after I lost chase of a very peculiar-looking beetle, from his squeezing himself away from me under a boulder, I had caught sight of a bit of white heather, and then bethought me of gathering a nosegay (to include this rarity) of moor flowers and grasses for Mrs. Wood. So when we reached the lane on our way home, I bade Isaac good-night, and said I would just run in by the back way into the farm (we never called it the Academy) and leave the flowers, that the school-mistress might put them in water. Mary Anne was in the kitchen.

"Where's Mrs. Wood?" said I, when she had got over that silly squeak women always give when you come suddenly on them.

"Dear, dear, Master Jack! what a turn you did give me! I thought it was the tramp."

"What tramp?" said I.

"Why, a great lanky man that came skulking here a bit since, and asked for the missus. She was down the garden, and I've half a notion he went after her. I wish you'd go and look for her, Master Jack, and fetch her in. It's as damp as dear knows what, and she takes no more care of herself than a baby. And I'd be glad to know that man was off the place. There's wall-fruit and lots of things about, a low fellow like that might pick up."

My ears felt a little hot at this allusion to low fellows and garden thieving, and I hurried off to do Mary Anne's bidding without further parley. There was a cloud over the moon as I ran down the back garden, but when I was nearly at the end the moon burst forth again, so that I could see. And this is what I saw: -- 

First, a white thing lying on the ground, and it was the widow's cap, and then Mrs. Wood herself, with a gaunt lanky-looking man, such as Mary Anne had described. Her head came nearly to his shoulder, as I was well able to judge, for he was holding it in his hands and had laid his own upon it, as if it were a natural resting-place. And his hair coming against the darker part of hers, I could see that his was grey all over. Up to this point I had been too much stupefied to move, and I had just become conscious that I ought to go, when the white cap lying in the moonlight seemed to catch his eye as it had caught mine; and he set his heel on it with a vehemence that made me anxious to be off. I could not resist one look back as I left the garden, if only to make sure that I had not been dreaming. No, they were there still, and he was lifting the coil of her hair, which I suppose had come down when the cap was pulled off, and it took the full stretch of his arm to do so, before it fell heavily from his fingers.

When I presented myself to my mother with the bunch of flowers still in my hand, she said, "Did my Jack get these for Mother?"

I shook my head. "No, Mother. For Mrs. Wood."

"You might have called at the farm as you passed," said she.

"I did!" said I.

"Couldn't you see Mrs. Wood, love?"

"Yes, I saw her, but she'd got the tramp with her."

"What tramp?" asked my mother in a horror-struck voice, which seemed quite natural to me, for I had been brought up to rank tramps in the same "dangerous class" with mad dogs, stray bulls, drunken men, and other things which it is undesirable to meet.

"The great lanky one," I explained, quoting from Mary Anne.

"What was he doing with Mrs. Wood?" asked my mother anxiously.

I had not yet recovered from my own bewilderment, and was reckless of the shock inflicted by my reply.

"Pooring her head, and kissing it."



Chapter V.

"To each his sufferings; all are men Condemned alike to groan. The tender for another's pain -- " GRAY.


Not even the miser's funeral had produced in the neighbourhood anything like the excitement which followed that Sunday evening. At first my mother -- her mind filled by the simplest form of the problem, namely, that Mrs. Wood was in the hands of a tramp -- wished my father to take the blunderbuss in his hand and step down to the farm. He had "pish"ed and "pshaw"ed about the blunderbuss, and was beginning to say more, when I was dismissed to bed, where I wandered back over the moors in uneasy dreams, and woke with the horror of a tramp's hand upon my shoulder. After suffering the terrors of night for some time, and finding myself no braver with my head under the bedclothes than above them, I began conscientiously to try my mother's family recipe for "bad dreams and being afraid in the dark." This was to "say over" the Benedicite correctly, which (if by a rare chance one were still awake at the end) was to be followed by a succession of the hymns one knew by heart. It required an effort to begin, and to really try, but the children of such mothers as ours are taught to make efforts, and once fairly started, and holding on as a duty, it certainly did tend to divert the mind from burglars and ghosts, to get the beasts, creeping things, and fowls of the air into their right places in the chorus of benedictions. That Jem never could discriminate between the "Dews and Frosts" and "Frost and Cold" verses needs no telling. I have often finished and still been frightened and had to fall back upon the hymns, but this night I began to dream pleasanter dreams of Charlie's father and the bee-master before I got to the holy and humble men of heart.

I slept long then, and Mother would not let me be awakened. When I did open my eyes Jem was sitting at the end of the bed, dying to tell me the news.

"Jack! you have waked, haven't you? I see your eyes. Don't shut 'em again. What do you think? Mrs. Wood's husband has come home!"

I never knew the ins and outs of the story very exactly. At the time that what did become generally known was fresh in people's minds Jem and I were not by way of being admitted to "grown-up" conversations; and though Mrs. Wood's husband and I became intimate friends, I neither wished nor dared to ask him more about his past than he chose to tell, for I knew enough to know that it must be a most intolerable pain to recall it.

What we had all heard of the story was this. Mr. Wood had been a head clerk in a house of business. A great forgery was committed against his employers, and he was accused. He was tried, condemned, and sentenced to fourteen years' penal servitude, which, in those days, meant transportation abroad. For some little time the jury had not been unanimous. One man doubted the prisoner's guilt -- the man we afterwards knew as the old miser of Walnut-tree Farm. But he was over-persuaded at last, and Mr. Wood was convicted and sentenced. He had spent ten years of his penal servitude in Bermuda when a man lying in Maidstone Jail under sentence of death for murder, confessed (amongst other crimes of which he disburdened his conscience) that it was he, and not the man who had been condemned, who had committed the forgery. Investigation confirmed the truth of this statement, and Mr. Wood was "pardoned" and brought home.

He had just come. He was the tramp.

In this life the old miser never knew that his first judgment had been the just one, but the doubt which seems always to have haunted him -- whether he had not helped to condemn the innocent -- was the reason of his bequest to the convict's wife, and explained much of the mysterious wording of the will.

It was a tragic tale, and gave a terrible interest to the gaunt, white-haired, shattered-looking man who was the hero of it. It had one point of special awe for me, and I used to watch him in church and think of it, till I am ashamed to say that I forgot even when to stand up and sit down. He had served ten years of his sentence. Ten years! Ten times three hundred and sixty-five days! All the days of the years of my life. The weight of that undeserved punishment had fallen on him the year that I was born, and all that long, long time of home with Mother and Father and Jem -- all the haymaking summers and snowballing winters -- whilst Jem and I had never been away from home, and had had so much fun, and nothing very horrid that I could call to mind except the mumps -- he had been an exile working in chains. I remember rousing up with a start from the realization of this one Sunday to find myself still standing in the middle of the Litany. My mother was behaving too well herself to find me out, and though Jem was giggling he dared not move, because he was kneeling next my father, whose back was turned to me. I knelt down, and started to hear the parson say -- "show Thy pity upon all prisoners and captives!" And then I knew what it is to wish when it is too late. For I did so wish I had really prayed for prisoners and captives every Sunday, because then I should have prayed for that poor man nearly all the long time he had been so miserable; for we began to go to church very early, and one learns to pray easier and sooner than one learns anything else.

All this had happened in the holidays, but when they were over school opened as before, and with additional scholars; for sympathy was wide and warm with the school-mistress. Strangely enough, both partners in the firm which had prosecuted Mr. Wood were dead. Their successors offered him employment, but he could not face the old associations. I believe he found it so hard to face any one, that this was the reason of his staying at home for a time and helping in the school. I don't think we boys made him uncomfortable as grown-up strangers seemed to do, and he was particularly fond of Cripple Charlie.

This brought me into contact with him, for Charlie and I were great friends. He was as well pleased to be read to out of the Penny Numbers as the bee-master, and he was interested in things of which Isaac Irvine was completely ignorant.

Our school was a day-school, but Charlie had been received by Mrs. Wood as a boarder. His poor back could not have borne to be jolted to and from the moors every day. So he lived at Walnut-tree Farm, and now and then his father would come down in a light cart, lent by one of the parishioners, and take Charlie home from Saturday to Monday, and then bring him back again.

The sisters came to see him too, by turns, sometimes walking and sometimes riding a rough-coated pony, who was well content to be tied to a gate, and eat some of the grass that overgrew the lane. And often Charlie came to us, especially in haytime, for haycocks seem very comfortable (for people whose backs hurt) to lean against; and we could cover his legs with hay too, as he liked them to be hidden. There is no need to say how tender my mother was to him, and my father used to look at him half puzzledly and half pitifully, and always spoke to him in quite a different tone of voice to the one he used with other boys.

Jem gave Charlie the best puppy out of the curly brown spaniel lot; but he didn't really like being with him, though he was sorry for him, and he could not bear seeing his poor legs.

"They make me feel horrid," Jem said. "And even when they're covered up, I know they're there."

"You're a chip of the old block, Jem," said my father, "I'd give a guinea to a hospital any day sooner than see a patient. I'm as sorry as can be for the poor lad, but he turns me queer, though I feel ashamed of it. I like things sound. Your mother's different; she likes 'em better for being sick and sorry, and I suppose Jack takes after her."

My father was wrong about me. Pity for Charlie was not half of the tie between us. When he was talking, or listening to the penny numbers, I never thought about his legs or his back, and I don't now understand how anybody could.

He read and remembered far more than I did, and he was even wilder about strange countries. He had as adventurous a spirit as any lad in the school, cramped up as it was in that misshapen body. I knew he'd have liked to go round the world as well as I, and he often laughed and said -- "What's more, Jack, if I'd the money I would. People are very kind to poor wretches like me all over the world. I should never want a helping hand, and the only difference between us would be, that I should be carried on board ship by some kind-hearted blue-jacket, and you'd have to scramble for yourself."

He was very anxious to know Isaac Irvine, and when I brought the bee-master to see him, they seemed to hold friendly converse with their looks even before either of them spoke. It was a bad day with Charlie, but he set his lips against the pain, and raised himself on one arm to stare out of his big brown eyes at the old man, who met them with as steady a gaze out of his. Then Charlie lowered himself again, and said in a tone of voice by which I knew he was pleased, "I'm so glad you've come to see me, old Isaac. It's very kind of you. Jack says you know a lot about live things, and that you like the numbers we like in the Penny Cyclopedia. I wanted to see you, for I think you and I are much in the same boat; you're old, and I'm crippled, and we're both too poor to travel. But Jack's to go, and when he's gone, you and I'll follow him on the map."

"GOD willing, sir," said the bee-master; and when he said that, I knew how sorry he felt for poor Charlie, for when he was moved he always said very short things, and generally something religious.

And for all Charlie's whims and fancies, and in all his pain and fretfulness, and through fits of silence and sensitiveness, he had never a better friend than Isaac Irvine. Indeed the bee-master was one of those men (to be found in all ranks) whose delicate tenderness might not be guessed from the size and roughness of the outer man.

Our neighbours were all very kind to Mr. Wood, in their own way, but they were a little impatient of his slowness to be sociable, and had, I think, a sort of feeling that the ex-convict ought not only to enjoy evening parties more than other people, but to be just a little more grateful for being invited.

However, one must have a strong and sensitive imagination to cultivate wide sympathies when one lives a quiet, methodical life in the place where one's father and grandfather lived out quiet methodical lives before one; and I do not think we were an imaginative race.

The school-master (as we used to call him) had seen and suffered so much more of life than we, that I do not think he resented the clumsiness of our sympathy; but now I look back I fancy that he must have felt as if he wanted years of peace and quiet in which to try and forget the years of suffering. Old Isaac said one day, "I reckon the master feels as if he wanted to sit down and say to hisself over and over again, 'I'm a free man, I'm a free man, I'm a free man,' till he can fair trust himself to believe it."

Isaac was probably right, and perhaps evening parties, though they are meant for treats, are not the best places to sit down and feel free in, particularly when there are a lot of strange people who have heard a dreadful story about you, and want to see what you look like after it.

During the summer holidays Jem and I were out the whole day long. When we came in I was ready for the Penny Numbers, but Jem always fell asleep, even if he did not go to bed at once. My father did just the same. I think their feeling about houses was of a perfectly primitive kind. They looked upon them as comfortable shelter for sleeping and eating, but not at all as places in which to pursue any occupation. Life, for them, was lived out-of-doors.

I know now how dull this must have made the evenings for my mother, and that it was very selfish of me to wait till my father was asleep (for fear he should say "no"), and then to ask her leave to take the Penny Numbers down to the farm and sit with Cripple Charlie.

Now and then she would go too, and chat with Mrs. Wood, whilst the school-master and I were turning the terrestrial globe by Charlie's sofa; but as a rule Charlie and I were alone, and the Woods went round the homestead together, and came home hand in hand, through the garden, and we laughed to think how we had taken him for a tramp.

And sometimes on a summer's evening, when we talked and read aloud to each other across a quaint oak table that had been the miser's, of far-away lands and strange birds of gorgeous plumage, the school-master sat silent in the arm-chair by the open lattice, resting his white head against the mullion that the ivy was creeping up, and listened to the blackbirds and thrushes as their songs dropped by odd notes into silence, and gazed at the near fields and trees, and the little homestead with its hayricks on the hill, when the grass was apple-green in the gold mist of sunset: and went on gazing when that had faded into fog, and the hedgerow elms were black against the sky, as if the eye could not be filled with seeing, nor the ear with hearing!



Chapter VI.

"Who, doomed to go in company with Pain, Turns his necessity to glorious gain." WORDSWORTH.


"Jack," said Charlie, "listen!"

He was reading bits out of the numbers to me, whilst I was rigging a miniature yacht to sail on the dam; and Mrs. Wood's husband was making a plan of something at another table, and occasionally giving me advice about my masts and sails. "It's about the South American forests," said Charlie. "'There every tree has a character of its own; each has its peculiar foliage, and probably also a tint unlike that of the trees which surround it. Gigantic vegetables of the most different families intermix their branches; five-leaved bignonias grow by the side of bonduc-trees; cassias shed their yellow blossoms upon the rich fronds of arborescent ferns; myrtles and eugenias, with their thousand arms, contrast with the elegant simplicity of palms; and among the airy foliage of the mimosa the ceropia elevates its giant leaves and heavy candelabra-shaped branches. Of some trees the trunk is perfectly smooth, of others it is defended by enormous spines, and the whole are often apparently sustained by the slanting stems of a huge wild fig-tree. With us, the oak, the chestnut, and the beech seem as if they bore no flowers, so small are they and so little distinguishable except by naturalists; but in the forests of South America it is often the most gigantic trees that produce the most brilliant flowers; cassias hang down their pendants of golden blossoms, vochisias unfold their singular bunches; corollas, longer than those of our foxglove, sometimes yellow or sometimes purple, load the arborescent bignonias; while the chorisias are covered, as it were, with lilies, only their colours are richer and more varied; grasses also appear in form of bamboos, as the most graceful of trees; bauhinias, bignonias, and aroideous plants cling round the trees like enormous cables; orchideous plants and bromelias overrun their limbs, or fasten themselves to them when prostrated by the storm, and make even their dead remains become verdant with leaves and flowers not their own.'"

Though he could read very well, Charlie had, so far, rather stumbled through the long names in this description, but he finished off with fluency, not to say enthusiasm. "'Such are the ancient forests, flourishing in a damp and fertile soil, and clothed with perpetual green.'"

I was half-way through a profound sigh when I caught the school-master's eye, who had paused in his plan-making and was listening with his head upon his hand.

"What a groan!" he exclaimed. "What's the matter?"

"It sounds so splendid!" I answered, "and I'm so afraid I shall never see it. I told Father last night I should like to be a sailor, but he only said 'Stuff and nonsense,' and that there was a better berth waiting for me in Uncle Henry's office than any of the Queen's ships would provide for me; and Mother begged me never to talk of it any more, if I didn't want to break her heart" -- and I sighed again.

The school-master had a long smooth face, which looked longer from melancholy, and he turned it and his arms over the back of the chair, and looked at me with the watchful listening look his eyes always had; but I am not sure if he was really paying much attention to me, for he talked (as he often did) as if he were talking to himself.

"I wanted to be a soldier," he said, "and my father wouldn't let me. I often used to wish I had run away and enlisted, when I was with Quarter-master McCulloch, of the Engineers (he'd risen from the ranks and was younger than me), in Bermuda."

"Bermuda! That's not very far from South America, is it?" said I, looking across to the big map of the world. "Is it very beautiful, too?"

The school-master's eyes contracted as if he were short-sighted, or looking at something inside his own head. But he smiled as he answered -- 

"The poet says,

'A pleasing land of drowsy-head it is, Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye; And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, For ever flushing round a summer sky.'"

"But are there any curious beasts and plants and that sort of thing?" I asked.

"I believe there were no native animals originally," said the school-master. "I mean inland ones. But the fowls of the air and the fishes of the sea are of all lovely forms and colours. And such corals and sponges, and sea-anemones, blooming like flowers in the transparent pools of the warm blue water that washes the coral reefs and fills the little creeks and bays!"

I gasped -- and he went on. "The commonest trees, I think, are palms and cedars. Lots of the old houses were built of cedar, and I've heard of old cedar furniture to be picked up here and there, as some people buy old oak out of English farm-houses. It is very durable and deliriously scented. People used to make cedar bonfires when the small-pox was about, to keep away infection. The gardens will grow anything, and plots of land are divided by oleander hedges of many colours."

"Oh -- h!" ejaculated I, in long-drawn notes of admiration. The school-master's eyes twinkled.

"Not only," continued he, "do very gaudy lobsters and quaint cray-fish and crabs with lanky legs dispute your attention on the shore with the shell-fish of the loveliest hues; there is no lack of remarkable creatures indoors. Monstrous spiders, whose bite is very unpleasant, drop from the roof; tarantulas and scorpions get into your boots, and cockroaches, hideous to behold and disgusting to smell, invade every place from your bed to your store-cupboard. If you possess anything, from food and clothing to books and boxes, the ants will find it and devour it, and if you possess a garden the mosquitoes will find you and devour you."

"Oh -- h!" I exclaimed once more, but this time in a different tone.

Mr. Wood laughed heartily. "Tropical loveliness has its drawbacks, Jack. Perhaps some day when your clothes are moulded, and your brain feels mouldy too with damp heat, and you can neither work in the sun nor be at peace in the shade, you may wish you were sitting on a stool in your uncle's office, undisturbed by venomous insects, and cool in a November fog."

I laughed too, but I shook my head.

"No. I shan't mind the insects if I can get there. Charlie, were those wonderful ants old Isaac said you'd been reading about, Bermuda ants?"

I did not catch Charlie's muttered reply, and when I looked round I saw that his face was buried in the red cushions, and that he was (what Jem used to call) "in one of his tempers."

I don't exactly know how it was. I don't think Charlie was jealous or really cross, but he used to take fits of fancying he was in the way, and out of it all (from being a cripple), if we seemed to be very busy without him, especially about such things as planning adventures. I knew what was the matter directly, but I'm afraid my consolation was rather clumsy.

"Don't be cross, Charlie," I said; "I thought you were listening too, and if it's because you think you won't be able to go, I don't believe there's really a bit more chance of my going, though my legs are all right."

"Don't bother about me," said Charlie; "but I wish you'd put these numbers down, they're in my way." And he turned pettishly over.

Before I could move, the school-master had taken the papers, and was standing over Charlie's couch, with his right hand against the wall, at the level of his head, and his left arm hanging by his side; and I suppose it was his attitude which made me notice, before he began to speak, what a splendid figure he had, and how strong he looked. He spoke in an odd, abrupt sort of voice, very different from the way he had been talking to me, but he looked down at Charlie so intensely, that I think he felt it through the cushions, and lifted his head.

"When your father has been bringing you down here, or at any time when you have been out amongst other people, have you ever overheard them saying, 'Poor chap! it's a sad thing,' and things of that kind, as if they were sorry for you?"

Cripple Charlie's face flushed scarlet, and my own cheeks burned, as I looked daggers at the school-master, for what seemed a brutal insensibility to the lame boy's feelings. He did not condescend, however, to meet my eyes. His own were still fixed steadily on Charlie's, and he went on.

"I've heard it. My ears are quick, and for many a Sunday after I came I caught the whispers behind me as I went up the aisle, 'Poor man!' 'Poor gentleman!' 'He looks bad, too!' One morning an old woman, in a big black bonnet, said, 'Poor soul!' so close to me, that I looked down, and met her withered eyes, full of tears -- for me! -- and I said, 'Thank you, mother,' and she fingered the sleeve of my coat with her trembling hand (the veins were standing out on it like ropes), and said, 'I've knowed trouble myself, my dear. The Lord bless yours to you!'"

"It must have been Betty Johnson," I interpolated; but the school-master did not even look at me.

"You and I," he said, bending nearer to Cripple Charlie, "have had our share of this life's pain so dealt out to us that any one can see and pity us. My boy, take a fellow-sufferer's word for it, it is wise and good not to shrink from the seeing and pitying. The weight of the cross spreads itself and becomes lighter if one learns to suffer with others as well as with oneself, to take pity and to give it. And as one learns to be pained with the pains of others, one learns to be happy in their happiness and comforted by their sympathy, and then no man's life can be quite empty of pleasure. I don't know if my troubles have been lighter or heavier ones than yours --  -- "

The school-master stopped short, and turned his head so that his face was almost hidden against his hand upon the wall. Charlie's big eyes were full of tears, and I am sure I distinctly felt my ears poke forwards on my head with anxious curiosity to catch what Mr. Wood would tell us about that dreadful time of which he had never spoken.

"When I was your age," he said bluntly, "I was unusually lithe and active and strong for mine. When I was half as old again, I was stronger than any man I knew, and had many a boyish triumph out of my strength, because I was slender and graceful, and this concealed my powers. I had all the energies and ambitions natural to unusual vigour and manly skill. I wanted to be a soldier, but it was not to be, and I spent my youth at a desk in a house of business. I adapted myself, but none the less I chafed whenever I heard of manly exploits, and of the delights and dangers that came of seeing the world. I used to think I could bear anything to cross the seas and see foreign climes. I did cross the Atlantic at last -- a convict in a convict ship (GOD help any man who knows what that is!), and I spent the ten best years of my manhood at the hulks working in chains. You've never lost freedom, my lad, so you have never felt what it is not to be able to believe you've got it back. You don't know what it is to turn nervous at the responsibility of being your own master for a whole day, or to wake in a dainty room, with the birds singing at the open window, and to shut your eyes quickly and pray to go on dreaming a bit, because you feel sure you're really in your hammock in the hulks."

The school-master lifted his other hand above his head, and pressed both on it, as if he were in pain. What Charlie was doing I don't know, but I felt so miserable I could not help crying, and had to hunt for my pocket-handkerchief under the table. It was full of acorns, and by the time I had emptied it and dried my eyes, Mr. Wood was lifting Charlie in his arms, and arranging his cushions.

"Oh, thank you!" Charlie said, as he leant back; "how comfortable you have made me!"

"I have been sick-nurse, amongst other trades. For some months I was a hospital warder."

"Was that when --  -- " Charlie began, and then he stopped short, and said, "Oh, I beg your pardon!"

"Yes; it was when I was a convict," said the school-master. "No offence, my boy. If I preach I must try to practise. Jack's eyes are dropping out of his head to hear more of Bermuda, and you and I will put our whims and moods on one side, and we'll all tell travellers' tales together."

Cripple Charlie kept on saying "Thank you," and I know he was very sorry not to be able to think of anything more to say, for he told me so. He wanted to have thanked him better, because he knew that Mr. Wood had talked about his having been a convict, when he did not like to talk about it, just to show Charlie that he knew what pain, and not being able to do what you want, feel like, and that Charlie ought not to fancy he was neglected.

And that was the beginning of all the stories the school-master used to tell us, and of the natural history lessons he gave us, and of his teaching me to stuff birds, and do all kinds of things.

We used to say to him, "You're better than the Penny Numbers, for you're quite as interesting, and we're sure you're true." And the odd thing was that he made Charlie much more contented, because he started him with so many collections, whilst he made me only more and more anxious to see the world.



Chapter VII.

"Much would have more, and lost all." -- English Proverb.

"Learn you to an ill habit, and ye'll ca't custom." Scotch Proverb.


The lane was full of colour that autumn, the first autumn of the convict's return. The leaves turned early, and fell late, and made the hedges gayer than when the dog-roses were out; for not only were the leaves of all kinds brighter than many flowers, but the berries (from the holly and mountain-ash to the hips and haws) were so thick-set, and so red and shining, that, as my dear mother said, "they looked almost artificial."

I remember it well, because of two things. First, that Jem got five of the largest hips we had ever seen off a leafless dog-rose branch which stuck far out of the hedge, and picked the little green coronets off, so that they were smooth and glossy, and egg-shaped, and crimson on one side and yellow on the other; and then he got an empty chaffinch's nest close by and put the five hips into it, and took it home, and persuaded Alice our new parlourmaid that it was a robin redbreast's nest with eggs in it. And she believed it, for she came from London and knew no better.

The second thing I remember that autumn by, is that everybody expected a hard winter because of the berries being so fine, and the hard winter never came, and the birds ate worms and grubs and left most of the hedge fruits where they were.

November was bright and mild, and the morning frosts only made the berries all the glossier when the sun came out. We had one or two snow-storms in December, and then we all said, "Now it's coming!" but the snow melted away and left no bones behind. In January the snow lay longer, and left big bones on the moors, and Jem and I made a slide to school on the pack track, and towards the end of the month the mill-dam froze hard, and we had slides fifteen yards long, and skating; and Winter seemed to have come back in good earnest to fetch his bones away.

Jem was great fun in frosty weather; Charlie and I used to die of laughing at him. I think cold made him pugnacious; he seemed always ready for a row, and was constantly in one. The January frost came in our Christmas holidays, so Jem had lots of time on his hands; he spent almost all of it out of doors, and he devoted a good deal of it to fighting with the rough lads of the village. There was a standing subject of quarrel, which is a great thing for either tribes or individuals who have a turn that way. A pond at the corner of the lower paddock was fed by a stream which also fed the mill-dam; and the mill-dam was close by, though, as it happened, not on my father's property. Old custom made the mill-dam the winter resort of all the village sliders and skaters, and my father displayed a good deal of toleration when those who could not find room for a new slide, or wished to practise their "outer edge" in a quiet spot, came climbing over the wall (there was no real thoroughfare) and invaded our pond.

Perhaps it is because gratitude is a fatiguing virtue, or perhaps it is because self-esteem has no practical limits, that favours are seldom regarded as such for long. They are either depreciated, or claimed as rights; very often both. And what is common in all classes is almost universal amongst the uneducated. You have only to make a system of giving your cast-off clothes to some shivering family, and you will not have to wait long for an eloquent essay on their shabbiness, or for an outburst of sincere indignation if you venture to reserve a warm jacket for a needy relative. Prescriptive rights, in short, grow faster than pumpkins, which is amongst the many warnings life affords us to be just as well as generous. Thence it had come about that the young roughs of the village regarded our pond to all winter intents and purposes as theirs, and my father as only so far and so objectionably concerned in the matter that he gave John Binder a yearly job in patching up the wall which it took them three months' trouble to kick a breach in.

Our neighbours were what is called "very independent" folk. In the grown-up people this was modified by the fact that no one who has to earn his own livelihood can be quite independent of other people; if he would live he must let live, and throw a little civility into the bargain. But boys of an age when their parents found meals and hobnailed boots for them whether they behaved well or ill, were able to display independence in its roughest form. And when the boys of our neighbourhood were rough, they were very rough indeed.

The village boys had their Christmas holidays about the same time that we had ours, which left them as much spare time for sliding and skating as we had, but they had their dinner at twelve o'clock, whilst we had ours at one, so that any young roughs who wished to damage our pond were just comfortably beginning their mischief as Jem and I were saying grace before meat, and the thought of it took away our appetites again and again.

That winter they were particularly aggravating. The December frost was a very imperfect one, and the mill-dam never bore properly, so the boys swarmed over our pond, which was shallow and safe. Very few of them could even hobble on skates, and those few carried the art no farther than by cutting up the slides. But thaw came on, so that there was no sliding, and then the young roughs amused themselves with stamping holes in the soft ice with their hobnailed heels. When word came to us that they were taking the stones off our wall and pitching them down on to the soft ice below, to act as skaters' stumbling-blocks for the rest of that hard winter which we expected, Jem's indignation was not greater than mine. My father was not at home, and indeed, when we had complained before, he rather snubbed us, and said that we could not want the whole of the pond to ourselves, and that he had always lived quietly with his neighbours and we must learn to do the same, and so forth. No action at all calculated to assuage our thirst for revenge was likely to be taken by him, so Jem and I held a council by Charlie's sofa, and it was a council of war. At the end we all three solemnly shook hands, and Charlie was left to write and despatch brief notes of summons to our more distant school-mates, whilst Jem and I tucked up our trousers, wound our comforters sternly round our throats, and went forth in different directions to gather the rest.

(Having lately been reading about the Highlanders, who used to send round a fiery cross when the clans were called to battle, I should have liked to do so in this instance; but as some of the Academy boys were no greater readers than Jem, they might not have known what it meant, so we abandoned the notion.)

There was not an Academy boy worth speaking of who was in time for dinner the following day; and several of them brought brothers or cousins to the fray. By half-past twelve we had crept down the field that was on the other side of our wall, and had hidden ourselves in various corners of a cattle-shed, where a big cart and some sail-cloth and a turnip heap provided us with ambush. By and by certain familiar whoops and hullohs announced that the enemy was coming. One or two bigger boys made for the dam (which I confess was a relief to us), but our own particular foes advanced with a rush upon the wall.

"They hevn't coomed yet, hev they?" we heard the sexton's son say, as he peeped over at our pond.

"Noa," was the reply. "It's not gone one yet."

"It's gone one by t' church. I yeard it as we was coming up t' lane."

"T' church clock's always hafe-an-hour fasst, thee knows."

"It isn't!"

"It is."

"T' church clock's t' one to go by, anyhow," the sexton's son maintained.

His friend guffawed aloud.

"And it's a reight 'un to go by too, my sakes! when thee feyther shifts t' time back'ards and for'ards every Sunday morning to suit hissen."

"To suit hissen! To suit t' ringers, ye mean!" said the sexton's son.

"What's thou to do wi' t' ringers?" was the reply, enforced apparently by a punch in the back, and the two lads came cuffing and struggling up the field, much to my alarm, but fortunately they were too busy to notice us.

Meanwhile, the rest had not been idle at the wall. Jem had climbed on the cart, and peeping through a brick hole he could see that they had with some difficulty disengaged a very heavy stone. As we were turning our heads to watch the two lads fighting near our hiding-place, we heard the stone strike with a heavy thud upon the rotten ice below, and it was echoed by a groan of satisfaction from above.

("Ready!" I whispered.)

"You'll break somebody's nose when it's frosted in," cried Bob Furniss, in a tone of sincere gratification.

"Eh, Tim Binder! there'll be a rare job for thee feyther next spring, fettling up this wall, by t' time we've done wi' it."

"Let me come," we heard Tim say. "Thou can't handle a stone. Let me come. Th' ice is as soft as loppered milk, and i' ten minutes, I'll fill yon bit they're so chuff of skating on, as thick wi' stones as a quarry."

("Now!" I said.)

Our foes considerably outnumbered us, but I think they were at a disadvantage. They had worked off a good deal of their steam, and ours was at explosion point. We took them by surprise and in the rear. They had had some hard exercise, and we were panting to begin. As a matter of fact those who could get away ran away. We caught all we could, and punched and pummelled and rolled them in the snow to our hearts' content.

Jem never was much of a talker, and I never knew him speak when he was fighting; but three several times on this occasion, I heard him say very stiffly and distinctly (he was on the top of Tim Binder), "I'll fettle thee! I'll fettle thee! I'll fettle thee!"

The battle was over, the victory was ours, but the campaign was not ended, and thenceforward the disadvantages would be for us. Even real warfare is complicated when men fight with men less civilized than themselves; and we had learnt before now that when we snowballed each other or snowballed the rougher "lot" of village boys, we did so under different conditions. We had our own code of honour and fairness, but Bob Furniss was not above putting a stone into a snowball if he owed a grudge.

So when we heard a rumour that the bigger "roughs" were going to join the younger ones, and lie in wait to "pay us off" the first day we came down to the ice, I cannot say we felt comfortable, though we resolved to be courageous. Meanwhile, the thaw continued, which suspended operations, and gave time, which is good for healing; and Christmas came, and we and our foes met and mingled in the mummeries of the season, and wished each other Happy New Years, and said nothing about the pond.

How my father came to hear of the matter we did not know at the time, but one morning he summoned Jem and me, and bade us tell him all about it. I was always rather afraid of my father, and I should have made out a very stammering story, but Jem flushed up like a turkey-cock, and gave our version of the business very straightforwardly. The other side of the tale my father had evidently heard, and we fancied he must have heard also of the intended attack on us, for it never took place, and we knew of interviews which he had with John Binder and others of our neighbours; and when the frost came in January, we found that the stones had been taken out of the pond, and my father gave us a sharp lecture against being quarrelsome and giving ourselves airs, and it ended with -- "The pond is mine. I wish you to remember it, because it makes it your duty to be hospitable and civil to the boys I allow to go on it. And I have very decidedly warned them and their parents to remember it, because if my permission for fair amusement is abused to damage and trespass, I shall withdraw the favour and prosecute intruders. But the day I shut up my pond from my neighbours, I shall forbid you and Jack to go on it again unless the fault is more entirely on one side than it's likely to be when boys squabble."

My father waved our dismissal, but I hesitated.

"The boys won't think we told tales to you to get out of another fight?" I gasped.

"Everybody knows perfectly well how I heard. It came to the sexton's ears, and he very properly informed me."

I felt relieved, and the first day we had on the ice went off very fairly. The boys were sheepish at first and slow to come on, and when they had assembled in force they were inclined to be bullying. But Jem and I kept our tempers, and by and by my father came down to see us, and headed a long slide in which we and our foes were combined. As he left he pinched Jem's frosty ear, and said, "Let me hear if there's any real malice, but don't double your fists at every trifle. Slide and let slide! slide and let slide!" And he took a pinch of snuff and departed.

And Jem was wonderfully peaceable for the rest of the day. A word from my father went a long way with him. They were very fond of each other.

I had no love of fighting for fighting's sake, and I had other interests besides sliding and skating; so I was well satisfied that we got through the January frost without further breaches of the peace. Towards the end of the month we all went a good deal upon the mill-dam, and Mr. Wood (assisted by me as far as watching, handing tools and asking questions went) made a rough sledge, in which he pushed Charlie before him as he skated; and I believe the village boys, as well as his own school-fellows, were glad that Cripple Charlie had a share in the winter fun, for wherever Mr. Wood drove him, both sliders and skaters made way.

And even on the pond there were no more real battles that winter. Only now and then some mischievous urchin tripped up our brand-new skates, and begged our pardon as he left us on our backs. And more than once, when "the island" in the middle of the pond was a very fairyland of hoar-frosted twigs and snow-plumed larches, I have seen its white loveliness rudely shaken, and skating round to discover the cause, have beheld Jem, with cheeks redder than his scarlet comforter, return an "accidental" shove with interest; or posed like a ruffled robin redbreast, to defend a newly-made slide against intruders.



Chapter VIII.

"He it was who sent the snowflakes Sifting, hissing through the forest; Froze the ponds, the lakes, the rivers, *    *    *    *    * Shinbegis, the diver, feared not." The Song of Hiawatha.


The first day of February was mild, and foggy, and cloudy, and in the night I woke feeling very hot, and threw off my quilt, and heard the dripping of soft rain in the dark outside, and thought, "There goes our skating." Towards morning, however, I woke again, and had to pull the quilt back into its place, and when I started after breakfast to see what the dam looked like, there was a sharpish frost, which, coming after a day of thaw, had given the ice such a fine smooth surface as we had not had for long.

I felt quite sorry for Jem, because he was going in the dog-cart with my father to see a horse, and as I hadn't got him to skate with, I went down to the farm after breakfast, to see what Charlie and the Woods were going to do. Charlie was not well, but Mr. Wood said he would come to the dam with me after dinner, as he had to go to the next village on business, and the dam lay in his way.

"Keep to the pond this morning, Jack," he added, to my astonishment. "Remember it thawed all yesterday; and if the wheel was freed and has been turning, it has run water off from under the ice, and all may not be sound that's smooth."

The pond was softer than it looked, but the mill-dam was most tempting. A sheet of "glare ice," as Americans say, smooth and clear as a newly-washed window-pane. I did not go on it, but I brought Mr. Wood to it early in the afternoon, in the full hope that he would give me leave.

We found several young men on the bank, some fastening their skates and some trying the ice with their heels, and as we stood there the numbers increased, and most of them went on without hesitation; and when they rushed in groups together, I noticed that the ice slightly swayed.

"The ice bends a good deal," said Mr. Wood to a man standing next to us.

"They say it's not so like to break when it bends," was the reply; and the man moved on.

A good many of the elder men from the village had come up, and a group, including John Binder, now stood alongside of us.

"There's a good sup of water atop of it," said the mason; and I noticed then that the ice seemed to look wetter, like newly-washed glass still, but like glass that wants wiping dry.

"I'm afraid the ice is not safe," said the school-master.

"It's a tidy thickness, sir," said John Binder, and a heavy man, with his hands in his pockets and his back turned to us, stepped down and gave two or three jumps, and then got up again, and, with his back still turned towards us, said,

"It's reight enough."

"It's right enough for one man, but not for a crowd, I'm afraid. Was the water-wheel freed last night, do you know?"

"It was loosed last night, but it's froz again," said a bystander.

"It's not freezing now," said the school-master, "and you may see how much larger that weak place where the stream is has got since yesterday. However," he added, good-humouredly, "I suppose you think you know your own mill-dam and its ways better than I can?"

"Well," said the heavy man, still with his back to us, "I reckon we've slid on this dam a many winters afore you come. No offence, I hope?"

"By no means," said the school-master; "but if you old hands do begin to feel doubtful as the afternoon goes on, call off those lads at the other end in good time. And if you could warn them not to go in rushes together -- but perhaps they would not listen to you," he added with a spice of malice.

"I don't suppose they would, sir," said John Binder, candidly. "They're very venturesome, is lads."

"I reckon they'll suit themselves," said the heavy man, and he jumped on to the ice, and went off, still with his back to us.

"If I hadn't lived so many years out of England and out of the world," said the school-master, turning to me with a half-vexed laugh, "I don't suppose I should discredit myself to no purpose by telling fools they are in danger. Jack! will you promise me not to go on the dam this afternoon?"

"It is dangerous, is it?" I asked reluctantly; for I wanted sorely to join the rest.

"That's a matter of opinion, it seems. But I have a wish that you should not go on till I come back. I'll be as quick as I can. Promise me."

"I promise," said I.

"Will you walk with me?" he asked. But I refused. I thought I would rather watch the others; and accordingly, after I had followed the school-master with my eyes as he strode off at a pace that promised soon to bring him back, I put my hands into my pockets and joined the groups of watchers on the bank. I suppose if I had thought about it, I might have observed that though I was dawdling about, my nose and ears and fingers were not nipped. Mr. Wood was right, -- it had not been freezing for hours past.

The first thing I looked for was the heavy man. He was so clumsy-looking that I quite expected him to fall when he walked off on to ice only fit for skaters. But as I looked closer I saw that the wet on the top was beginning to have a curdled look, and that the glassiness of the mill-dam was much diminished. The heavy man's heavy boots got good foothold, and several of his friends, seeing this, went after him. And my promise weighed sorely on me.

The next thing that drew my attention was a lad of about seventeen, who was skating really well. Indeed, everybody was looking at him, for he was the only one of the villagers who could perform in any but the clumsiest fashion, and, with an active interest that hovered between jeering and applause, his neighbours followed him up and down the dam. As I might not go on, I wandered up and down the bank too, and occasionally joined in a murmured cheer when he deftly evaded some intentional blunderer, or cut a figure at the request of his particular friends. I got tired at last, and went down to the pond, where I ploughed about for a time on my skates in solitude, for the pond was empty. Then I ran up to the house to see if Jem had come back, but he had not, and I returned to the dam to wait for the school-master.

The crowd was larger than before, for everybody's work-hours were over; and the skater was still displaying himself. He was doing very difficult figures now, and I ran round to where the bank was covered with people watching him. In the minute that followed I remember three things with curious distinctness. First, that I saw Mr. Wood coming back, only one field off, and beckoned to him to be quick, because the lad was beginning to cut a double three backwards, and I wanted the school-master to see it. Secondly, that the sight of him seemed suddenly to bring to my mind that we were all on the far side of the dam, the side he thought dangerous. And thirdly, that, quickly as my eyes passed from Mr. Wood to the skater, I caught sight of a bloated-looking young man, whom we all knew as a sort of typical "bad lot," standing with another man who was a great better, and from a movement between them, it just flashed through my head that they were betting as to whether the lad would cut the double three backwards or not.

He cut one -- two -- and then he turned too quickly and his skate caught in the softening ice, and when he came headlong, his head struck, and where it struck it went through. It looked so horrible that it was a relief to see him begin to struggle; but the weakened ice broke around him with every effort, and he went down.

For many a year afterwards I used to dream of his face as he sank, and of the way the ice heaved like the breast of some living thing, and fell back, and of the heavy waves that rippled over it out of that awful hole. But great as was the shock, it was small to the storm of shame and agony that came over me when I realized that every comrade who had been around the lad had saved himself by a rush to the bank, where we huddled together, a gaping crowd of foolhardy cowards, without skill to do anything or heart to dare anything to save him.

At that time it maddened me so, that I felt that if I could not help the lad I would rather be drowned in the hole with him, and I began to scramble in a foolish way down the bank, but John Binder caught me by the arm and pulled me back, and said (I suppose to soothe me),

"Yon's the school-master, sir;" and then I saw Mr. Wood fling himself over the hedge by the alder thicket (he was rather good at high jumps), and come flying along the bank towards us, when he said,

"What's the matter?"

I threw my arms round him and sobbed, "He was cutting a double three backwards, and he went in."

Mr. Wood unclasped my arms and turned to the rest.

"What have you done with him?" he said. "Did he hurt himself?"

If the crowd was cowardly and helpless, it was not indifferent; and I shall never forget the haggard faces that turned by one impulse, where a dozen grimy hands pointed -- to the hole.

"He's drowned dead." "He's under t' ice." "He went right down," several men hastened to reply, but most of them only enforced the mute explanation of their pointed finger with, "He's yonder."

For yet an instant I don't think Mr. Wood believed it, and then he seized the man next to him (without looking, for he was blind with rage) and said,

"He's yonder, and you're here?"

As it happened, it was the man who had talked with his back to us. He was very big and very heavy, but he reeled when Mr. Wood shook him, like a feather caught by a storm.

"You were foolhardy enough an hour ago," said the school-master. "Won't one of you venture on to your own dam to help a drowning man?"

"There's none on us can swim, sir," said John Binder. "It's a bad job" -- and he gave a sob that made me begin to cry again, and several other people too -- "but where'd be t' use of drowning five or six more atop of him?"

"Can any of you run if you can't swim?" said the school-master. "Get a stout rope -- as fast as you can, and send somebody for the doctor and a bottle of brandy, and a blanket or two to carry him home in. Jack! Hold these."

I took his watch and his purse, and he went down the bank and walked on to the ice; but after a time his feet went through as the skater's head had gone.

"It ain't a bit of use. There's nought to be done," said the bystanders: for, except those who had run to do Mr. Wood's bidding, we were all watching and all huddled closer to the edge than ever. The school-master went down on his hands and knees, on which a big lad, with his hands in his trouser-pockets, guffawed.

"What's he up to now?" he asked.

"Thee may haud thee tongue if thee can do nought," said a mill-girl who had come up. "I reckon he knows what he's efter better nor thee." She had pushed to the front, and was crouched upon the edge, and seemed very much excited. "GOD bless him for trying to save t' best lad in t' village i' any fashion, say I! There's them that's nearer kin to him and not so kind."

Perhaps the strict justice of this taunt prevented a reply (for there lurks some fairness in the roughest of us), or perhaps the crowd, being chiefly men knew from experience that there are occasions when it is best to let a woman say her say.

"Ye see he's trying to spread hisself out," John Binder explained in pacific tones. "I reckon he thinks it'll bear him if he shifts half of his weight on to his hands."

The girl got nearer to the mason, and looked up at him with her eyes full of tears.

"Thank ye, John," she said. "D'ye think he'll get him out?"

"Maybe he will, my lass. He's a man that knows what he's doing. I'll say so much for him."

"Nay!" added the mason sorrowfully. "Th' ice 'll never hold him -- his hand's in -- and there goes his knee. Maester! maester!" he shouted, "come off! come off!" and many a voice besides mine echoed him, "Come off! come off!"

The girl got John Binder by the arm, and said hoarsely, "Fetch him off! He's a reight good 'un -- over good to be drownded, if -- if it's of no use." And she sat down on the bank, and pulled her mill-shawl over her head, and cried as I had never seen any one cry before.

I was so busy watching her that I did not see that Mr. Wood had got back to the bank. Several hands were held out to help him, but he shook his head and said -- "Got a knife?"

Two or three jack-knives were out in an instant. He pointed to the alder thicket. "I want two poles," he said, "sixteen feet long, if you can, and as thick as my wrist at the bottom."

"All right, sir."

He sat down on the bank, and I rushed up and took one of his cold wet hands in both mine, and said, "Please, please, don't go on any more."

"He must be dead ever so long ago," I added, repeating what I had heard.

"He hasn't been in the water ten minutes," said the school-master, laughing, "Jack! Jack! you're not half ready for travelling yet. You must learn not to lose your head and your heart and your wits and your sense of time in this fashion, if you mean to be any good at a pinch to yourself or your neighbours. Has the rope come?"

"No, sir."

"Those poles?" said the school-master, getting up.

"They're here!" I shouted, as a young forest of poles came towards us, so willing had been the owners of the jack-knives. The thickest had been cut by the heavy man, and Mr. Wood took it first.

"Thank you, friend," he said. The man didn't speak, and he turned his back as usual, but he gave a sideways surly nod before he turned. The school-master chose a second pole, and then pushed both before him right out on to the ice, in such a way that with the points touching each other they formed a sort of huge A, the thicker ends being the nearer to the bank.

"Now, Jack," said he, "pay attention; and no more blubbering. There's always plenty of time for giving way afterwards."

As he spoke he scrambled on to the poles, and began to work himself and them over the ice, wriggling in a kind of snake fashion in the direction of the hole. We watched him breathlessly, but within ten yards of the hole he stopped. He evidently dared not go on; and the same thought seized all of us -- "Can he get back?" Spreading his legs and arms he now lay flat upon the poles, peering towards the hole as if to try if he could see anything of the drowning man. It was only for an instant, then he rolled over on to the rotten ice, smashed through, and sank more suddenly than the skater had done.

The mill-girl jumped up with a wild cry and rushed to the water, but John Binder pulled her back as he had pulled me. Martha, our housemaid, said afterwards (and was ready to take oath on the gilt-edged Church service my mother gave her) that the girl was so violent that it took fourteen men to hold her; but Martha wasn't there, and I only saw two, one at each arm, and when she fainted they laid her down and left her, and hurried back to see what was going on. For tenderness is an acquired grace in men, and it was not common in our neighbourhood.

What was going on was that John Binder had torn his hat from his head and was saying, "I don't know if there's aught we can do, but I can't go home myself and leave him yonder. I'm a married man with a family, but I don't vally my life if --  -- "

But the rest of this speech was drowned in noise more eloquent than words, and then it broke into cries of "See thee! -- It is -- it's t' maester! and he has -- no! -- yea! -- he has -- he's gotten him. Polly, lass! he's fetched up thy Arthur by t' hair of his heead."

It was strictly true. The school-master told me afterwards how it was. When he found that the ice would bear no longer, he rolled into the water on purpose, but, to his horror, he felt himself seized by the drowning man, which pulled him suddenly down. The lad had risen once, it seems, though we had not seen him, and had got a breath of air at the hole, but the edge broke in his numbed fingers, and he sank again and drifted under the ice. When he rose the second time, by an odd chance it was just where Mr. Wood broke in, and his clutch of the school-master nearly cost both their lives.

"If ever," said Mr. Wood, when he was talking about it afterwards, "if ever, Jack, when you're out in the world you get under water, and somebody tries to save you, when he grips you, don't seize him, if you can muster self-control to avoid it. If you cling to him, you'll either drown both, or you'll force him to do as I did -- throttle you, to keep you quiet."

"Did you?" I gasped.

"Of course I did. I got him by the throat and dived with him -- the only real risk I ran, as I did not know how deep the dam was."

"It's an old quarry," said I.

"I know now. We went down well, and I squeezed his throat as we went. As soon as he was still we naturally rose, and I turned on my back and got him by the head. I looked about for the hole, and saw it glimmering above me like a moon in a fog, and then up we came."

When they did come up, our joy was so great that for the moment we felt as if all was accomplished; but far the hardest part really was to come. When the school-master clutched the poles once more, and drove one under the lad's arms and under his own left arm, and so kept his burden afloat whilst he broke a swimming path for himself with the other, our admiration of his cleverness gave place to the blessed thought that it might now be possible to help him. The sight of the poles seemed suddenly to suggest it, and in a moment every spare pole had been seized, and, headed by our heavy friend, eight or ten men plunged in, and, smashing the ice before them, waded out to meet the school-master. On the bank we were dead silent; in the water they neither stopped nor spoke till it was breast high round their leader.

I have often thought, and have always felt quite sure, that if the heavy man had gone on till the little grey waves and the bits of ice closed over him, not a soul of those who followed him would -- nay, could -- have turned back. Heroism, like cowardice, is contagious, and I do not think there was one of us by that time who would have feared to dare or grudged to die.

As it was, the heavy man stood still and shouted for the rope. It had come, and perhaps it was not the smallest effect of the day's teaching, that those on the bank paid it out at once to those in the water till it reached the leader, without waiting to ask why he wanted it. The grace of obedience is slow to be learnt by disputatious northmen, but we had had some hard teaching that afternoon.

When the heavy man got the rope he tied the middle part of it round himself, and, coiling the shorter end, he sent it, as if it had been a quoit, skimming over the ice towards the school-master. As it unwound itself it slid along, and after a struggle Mr. Wood grasped it. I fancy he fastened it round the lad's body; and got his own hands freer to break the ice before them. Then the heavy man turned, and the long end of the line, passing from hand to hand in the water, was seized upon the bank by every one who could get hold of it. I never was more squeezed and buffeted in my life; but we fairly fought for the privilege of touching if it were but a strand of the rope that dragged them in.

And a flock of wild birds, resting on their journey at the other end of the mill-dam, rose in terror and pursued their seaward way; so wild and so prolonged were the echoes of that strange, speechless cry in which collective man gives vent to overpowering emotion.

It is odd, when one comes to think of it, but I know it is true, for two sensible words would have stuck in my own throat and choked me, but I cheered till I could cheer no longer.



Chapter IX.

"In doubtful matters Courage may do much: -- In desperate  -- Patience." -- Old Proverb.


The young skater duly recovered, and thenceforward Mr. Wood's popularity in the village was established, and the following summer he started a swimming-class, to which the young men flocked with more readiness than they commonly showed for efforts made to improve them.

For my own part I had so realized, to my shame, that one may feel very adventurous and yet not know how to venture or what to venture in the time of need, that my whole heart was set upon getting the school-master to teach me to swim and to dive, with any other lessons in preparedness of body and mind which I was old enough to profit by. And if the true tales of his own experiences were more interesting than the Penny Numbers, it was better still to feel that one was qualifying in one's own proper person for a life of adventure.

During the winter Mr. Wood built a boat, which was christened the Adela, after his wife. It was an interesting process to us all. I hung about and did my best to be helpful, and both Jem and I spoiled our everyday trousers, and rubbed the boat's sides, the day she was painted. It was from the Adela that Jem and I had our first swimming-lessons, Mr. Wood lowering us with a rope under our arms, by which he gave us as much support as was needed, whilst he taught us how to strike out.

We had swimming-races on the canal, and having learned to swim and dive without our clothes, we learnt to do so in them, and found it much more difficult for swimming and easier for diving. It was then that the trousers we had damaged when the Adela was built came in most usefully, and saved us from having to attempt the at least equally difficult task of persuading my mother to let us spoil good ones in an amusement which had the unpardonable quality of being "very odd."

Dear old Charlie had as much fun out of the boat as we had, though he could not learn to dive. He used to look as if every minute of a pull up the canal on a sunny evening gave him pleasure; and the brown Irish spaniel Jem gave him used to swim after the boat and look up in Charlie's face as if it knew how he enjoyed it. And later on, Mr. Wood taught Bob Furniss to row and Charlie to steer; so that Charlie could sometimes go out and feel quite free to stop the boat when and where he liked. That was after he started so many collections of insects and water-weeds, and shells, and things you can only see under a microscope. Bob and he used to take all kinds of pots and pans and nets and dippers with them, so that Charlie could fish up what he wanted, and keep things separate. He was obliged to keep the live things he got for his fresh-water aquarium in different jam-pots, because he could never be sure which would eat up which till he knew them better, and the water-scorpions and the dragon-fly larve ate everything. Bob Furniss did not mind pulling in among the reeds and waiting as long as you wanted. Mr. Wood sometimes wanted to get back to his work, but Bob never wanted to get back to his. And he was very good-natured about getting into the water and wading and grubbing for things; indeed, I think he got to like it.

At first Mr. Wood had been rather afraid of trusting Charlie with him. He thought Bob might play tricks with the boat, even though he knew how to manage her, when there was only one helpless boy with him. But Mrs. Furniss said, "Nay! Our Bob's a bad 'un, but he's not one of that sort, he'll not plague them that's afflicted." And she was quite right; for though his father said he could be trusted with nothing else, we found he could be trusted with Cripple Charlie.

It was two days before the summer holidays came to an end that Charlie asked me to come down to the farm and help him to put away his fern collection and a lot of other things into the places that he had arranged for them in his room; for now that the school-room was wanted again, he could not leave his papers and boxes about there. Charlie lived at the farm altogether now. He was better there than on the moors, so he boarded there and went home for visits. The room Mrs. Wood had given him was the one where the old miser had slept. In a memorandum left with his will it appeared that he had expressed a wish that the furniture of that room should not be altered, which was how they knew it was his. So Mrs. Wood had kept the curious old oak bed (the back of which was fastened into the wall), and an old oak press, with a great number of drawers with brass handles to them, and all the queer furniture that she found there, just as it was. Even the brass warming-pan was only rubbed and put back in its place, and the big bellows were duly hung up by the small fire-place. But everything was so polished up and cleaned, the walls re-papered with a soft grey-green paper spangled with dog-daisies, and the room so brightened up with fresh blinds and bedclothes, and a bit of bright carpet, that it did not look in the least dismal, and Charlie was very proud and very fond of it. It had two windows, one where the beehive was, and one very sunny one, where he had a balm of Gilead that Isaac's wife gave him, and his old medicine-bottles full of cuttings on the upper ledge. The old women used to send him "slippings" off their fairy roses and myrtles and fuchsias, and they rooted very well in that window, there was so much sun.

Charlie had only just begun a fern collection, and I had saved my pocket-money (I did not want it for anything else) and had bought him several quires of cartridge-paper; and Dr. Brown had given him a packet of medicine-labels to cut up into strips to fasten his specimens in with, and the collection looked very well and very scientific; and all that remained was to find a good place to put it away in. The drawers of the press were of all shapes and sizes, but there were two longish very shallow ones that just matched each other, and when I pulled one of them out, and put the fern-papers in, they fitted exactly, and the drawer just held half the collection. I called Charlie to look, and he hobbled up on his crutches and was delighted, but he said he should like to put the others in himself, so I got him into a chair, and shut up the full drawer and pulled out the empty one, and went down-stairs for the two moleskins we were curing, and the glue-pot, and the toffy-tin, and some other things that had to be cleared out of the school-room now the holidays were over.

When I came back the fern-papers were still outside, and Charlie was looking flushed and cross.

"I don't know how you managed," he said, "but I can't get them in. This drawer must be shorter than the other; it doesn't go nearly so far back."

"Oh yes, it does, Charlie!" I insisted, for I felt as certain as people always do feel about little details of that kind. "The drawers are exactly alike; you can't have got the fern-sheets quite flush with each other," and I began to arrange the trayful of things I had brought up-stairs in the bottom of the cupboard.

"I know it's the drawer," I heard Charlie say. ("He's as obstinate as possible," thought I.)

Then I heard him banging at the wood with his fists and his crutch. ("He is in a temper!" was my mental comment.) After this my attention was distracted for a second or two by seeing what I thought was a bit of toffy left in the tin, and biting it and finding it was a piece of sheet-glue. I had not spit out all the disgust of it, when Charlie called me in low, awe-struck tones: "Jack! come here. Quick!"

I ran to him. The drawer was open, but it seemed to have another drawer inside it, a long, narrow, shallow one.

"I hit the back, and this sprang out," said Charlie. "It's a secret drawer -- and look!"

I did look. The secret drawer was closely packed with rolls of thin leaflets, which we were old enough to recognize as bank-notes, and with little bags of wash-leather; and when Charlie opened the little bags they were filled with gold.

There was a paper with the money, written by the old miser, to say that it was a codicil to his will, and that the money was all for Mrs. Wood. Why he had not left it to her in the will itself seemed very puzzling, but his lawyer (whom the Woods consulted about it) said that he always did things in a very eccentric way, but generally for some sort of reason, even if it were rather a freaky one, and that perhaps he thought that the relations would be less spiteful at first if they did not know about the money, and that Mrs. Wood would soon find it, if she used and valued his old press.

I don't quite know whether there was any fuss with the relations about this part of the bequest, but I suppose the lawyer managed it all right, for the Woods got the money and gave up the school. But they kept the old house, and bought some more land, and Walnut-tree Academy became Walnut-tree Farm once more. And Cripple Charlie lived on with them, and he was so happy, it really seemed as if my dear mother was right when she said to my father, "I am so pleased, my dear, for that poor boy's sake, I can hardly help crying. He's got two homes and two fathers and mothers, where many a young man has none, as if to make good his affliction to him."

It puzzles me, even now, to think how my father could have sent Jem and me to Crayshaw's school. (Nobody ever called him Mr. Crayshaw except the parents of pupils who lived at a distance. In the neighbourhood he and his whole establishment were lumped under the one word Crayshaw's, and as a farmer hard by once said to me, "Crayshaw's is universally disrespected.")

I do not think it was merely because "Crayshaw's" was cheap that we were sent there, though my father had so few reasons to give for his choice that he quoted that among them. A man with whom he had had business dealings (which gave him much satisfaction for some years, and more dissatisfaction afterwards) did really, I think, persuade my father to send us to this school, one evening when they were dining together.

Few things are harder to guess at than the grounds on which an Englishman of my father's type "makes up his mind"; and yet the question is an important one, for an idea once lodged in his head, a conviction once as much his own as the family acres, and you will as soon part him from the one as from the other. I have known little matters of domestic improvements, in which my mother's comfort was concerned and her experience conclusive, for which he grudged a few shillings, and was absolutely impenetrable by her persuasions and representations. And I have known him waste pounds on things of the most curious variety, foisted on him by advertising agents without knowledge, trial, or rational ground of confidence. I suppose that persistency, a glibber tongue than he himself possessed, a mass of printed rubbish which always looks imposing to the unliterary, that primitive combination of authoritativeness and hospitality which makes some men as ready to say Yes to a stranger as they are to say No at home, and perhaps some lack of moral courage, may account for it. I can clearly remember how quaintly sheepish my father used to look after committing some such folly, and how, after the first irrepressible fall of countenance, my mother would have defended him against anybody else's opinion, let alone her own. Young as I was I could feel that, and had a pretty accurate estimate of the value of the moral lecture on faith in one's fellow-creatures, which was an unfailing outward sign of my father's inward conviction that he had been taken in by a rogue. I knew too, well enough, that my mother's hasty and earnest Amen to this discourse was an equally reliable token of her knowledge that my father sorely needed defending, and some instinct made me aware also that my father knew that this was so. That he knew that it was that tender generosity towards one's beloved, in which so many of her sex so far exceeds ours, and not an intellectual conviction of his wisdom, which made her support what he had done, and that feeling this he felt dissatisfied, and snapped at her accordingly.

The dislike my dear mother took to the notion of our going to Crayshaw's only set seals to our fate, and the manner of her protests was not more fortunate than the matter. She was timid and vacillating from wifely habit, whilst motherly anxiety goaded her to be persistent and almost irritable on the subject. Habitually regarding her own wishes and views as worthless, she quoted the Woods at every turn of her arguments, which was a mistake, for my father was sufficiently like the rest of his neighbours not to cotton very warmly to people whose tastes, experiences, and lines of thought were so much out of the common as those of the ex-convict and his wife. Moreover, he had made up his mind, and when one has done that, he is proof against seventy men who can render a reason.

To rumours which accused "Crayshaw's" of undue severity, of discomfort, of bad teaching and worse manners, my father opposed arguments which he allowed were "old-fashioned" and which were far-fetched from the days of our great-grandfather.

A strict school-master was a good school-master, and if more parents were as wise as Solomon on the subject of the rod, Old England would not be discredited by such a namby-pamby race as young men of the present day seemed by all accounts to be. It was high time the boys did rough it a bit; would my mother have them always tied to her apron-strings? Great Britain would soon be Little Britain if boys were to be brought up like young ladies. As to teaching, it was the fashion to make a fuss about it, and a pretty pass learning brought some folks to, to judge by the papers and all one heard. His own grandfather lived to ninety-seven, and died sitting in his chair, in a bottle-green coat and buff breeches. He wore a pig-tail to the day of his death, and never would be contradicted by anybody. He had often told my father that at the school he went to, the master signed the receipts for his money with a cross, but the usher was a bit of a scholar, and the boys had cream to their porridge on Sundays. And the old gentleman managed his own affairs to ninety-seven, and threw the doctor's medicine-bottles out of the window then. He died without a doubt on his mind or a debt on his books, and my father (taking a pinch out of Great-Grandfather's snuff-box) hoped Jem and I might do as well.

In short, we were sent to "Crayshaw's."

It was not a happy period of my life. It was not a good or wholesome period; and I am not fond of recalling it. The time came when I shrank from telling Charlie everything, almost as if he had been a girl. His life was lived in such a different atmosphere, under such different conditions. I could not trouble him, and I did not believe he could make allowances for me. But on our first arrival I wrote him a long letter (Jem never wrote letters), and the other day he showed it to me. It was a first impression, but a sufficiently vivid and truthful one, so I give it here.


"CRAYSHAW'S (for that's what they call it here, and a beastly hole it is). "Monday.

"MY DEAR OLD CHARLIE, -- We came earlier than was settled, for Father got impatient and there was nothing to stop us, but I don't think old Crayshaw liked our coming so soon. You never saw such a place, it's so dreary. A boy showed us straight into the school-room. There are three rows of double desks running down the room and disgustingly dirty, I don't know what Mrs. Wood would say, and old Crayshaw's desk is in front of the fire, so that he can see all the boys sideways, and it just stops any heat coming to them. And there he was, and I don't think Father liked the look of him particularly, you never saw an uglier. Such a flaming face and red eyes like Bob Furniss's ferret and great big whiskers; but I'll make you a picture of him, at least I'll make two pictures, for Lewis Lorraine says he's got no beard on Sundays, and rather a good one on Saturdays. Lorraine is a very rum fellow, but I like him. It was he showed us in, and he did catch it afterwards, but he only makes fun of it. Old Crayshaw's desk had got a lot of canes on one side of it and a most beastly dirty snuffy red and green handkerchief on the other, and an ink-pot in the middle. He made up to Father like anything and told such thumpers. He said there were six boys in one room, but really there's twelve. Jem and I sleep together. There's nothing to wash in and no prayers. If you say them you get boots at your head, and one hit Jem behind the ear, so I pulled his sleeve and said, 'Get up, you can say them in bed,' But you know Jem, and he said, 'Wait till I've done, God bless Father and Mother,' and when he had, he went in and fought, and I backed him up, and them old Crayshaw found us, and oh, how he did beat us!

" --  -- Wednesday. Old Snuffy is a regular brute, and I don't care if he finds this and sees what I say. But he won't, for the milkman is taking it. He always does if you can pay him. But I've put most of my money into the bank. Three of the top boys have a bank, and we all have to deposit, only I kept fourpence in one of my boots. They give us bank-notes for a penny and a halfpenny; they make them themselves. The sweet-shop takes them. They only give you eleven penny notes for a shilling in the bank, or else it would burst. At dinner we have a lot of pudding to begin with, and it's very heavy. You can hardly eat anything afterwards. The first day Lorraine said quite out loud and very polite, 'Did you say duff before meat, young gentlemen?' and I couldn't help laughing, and old Snuffy beat his head horridly with his dirty fists. But Lorraine minds nothing; he says he knows old Snuffy will kill him some day, but he says he doesn't want to live, for his father and mother are dead; he only wants to catch old Snuffy in three more booby-traps before he dies. He's caught him in four already. You see, when old Snuffy is cat-walking he wears goloshes that he may sneak about better, and the way Lorraine makes booby-traps is by balancing cans of water on the door when it's ajar, so that he gets doused, and the can falls on his head, and strings across the bottom of the door, not far from the ground, so that he catches his goloshes and comes down. The other fellows say that old Crayshaw had a lot of money given him in trust for Lorraine, and he's spent it all, and Lorraine has no one to stick up for him, and that's why Crayshaw hates him.

" --  -- Saturday. I could not catch the milkman, and now I've got your letter, though Snuffy read it first. Jem and I cry dreadful in bed. That's the comfort of being together. I'll try and be as good as I can, but you don't know what this place is. It's very different to the farm. Do you remember the row about that book Horace Simpson got? I wish you could see the books the boys have here. At least I don't wish it, for I wish I didn't look at them, the milkman brings them; he always will if you can pay him. When I saw old Snuffy find one in Smith's desk, I expected he would half kill him, but he didn't do much to him, he only took the book away; and Lorraine says he never does beat them much for that, because he doesn't want them to leave off buying them, because he wants them himself. Don't tell the Woods this. Don't tell Mother Jem and I cry, or else she'll be miserable. I don't so much mind the beatings (Lorraine says you get hard in time), nor the washing at the sink -- nor the duff puddings -- but it is such a beastly hole, and he is such an old brute, and I feel so dreadful I can't tell you. Give my love to Mrs. Wood and to Mr. Wood, and to Carlo and to Mary Anne, and to your dear dear self, and to Isaac when you see him. "And I am your affectionate friend, "JACK.

"P.S. Jem sends his best love, and he's got two black eyes.

"P.S. No. 2. You would be sorry for Lorraine if you knew him. Sometimes I'm afraid he'll kill himself, for he says there's really nothing in the Bible about suicide. So I said -- killing yourself is as bad as killing anybody else. So he said -- is stealing from yourself as bad as stealing from anybody else? And we had a regular argue. Some of the boys argle-bargle on Sundays, he says, but most of them fight. When they differ, they put tin-tacks with the heads downwards on each other's places on the forms in school, and if they run into you and you scream, old Snuffy beats you. The milkman brings them, by the half-ounce, with very sharp points, if you can pay him. Most of the boys are a horrid lot, and so dirty. Lorraine is as dirty as the rest, and I asked him why, and he said it was because he'd thrown up the sponge; but he got rather red, and he's washed himself cleaner this morning. He says he has an uncle in India, and some time ago he wrote to him, and told him about Crayshaw's, and gave the milkman a diamond pin, that had been his father's, and Snuffy didn't know about, to post it with plenty of stamps, but he thinks he can't have put plenty on, for no answer ever came. I've told him I'll post another one for him in the holidays. Don't say anything about this back in your letters. He reads 'em all.

" --  -- Monday. I've caught the milkman at last, he'll take it this evening. The lessons here are regular rubbish. I'm so glad I've a good knife, for if you have you can dig holes in your desk to put collections in. The boy next to me has earwigs, but you have to keep a look-out, or he puts them in your ears. I turned up a stone near the sink this morning, and got five wood-lice for mine. It's considered a very good collection."



Chapter X.

"But none inquired how Peter used the rope, Or what the bruise that made the stripling stoop; None could the ridges on his back behold, None sought him shiv'ring in the winter's cold. *    *    *    *    * The pitying women raised a clamour round." CRABBE, The Borough.


A great many people say that all suffering is good for one, and I am sure pain does improve one very often, and in many ways. It teaches one sympathy, it softens and it strengthens. But I cannot help thinking that there are some evil experiences which only harden and stain. The best I can say for what we endured at Crayshaw's is that it was experience, and so I suppose could not fail to teach one something, which, as Jem says, was "more than Snuffy did."

The affection with which I have heard men speak of their school-days and school-masters makes me know that Mr. Crayshaw was not a common type of pedagogue. He was not a common type of man, happily; but I have met other specimens in other parts of the world in which his leading quality was as fully developed, though their lives had nothing in common with his except the opportunities of irresponsible power.

The old wounds are scars now, it is long past and over, and I am grown up, and have roughed it in the world; but I say quite deliberately that I believe that Mr. Crayshaw was not merely a harsh man, uncultured and inconsiderate, having need and greed of money, taking pupils cheap, teaching them little or nothing, and keeping a kind of rough order with too much flogging, -- but that the mischief of him was that he was possessed by a passion (not the less fierce because it was unnatural) which grew with indulgence and opportunity, as other passions grow, and that this was a passion for cruelty.

One does not rough it long in this wicked world without seeing more cruelty both towards human beings and towards animals than one cares to think about; but a large proportion of common cruelty comes of ignorance, bad tradition and uncultured sympathies. Some painful outbreaks of inhumanity, where one would least expect it, are no doubt strictly to be accounted for by disease. But over and above these common and these exceptional instances, one cannot escape the conviction that irresponsible power is opportunity in all hands and a direct temptation in some to cruelty, and that it affords horrible development to those morbid cases in which cruelty becomes a passion.

That there should ever come a thirst for blood in men as well as tigers, is bad enough but conceivable when linked with deadly struggle, or at the wild dictates of revenge. But a lust for cruelty growing fiercer by secret and unchecked indulgence, a hideous pleasure in seeing and inflicting pain, seems so inhuman a passion that we shrink from acknowledging that this is ever so.

And if it belonged to the past alone, to barbarous despotisms or to savage life, one might wisely forget it; for the dark pages of human history are unwholesome as well as unpleasant reading, unless the mind be very sane in a body very sound. But those in whose hands lie the destinies of the young and of the beasts who serve and love us, of the weak, the friendless, the sick and the insane, have not, alas! this excuse for ignoring the black records of man's abuse of power!

The records of its abuse in the savage who loads women's slender shoulders with his burdens, leaves his sick to the wayside jackal, and knocks his aged father on the head when he is past work; the brutality of slave-drivers, the iniquities of vice-maddened Eastern despots; -- such things those who never have to deal with them may afford to forget.

But men who act for those who have no natural protectors, or have lost the power of protecting themselves, who legislate for those who have no voice in the making of laws, and for the brute creation, which we win to our love and domesticate for our convenience; who apprentice pauper boys and girls, who meddle with the matters of weak women, sick persons, and young children, are bound to face a far sadder issue. That even in these days, when human love again and again proves itself not only stronger than death, but stronger than all the selfish hopes of life; when the everyday manners of everyday men are concessions of courtesy to those who have not the strength to claim it; when children and pet animals are spoiled to grotesqueness; when the good deeds of priest and physician, nurse and teacher, surpass all earthly record of them -- man, as man, is no more to be trusted with unchecked power than hitherto.

The secret histories of households, where power should be safest in the hands of love; of hospitals, of schools, of orphanages, of poorhouses, of lunatic-asylums, of religious communities founded for GOD'S worship and man's pity, of institutions which assume the sacred title as well as the responsibilities of Home -- from the single guardian of some rural idiot to the great society which bears the blessed Name of Jesus -- have not each and all their dark stories, their hushed-up scandals, to prove how dire is the need of public opinion without, and of righteous care within, that what is well begun should be well continued?

If any one doubts this, let him pause on each instance, one by one, and think of what he has seen, and heard, and read, and known of; and he will surely come to the conviction that human nature cannot, even in the very service of charity, be safely trusted with the secret exercise of irresponsible power, and that no light can be too fierce to beat upon and purify every spot where the weak are committed to the tender mercies of the consciences of the strong.

Mr. Crayshaw's conscience was not a tender one, and very little light came into his out-of-the-way establishment, and no check whatever upon his cruelty. It had various effects on the different boys. It killed one in my day, and the doctor (who had been "in a difficulty" some years back, over a matter through which Mr. Crayshaw helped him with bail and testimony) certified to heart disease, and we all had our pocket-handkerchiefs washed, and went to the funeral. And Snuffy had cards printed with a black edge, and several angels and a broken lily, and the hymn -- 

"Death has been here and borne away A brother from our side; Just in the morning of his day, As young as we he died."

 -- and sent them to all the parents. But the pupils had to pay for the stamps. And my dear mother cried dreadfully, first because she was so sorry for the boy, and secondly because she ever had felt uncharitably towards Mr. Crayshaw.

Crayshaw's cruelty crushed others, it made liars and sneaks of boys naturally honest, and it produced in Lorraine an unchildlike despair that was almost grand, so far was the spirit above the flesh in him. But I think its commonest and strangest result was to make the boys bully each other.

One of the least cruel of the tyrannies the big boys put upon the little ones, sometimes bore very hardly on those who were not strong. They used to ride races on our backs and have desperate mounted battles and tournaments. In many a playground and home since then I have seen boys tilt and race, and steeplechase, with smaller boys upon their backs, and plenty of wholesome rough-and-tumble in the game; and it has given me a twinge of heartache to think how, even when we were at play, Crayshaw's baneful spirit cursed us with its example, so that the big and strong could not be happy except at the expense of the little and weak.

For it was the big ones who rode the little ones, with neatly-cut ash-sticks and clumsy spurs. I can see them now, with the thin legs of the small boys tottering under them, like a young donkey overridden by a coal-heaver.

I was a favourite horse, for I was active and nimble, and (which was more to the point) well made. It was the shambling, ill-proportioned lads who suffered most. The biggest boy in school rode me, as a rule, but he was not at all a bad bully, so I was lucky. He never spurred me, and he boasted of my willingness and good paces. I am sure he did not know, I don't suppose he ever stopped to think, how bad it was for me, or what an aching lump of prostration I felt when it was over. The day I fainted after winning a steeplechase, he turned a bucket of cold water over me, and as this roused me into a tingling vitality of pain, he was quite proud of his treatment, and told me nothing brought a really good horse round after a hard day like a bucket of clean water. And (so much are we the creatures of our conditions!) I remember feeling something approaching to satisfaction at the reflection that I had "gone till I dropped," and had been brought round after the manner of the best-conducted stables.

It was not that that made Jem and me run away. (For we did run away.) Overstrain and collapse, ill-usage short of torture, hard living and short commons, one got a certain accustomedness to, according to the merciful law which within certain limits makes a second nature for us out of use and wont. The one pain that knew no pause, and allowed of no revival, the evil that overbore us, mind and body, was the evil of constant dread. Upon us little boys fear lay always, and the terror of it was that it was uncertain. What would come next, and from whom, we never knew.

It was I who settled we should run away. I did it the night that Jem gave in, and would do nothing but cry noiselessly into his sleeve and wish he was dead. So I settled it and told Lorraine. I wanted him to come too, but he would not. He pretended that he did not care, and he said he had nowhere to go to. But he got into Snuffy's very own room at daybreak whilst we stood outside and heard him snoring; and very loud he must have snored too, for I could hear my heart thumping so I should not have thought I could have heard anything else. And Lorraine took the back-door key off the drawers, and let us out, and took it back again. He feared nothing. There was a walnut-tree by the gate, and Jem said, "Suppose we do our faces like gipsies, so that nobody may know us." (For Jem was terribly frightened of being taken back.) So we found some old bits of peel and rubbed our cheeks, but we dared not linger long over it, and I said, "We'd better get further on, and we can hide if we hear steps or wheels." So we took each other's hands, and for nearly a mile we ran as hard as we could go, looking back now and then over our shoulders, like the picture of Christian and Hopeful running away from the Castle of Giant Despair.

We were particularly afraid of the milkman, for milkmen drive about early, and he had taken a runaway boy back to Crayshaw's years before, and Snuffy gave him five shillings. They said he once helped another boy to get away, but it was a big one, who gave him his gold watch. He would do anything if you paid him. Jem and I had each a little bundle in a handkerchief, but nothing in them that the milkman would have cared for. We managed very well, for we got behind a wall when he went by, and I felt so much cheered up I thought we should get home that day, far as it was. But when we got back into the road, I found that Jem was limping, for Snuffy had stamped on his foot when Jem had had it stuck out beyond the desk, when he was writing; and the running had made it worse, and at last he sat down by the roadside, and said I was to go on home and send back for him. It was not very likely I would leave him to the chance of being pursued by Mr. Crayshaw; but there he sat, and I thought I never should have persuaded him to get on my back, for good-natured as he is, Jem is as obstinate as a pig. But I said, "What's the use of my having been first horse with the heaviest weight in school, if I can't carry you?" So he got up and I carried him a long way, and then a cart overtook us, and we got a lift home. And they knew us quite well, which shows how little use walnut-juice is, and it is disgusting to get off.

I think, as it happened, it was very unfortunate that we had discoloured our faces; for though my mother was horrified at our being so thin and pinched-looking, my father said that of course we looked frights with brown daubs all over our cheeks and necks. But then he never did notice people looking ill. He was very angry indeed, at first, about our running away, and would not listen to what we said. He was angry too with my dear mother, because she believed us, and called Snuffy a bad man and a brute. And he ordered the dog-cart to be brought round, and said that Martha was to give us some breakfast, and that we might be thankful to get that instead of a flogging, for that when he ran away from school to escape a thrashing, his father gave him one thrashing while the dog-cart was being brought round, and drove him straight back to school, where the school-master gave him another.

"And a very good thing for me," said my father, buttoning his coat, whilst my mother and Martha went about crying, and Jem and I stood silent. If we were to go back, the more we told, the worse would be Snuffy's revenge. An unpleasant hardness was beginning to creep over me. "The next time I run away," was my thought, "I shall not run home." But with this came a rush of regret for Jem's sake. I knew that Crayshaw's, did more harm to him than to me, and almost involuntarily I put my arms round him, thinking that if they would only let him stay, I could go back and bear anything, like Lewis Lorraine. Jem had been crying, and when he hid his face on my shoulder, and leaned against me, I thought it was for comfort, but he got heavier and heavier, till I called out, and he rolled from my arms and was caught in my father's. He had been standing about on the bad foot, and pain and weariness and hunger and fright overpowered him, and he had fainted.

The dog-cart was counter-ordered, and Jem was put to bed, and Martha served me a breakfast that would have served six full-grown men. I ate far more than satisfied me, but far less than satisfied Martha, who seemed to hope that cold fowl and boiled eggs, fried bacon and pickled beef, plain cakes and currant cakes, jam and marmalade, buttered toast, strong tea and unlimited sugar and yellow cream, would atone for the past in proportion to the amount I ate, if it did not fatten me under her eyes. I really think I spent the rest of the day in stupor. I am sure it was not till the following morning that I learned the decision to which my father had come about us.

Jem was too obviously ill to be anywhere at present but at home; and my father decided that he would not send him back to Crayshaw's at all, but to a much more expensive school in the south of England, to which the parson of our parish was sending one of his sons. I was to return to Crayshaw's at once; he could not afford the expensive school for us both, and Jem was the eldest. Besides which, he was not going to countenance rebellion in any school to which he sent his sons, or to insult a man so highly recommended to him as Mr. Crayshaw had been. There certainly seemed to have been some severity, and the boys seemed to be a very rough lot; but Jem would fight, and if he gave he must take. His great-grandfather was just the same, and he fought the Putney Pet when he was five-and-twenty, and his parents thought he was sitting quietly at his desk in Fetter Lane.

I loved Jem too well to be jealous of him, but I was not the less conscious of the tender tone in which my father always spoke even of his faults, and of the way it stiffened and cooled when he added that I was not so ready with my fists, but that I was as fond of my own way as Jem was of a fight; but that setting up for being unlike other people didn't do for school life, and that the Woods had done me no kindness by making a fool of me. He added, however, that he should request Mr. Crayshaw, as a personal favour, that I should receive no punishment for running away, as I had suffered sufficiently already.

We had told very little of the true history of Crayshaw's before Jem fainted, and I felt no disposition to further confidences. I took as cheerful a farewell of my mother as I could, for her sake; and put on a good deal of swagger and "don't care" to console Jem. He said, "You're as plucky as Lorraine," and then his eyes shut again. He was too ill to think much, and I kissed his head and left him. After which I got stoutly into the dog-cart, and we drove back up the dreary hills down which Jem and I had run away.

That Snuffy was bland to cringing before my father did not give me hope that I should escape his direst revenge; and the expression of Lorraine's face showed me, by its sympathy, what he expected. But we were both wrong, and for reasons which we then knew nothing about.

Cruelty was, as I have said, Mr. Crayshaw's ruling passion, but it was not his only vice. There was a whispered tradition that he had once been in jail for a misuse of his acquirements in the art of penmanship; and if you heard his name cropping up in the confidential conversation of such neighbours as small farmers, the postman, the parish overseer, and the like, it was sure to be linked with unpleasingly suggestive expressions, such as -- "a dirty bit of business," "a nasty job that," "an awkward affair," "very near got into trouble," "a bit of bother about it, but Driver and Quills pulled him through; theirs isn't a nice business, and they're men of t' same feather as Crayshaw, so I reckon they're friends." Many such hints have I heard, for the 'White Lion' was next door to the sweet-shop, and in summer, refreshment of a sober kind, with conversation to match, was apt to be enjoyed on the benches outside. The good wives of the neighbourhood used no such euphuisms as their more prudent husbands, when they spoke of Crayshaw's. Indeed one of the whispered anecdotes of Snuffy's past was of a hushed-up story that was just saved from becoming a scandal, but in reference to which Mr. Crayshaw was even more narrowly saved from a crowd of women who had taken the too-tardy law into their own hands. I remember myself the retreat of an unpaid washer-woman from the back premises of Crayshaw's on one occasion, and the unmistakable terms in which she expressed her opinions.

"Don't tell me! I know Crayshaw's well enough; such folks is a curse to a country-side, but judgment overtakes 'em at last."

"Judgment," as the good woman worded it, kept threatening Mr. Crayshaw long before it overtook him, as it is apt to disturb scoundrels who keep a hypocritical good name above their hidden misdeeds. As it happened, at the very time Jem and I ran away from him, Mr. Crayshaw himself was living in terror of one or two revelations, and to be deserted by two of his most respectably connected boys was an ill-timed misfortune. The countenance my father had been so mistaken as to afford to his establishment was very important to him, for we were the only pupils from within fifty miles, and our parents' good word constituted an "unexceptionable reference."

Thus it was that Snuffy pleaded humbly (but in vain) for the return of Jem, and that he not only promised that I should not suffer, but to my amazement kept his word.

Judgment lingered over the head of Crayshaw's for two years longer, and I really think my being there had something to do with maintaining its tottering reputation. I was almost the only lad in the school whose parents were alive and at hand and in a good position, and my father's name stifled scandal. Most of the others were orphans, being cheaply educated by distant relatives or guardians, or else the sons of poor widows who were easily bamboozled by Snuffy's fluent letters, and the religious leaflets which it was his custom to enclose. (In several of these cases, he was "managing" the poor women's "affairs" for them.) One or two boys belonged to people living abroad. Indeed, the worst bully in the school was a half-caste, whose smile, when he showed his gleaming teeth, boded worse than any other boy's frown. He was a wonderful acrobat, and could do extraordinary tricks of all sorts. My being nimble and ready made me very useful to him as a confederate in the exhibitions which his intense vanity delighted to give on half-holidays, and kept me in his good graces till I was old enough to take care of myself. Oh, how every boy who dreaded him applauded at these entertainments! And what dangerous feats I performed, every other fear being lost in the fear of him! I owe him no grudge for what he forced me to do (though I have had to bear real fire without flinching when he failed in a conjuring trick, which should only have simulated the real thing); what I learned from him has come in so useful since, that I forgive him all.

I was there for two years longer. Snuffy bullied me less, and hated me the more. I knew it, and he knew that I knew it. It was a hateful life, but I am sure the influence of a good home holds one up in very evil paths. Every time we went back to our respective schools my father gave us ten shillings, and told us to mind our books, and my mother kissed us and made us promise we would say our prayers every day. I could not bear to break my promise, though I used to say them in bed (the old form we learnt from her), and often in such a very unfit frame of mind, that they were what it is very easy to call "a mockery."

GOD knows (Who alone knows the conditions under which each soul blunders and spells on through life's hard lessons) if they were a mockery. I know they were unworthy to be offered to Him, but that the habit helped to keep me straight I am equally sure. Then I had a good home to go to during the holidays. That was everything, and it is in all humbleness that I say that I do not think the ill experiences of those years degraded me much. I managed to keep some truth and tenderness about me; and I am thankful to remember that I no more cringed to Crayshaw than Lorraine did, and that though I stayed there till I was a big boy, I never maltreated a little one.



Chapter XI.

"Whose powers shed round him in the common strife Or mild concerns of ordinary life, A constant influence, a peculiar grace; *    *    *    *    *    * Or if an unexpected call succeed, Come when it will, is equal to the need." WORDSWORTH'S Happy Warrior.


Judgement came at last. During my first holidays I had posted a letter from Lewis Lorraine to the uncle in India to whom he had before endeavoured to appeal. The envelope did not lack stamps, but the address was very imperfect, and it was many months in reaching him. He wrote a letter, which Lewis never received, Mr. Crayshaw probably knew why. But twelve months after that Colonel Jervois came to England, and he lost no time in betaking himself to Crayshaw's. From Crayshaw's he came to my father, the only "unexceptionable reference" left to Snuffy to put forward.

The Colonel came with a soldier's promptness, and, with the utmost courtesy of manner, went straight to the point. His life had not accustomed him to our neighbourly unwillingness to interfere with anything that did not personally concern us, nor to the prudent patience with which country folk will wink long at local evils. In the upshot what he asked was what my mother had asked three years before. Had my father personal knowledge or good authority for believing the school to be a well-conducted one, and Mr. Crayshaw a fit man for his responsible post? Had he ever heard rumours to the man's discredit?

Replies that must do for a wife will not always answer a man who puts the same questions. My great-grandfather's memory was not evoked on this occasion, and my father frankly confessed that his personal knowledge of Crayshaw's was very small, and that the man on whose recommendation he had sent us to school there had just proved to be a rascal and a swindler. Our mother had certainly heard rumours of severity, but he had regarded her maternal anxiety as excessive, etc., etc. In short, my dear father saw that he had been wrong, and confessed it, and was now as ready as the Colonel to expose Snuffy's misdeeds.

No elaborate investigation was needed. An attack once made on Mr. Crayshaw's hollow reputation, it cracked on every side; first hints crept out, then scandals flew. The Colonel gave no quarter, and he did not limit his interest to his own nephew.

"A widow's son, ma'am," so he said to my mother, bowing over her hand as he led her in to dinner, in a style to which we were quite unaccustomed; "a widow's son, ma'am, should find a father in every honest man who can assist him."

The tide having turned against Snuffy, his friends (of the Driver and Quills type) turned with it. But they gained nothing, for one morning he got up as early as we had done, and ran away, and I never heard of him again. And before nightfall the neighbours, who had so long tolerated his wickedness, broke every pane of glass in his windows.

During all this, Lewis Lorraine and his uncle stayed at our house. The Colonel spent his time between holding indignant investigations, writing indignant letters (which he allowed us to seal with his huge signet), and walking backwards and forwards to the town to buy presents for the little boys.

When Snuffy ran away, and the school was left to itself, Colonel Jervois strode off to the nearest farm, requisitioned a waggon, and having packed the boys into it, bought loaves and milk enough to breakfast them all, and transported the whole twenty-eight to our door. He left four with my mother, and marched off with the rest. The Woods took in a large batch, and in the course of the afternoon he had for love or money quartered them all. He betrayed no nervousness in dealing with numbers, in foraging for supplies, or in asking for what he wanted. Whilst other people had been doubting whether it might not "create unpleasantness" to interfere in this case and that, the Colonel had fought each boy's battle, and seen most of them off on their homeward journeys. He was used to dealing with men, and with emergencies, and it puzzled him when my Uncle Henry consulted his law-books and advised caution, and my father saw his agent on farm business, whilst the fate of one of Crayshaw's victims yet hung in the balance.

When all was over the Colonel left us, and took Lewis with him, and his departure raised curiously mixed feelings of regret and relief.

He had quite won my mother's heart, chiefly by his energy and tenderness for the poor boys, and partly by his kindly courtesy and deference towards her. Indeed all ladies liked him -- all, that is, who knew him. Before they came under the influence of his pleasantness and politeness, he shared the half-hostile reception to which any person or anything that was foreign to our daily experience was subjected in our neighbourhood. So that the first time Colonel Jervois appeared in our pew, Mrs. Simpson (the wife of a well-to-do man of business who lived near us) said to my mother after church, "I see you've got one of the military with you," and her tone was more critical than congratulatory. But when my mother, with unconscious diplomacy, had kept her to luncheon, and the Colonel had handed her to her seat, and had stroked his moustache, and asked in his best manner if she meant to devote her son to the service of his country, Mrs. Simpson undid her bonnet-strings, fairly turned her back on my father, and was quite unconscious when Martha handed the potatoes; and she left us wreathed in smiles, and resolved that Mr. Simpson should buy their son Horace a commission instead of taking him into the business. Mr. Simpson did not share her views, and I believe he said some rather nasty things about swaggering, and not having one sixpence to rub against another. And Mrs. Simpson (who was really devoted to Horace and could hardly bear him out of her sight) reflected that it was possible to get shot as well as to grow a moustache if you went into the army; but she still maintained that she should always remember the Colonel as a thorough gentleman, and a wonderful judge of the character of boys.

The Colonel made great friends with the Woods, and he was deeply admired by our rector, who, like many parsons, had a very military heart, and delighted in exciting tales of the wide world which he could never explore. It was perhaps natural that my father should hardly be devoted to a stranger who had practically reproached his negligence, but the one thing that did draw him towards the old Indian officer was his habit of early rising. My father was always up before any of us, but he generally found the Colonel out before him, enjoying the early hours of the day as men who have lived in hot climates are accustomed to do. They used to come in together in very pleasant moods to breakfast; but with the post-bag Lorraine's uncle was sure to be moved to voluble indignation, or pity, or to Utopian plans to which my father listened with puzzled impatience. He did not understand the Colonel, which was perhaps not to be wondered at.

His moral courage had taken away our breath, and physical courage was stamped upon his outward man. If he was anything he was manly. It was because he was in some respects very womanly too, that he puzzled my father's purely masculine brain. The mixture, and the vehemence of the mixture, were not in his line. He would have turned "Crayshaw's" matters over in his own mind as often as hay in a wet season before grappling with the whole bad business as the Colonel had done. And on the other hand, it made him feel uncomfortable and almost ashamed to see tears standing in the old soldier's eyes as he passionately blamed himself for what had been suffered by "my sister's son."

The servants one and all adored Colonel Jervois. They are rather acute judges of good breeding, and men and maids were at one on the fact that he was a visitor who conferred social distinction on the establishment. They had decided that we should "dine late so long as The Gentleman" was with us, whilst my mother was thinking how to break so weighty an innovation to such valuable servants. They served him with alacrity, and approved of his brief orders and gracious thanks. The Colonel did unheard-of things with impunity -- threw open his bedroom shutters at night, and more than once unbarred and unbolted the front door to go outside for a late cigar. Nothing puzzled Martha more than the nattiness with which he put all the bolts and bars back into their places, as if he had been used to the door as long as she had.

Indeed he had all that power of making himself at home, which is most fully acquired by having had to provide for yourself in strange places, but he carried it too far.

One day he penetrated into the kitchen (having previously been rummaging the kitchen-garden) and insisted upon teaching our cook how to make curry. The lesson was much needed, and it was equally well intended, but it was a mistake. Everything cannot be carried by storm, whatever the military may think. Jane said, "Yes, sir," at every point that approached to a pause in the Colonel's ample instructions, but she never moved her eyes from the magnificent moustache which drooped above the stew-pan, nor her thoughts from the one idea produced by the occasion -- that The Gentleman had caught her without her cap. In short our curries were no worse, and no better, in consequence of the shock to kitchen etiquette (for that was all) which she received.

And yet we modified our household ways for him, as they were never modified for any one else. On Martha's weekly festival for cleaning the bedrooms (and if a room was occupied for a night, she scrubbed after the intruder as if he had brought the plague in his portmanteau) the smartest visitor we ever entertained had to pick his or her way through the upper regions of the house, where soap and soda were wafted on high and unexpected breezes along passages filled with washstands and clothes-baskets, cane-seated chairs and baths, mops, pails and brooms. But the Colonel had "given such a jump" on meeting a towel-horse at large round a sharp corner, and had seemed so uncomfortable on finding everything that he thought was inside his room turned outside, that for that week Martha left the lower part of the house uncleaned, and did not turn either the dining or drawing rooms into the hall on their appointed days. She had her revenge when he was gone.

On the day of his departure, my lamentations had met with the warmest sympathy as I stirred toffy over Jane's kitchen fire, whilst Martha lingered with the breakfast things, after a fashion very unusual with her, and gazed at the toast-rack and said, "the Colonel had eaten nothing of a breakfast to travel on." But next morning, I met her in another mood. It was a mood to which we were not strangers, though it did not often occur. In brief, Martha (like many another invaluable domestic) "had a temper of her own"; but to do her justice her ill feelings generally expended themselves in a rage for work, and in taking as little ease herself as she allowed to other people. I knew what it meant when I found her cleaning the best silver when she ought to have been eating her breakfast; but my head was so full of the Colonel, that I could not help talking about him, even if the temptation to tease Martha had not been overwhelming. No reply could I extract; only once, as she passed swiftly to the china cupboard, with the whole Crown Derby tea and coffee service on one big tray (the Colonel had praised her coffee), I heard her mutter -- "Soldiers is very upsetting." Certainly, considering what she did in the way of scolding, scouring, blackleading, polishing and sand-papering that week, it was not Martha's fault if we did not "get straight again," furniture and feelings. I've heard her say that Calais sand would "fetch anything off," and I think it had fetched the Colonel off her heart by the time that the cleaning was done.

It had no such effect on mine. Lewis Lorraine himself did not worship his uncle more devoutly than I. Colonel Jervois had given me a new ideal. It was possible, then, to be enthusiastic without being unmanly; to live years out of England, and come back more patriotic than many people who stayed comfortably at home; to go forth into the world and be the simpler as well as the wiser, the softer as well as the stronger for the experience? So it seemed. And yet Lewis had told me, with such tears as Snuffy never made him shed, how tender his uncle was to his unworthiness, what allowances he made for the worst that Lewis could say of himself, and what hope he gave him of a good and happy future.

"He cried as bad as I did," Lewis said, "and begged me to forgive him for having trusted so much to my other guardian. Do you know, Jack, Snuffy regularly forged a letter like my handwriting, to answer that one Uncle Eustace wrote, which he kept back? He might well do such good copies, and write the year of Our Lord with a swan at the end of the last flourish! And you remember what we heard about his having been in prison -- but, oh, dear! I don't want to remember. He says I am to forget, and he forbade me to talk about Crayshaw's, and said I was not to trouble my head about anything that had happened there. He kept saying, 'Forget, my boy, forget! Say GOD help me, and look forward. While there's life there's always the chance of a better life for every one. Forget! forget!'"

Lewis departed with his uncle. Charlie went for two nights to the moors. Jem's holidays had not begun, and in our house we were "cleaning down" after the Colonel as if he had been the sweeps.

I went to old Isaac for sympathy. He had become very rheumatic the last two years, but he was as intelligent as ever, and into his willing ear I poured all that I could tell of my hero, and much that I only imagined.

His sympathy met me more than half-way. The villagers as a body were unbounded in their approval of the Colonel, and Mrs. Irvine was even greedier than old Isaac for every particular I could impart respecting him.

"He's a handsome gentleman," said the bee-master's wife, "and he passed us (my neighbour, Mrs. Mettam, and me) as near, sir, as I am to you, with a gold-headed stick in his hand, and them lads following after him, for all the world like the Good Shepherd and his flock."

I managed not to laugh, and old Isaac added, "There's a many in this village, sir, would have been glad to have taken the liberty of expressing themselves to the Colonel, and a depitation did get as far as your father's gates one night, but they turned bashful and come home again. And I know, for one, Master Jack, that if me and my missus had had a room fit to offer one of them poor young gentlemen, I'd have given a week's wage to do it, and the old woman would have been happy to her dying day."



Chapter XII.

"GOD help me! save I take my part Of danger on the roaring sea, A devil rises in my heart, Far worse than any death to me." TENNYSON'S Sailor-boy.


The fact that my father had sent me back against my will to a school where I had suffered so much and learnt so little, ought perhaps to have drawn us together when he discovered his mistake. Unfortunately it did not. He was deeply annoyed with himself for having been taken in by Snuffy, but he transferred some of this annoyance to me, on grounds which cut me to the soul, and which I fear I resented so much that I was not in a mood that was favourable to producing a better understanding between us. The injustice which I felt so keenly was, that my father reproached me with having what he called "kept him in the dark" about the life at Crayshaw's. At my age I must have seen how wicked the man and his system were.

I reminded him that I had run away from them once, and had told all that I dared, but that he would not hear me then. He would not hear me now.

"I don't wish to discuss the subject. It is a very painful one," he said (and I believe it was as physically distressing to him as the thought of Cripple Charlie's malformation). "I have no wish to force your confidence when it is too late," he added (and it was this which I felt to be so hard). "I don't blame you; you have other friends who suit you better, but you have never been fully open with me. All I can say is, if Mr. Wood was better informed than I have been, and did not acquaint me, he has behaved in a manner which --  --  There -- don't speak! we'll dismiss the subject. You have suffered enough, if you have not acted as I should have expected you to act. I blame myself unutterably, and I hope I see my way to such a comfortable and respectable start in life for you that these three years in that vile place may not be to your permanent disadvantage."

I was just opening my lips to thank him, when he got up and went to his tall desk, where he took a pinch of snuff, and then added as he turned away, "Thank GOD I have one son who is frank with his father!"

My lips were sealed in an instant. This, then, was my reward for that hard journey of escape, with Jem on my back, which had only saved him; for having stifled envy in gladness for his sake, when (in those bits of our different holidays which overlapped each other) I saw and felt the contrast between our opportunities; for having suffered my harder lot in silence that my mother might not fret, when I felt certain that my father would not interfere! My heart beat as if it would have pumped the tears into my eyes by main force, but I kept them back, and said steadily enough, "Is that all, sir?"

My father did not look up, but he nodded his head and said, "Yes; you may go."

As I went he called me back.

"Are you going to the farm this afternoon?"

To my own infinite annoyance I blushed as I answered, "I was going to sit with Charlie a bit, unless you have any objection."

"Not at all. I only asked for information. I have no wish to interfere with any respectable friends you may be disposed to give your confidence to. But I should like it to be understood that either your mother or I must have some knowledge of your movements."

"Mother knew quite well I was going!" I exclaimed "Why, I've got a parcel to take to Mrs. Wood from her."

"Very good. There's no occasion to display temper. Shut the door after you."

I shut it very gently. (If three years at Crayshaw's had taught me nothing else, it had taught me much self-control.) Then I got away to the first hiding-place I could find, and buried my head upon my arms. Would not a beating from Snuffy have been less hard to bear? Surely sore bones from those one despises are not so painful as a sore heart from those one loves.

Our household affections were too sound at the core for the mere fact of displeasing my father not to weigh heavily on my soul. But I could not help defending myself in my own mind against what I knew to be injustice.

Jem "frank with his father"? Well he might be, when our father's partiality met him half-way at every turn. That was no fancy of mine. I had the clearest of childish remembrances of an occasion when I wanted to do something which our farming-man thought my father would not approve, and how when I urged the fact that Jem had already done it with impunity, he shook his head wiseacrely, and said, "Aye, aye, Master Jack. But ye know they say some folks may steal a horse, when other folks mayn't look over the hedge."

The vagueness of "some folks" and "other folks" had left the proverb dark to my understanding when I heard it, but I remembered it till I understood it.

I never was really jealous of Jem. He was far too good-natured and unspoilt, and I was too fond of him. Besides which, if the mental tone of our country lives was at rather a dull level, it was also wholesomely unfavourable to the cultivation of morbid grievances, or the dissection of one's own hurt feelings. If I had told anybody about me, from my dear mother down to our farming-man, that I was misunderstood and wanted sympathy, I should probably have been answered that many a lad of my age was homeless and wanted boots. As a matter of reasoning the reply would have been defective, but for practical purposes it would have been much to the point. And it is fair to this rough-and-ready sort of philosophy to defend it from a common charge of selfishness. It was not that I should have been the happier because another lad was miserable, but that an awakened sympathy with his harder fate would tend to dwarf egotistic absorption in my own. Such considerations, in short, are no justification of those who are responsible for needless evil or neglected good, but they are handy helps to those who suffer from them, and who feel sadly sorry for themselves.

I am sure the early-begun and oft-reiterated teaching of daily thankfulness for daily blessing was very useful to me at Crayshaw's and has been useful to me ever since. With my dear mother herself it was merely part of that pure and constant piety which ran through her daily life, like a stream that is never frozen and never runs dry. In me it had no such grace, but it was an early-taught good habit (as instinctive as any bodily habit) to feel -- "Well, I'm thankful things are not so with me;" as quickly as "Ah, it might have been thus!" Looking at the fates and fortunes and dispositions of other boys, I had, even at Snuffy's "much to be thankful for" as well as much to endure, and it was a good thing for me that I could balance the two. For if the grace of thankfulness does not solve the riddles of life, it lends a willing shoulder to its common burdens.

I certainly had needed all my philosophy at home as well as at school. It was hard to come back, one holiday-time after another, ignorant except for books that I devoured in the holidays, and for my own independent studies of maps, and an old geography book at Snuffy's from which I was allowed to give lessons to the lowest form; rough in looks, and dress, and manners (I knew it, but it requires some self-respect even to use a nail-brush, and self-respect was next door to impossible at Crayshaw's); and with my north-country accent deepened, and my conversation disfigured by slang which, not being fashionable slang, was as inadmissible as thieves' lingo; it was hard, I say, to come back thus, and meet dear old Jem, and generally one at least of his school-fellows whom he had asked to be allowed to invite -- both of them well dressed, well cared for, and well mannered, full of games that were not in fashion at Crayshaw's, and slang as "correct" as it was unintelligible.

Jem's heart was as true to me as ever, but he was not so thin-skinned as I am. He was never a fellow who worried himself much about anything, and I don't think it struck him I could feel hurt or lonely. He would say, "I say, Jack, what a beastly way your hair is cut. I wish Father would let you come to our school:" or, "Don't say it was a dirty trick -- say it was a beastly chouse, or something of that sort. We're awfully particular about talking at  --  -- 's, and I don't want Cholmondley to hear you."

Jem was wonderfully polished-up himself, and as pugnacious on behalf of all the institutions of his school as he had once been about our pond. I got my hair as near right as one cutting and the town hair-cutter could bring it, and mended my manners and held my own with good temper. When it came to feats of skill or endurance, I more than held my own. Indeed, I so amazed one very "swell" little friend of Jem's whose mother (a titled lady) had allowed him to spend part of the summer holidays with Jem for change of air, that he vowed I must go and stay with him in the winter, and do juggler and acrobat at their Christmas theatricals. But he may have reported me as being rough as well as ready, for her ladyship never ratified the invitation. Not that I would have left home at Christmas, and not that I lacked pleasure in the holidays. But other fashions of games and speech and boyish etiquette lay between me and Jem; hospitality, if not choice, kept him closely with his school-fellows, and neither they nor he had part in the day-dreams of my soul.

For the spell of the Penny Numbers had not grown weaker as I grew older. In the holidays I came back to them as to friends. At school they made the faded maps on Snuffy's dirty walls alive with visions, and many a night as I lay awake with pain and over-weariness in the stifling dormitory, my thoughts took refuge not in dreams of home nor in castles of the air, but in phantom ships that sailed for ever round the world.

The day of the interview with my father I roused myself from my grievances to consider a more practical question. Why should I not go to sea? No matter whose fault it was, there was no doubt that I was ill-educated, and that I did not please my father as Jem did. On the other hand I was strong and hardy, nimble and willing to obey; and I had roughed it enough, in all conscience. I must have ill luck indeed, if I lit upon a captain more cruel than Mr. Crayshaw. I did not know exactly how it was to be accomplished, but I knew enough to know that I could not aim at the Royal Navy. Of course I should have preferred it. I had never seen naval officers, but if they were like officers in the army, like Colonel Jervois, for instance, it was with such a port and bearing that I would fain have carried myself when I grew up to be a man. I guessed, however, that money and many other considerations might make it impossible for me to be a midshipman; but I had heard of boys being apprenticed to merchant-vessels, and I resolved to ask my father if he would so apprentice me.

He refused, and he accompanied his refusal with an unfavourable commentary on my character and conduct, which was not the less bitter because the accusations were chiefly general.

This sudden fancy for the sea -- well, if it were not a sudden fancy, but a dream of my life, what a painful instance it afforded of my habitual want of frankness! -- This long-concealed project which I had suddenly brought to the surface -- I had talked about it to my mother years ago, had I, but it had distressed her, and even to my father, but he had snubbed me? -- then I had been deliberately fostering aims and plans to which I had always known that my parents would be opposed. My father didn't believe a word of it. It was the old story. I must be peculiar at any price. I must have something new to amuse me, and be unlike the rest of the family. It was always the same. For years I had found more satisfaction from the conversation of a man who had spent ten years of his life in the hulks than from that of my own father. Then this Indian Colonel had taken my fancy, and it had made him sick to see the womanish -- he could call it no better, the weak-womanish -- way in which I worshipped him. If I were a daughter instead of a son, my caprices would distress and astonish him less. He could have sent me to my mother, and my mother might have sent me to my needle. In a son, from whom he looked for manly feeling and good English common-sense, it was painful in the extreme. Vanity, the love of my own way, and want of candour -- (my father took a pinch of snuff between each count of the indictment) -- these were my besetting sins, and would lead me into serious trouble. This new fad, just, too, when he had made most favourable arrangements for my admission into my Uncle Henry's office as the first step in a prosperous career. I didn't know; didn't I? Perhaps not. Perhaps I had been at the Woods' when he and my mother were speaking of it. But now I did know. The matter was decided, and he hoped I should profit by my opportunities. I might go, and I was to shut the door after me.

I omit what my father said of the matter from a religious point of view, though he accused me of flying in the face of Providence as well as the Fifth Commandment. The piety which kept a pure and GOD-fearing atmosphere about my home, and to which I owe all the strength I have found against evil since I left it, was far too sincere in both my parents for me to speak of any phase of it with disrespect. Though I may say here that I think it is to be wished that more good people exercised judgment as well as faith in tracing the will of Heaven in their own. Practically I did not even then believe that I was more "called" to that station of life which was to be found in Uncle Henry's office, than to that station of life which I should find on board a vessel in the Merchant Service, and it only discredited truth in my inmost soul when my father put his plans for my career in that light. Just as I could not help feeling it unfair that a commandment which might have been fairly appealed to if I had disobeyed him, should be used against me in argument because I disagreed with him.

I did disagree with him utterly. Uncle Henry's office was a gloomy place, where I had had to endure long periods of waiting as a child when my mother took us in to the dentist, and had shopping and visiting of uncertain length to do. Uncle Henry himself was no favourite with me. He was harder than my father if you vexed him, and less genial when you didn't. And I wanted to go to sea. But it did not seem a light matter to me to oppose my parents, and they were both against me. My dear mother was thrown into the profoundest distress by the bare notion. In her view to be at sea was merely to run an imminent and ceaseless risk of shipwreck; and even this jeopardy of life and limb was secondary to the dangers that going ashore in foreign places would bring upon my mind and morals.

So when my father spoke kindly to me at supper, and said that he had arranged with Mr. Wood that I should read with him for two hours every evening, in preparation for my future life as an articled clerk, my heart was softened. I thanked him gratefully, and resolved for my own part to follow what seemed to be the plain path of duty, though it led to Uncle Henry's office, and not out into the world.

The capacity in which I began life in Uncle Henry's office was that of office boy, and the situation was attended in my case with many favourable conditions. Uncle Henry wished me to sleep on the premises, as my predecessor had done, but an accidental circumstance led to my coming home daily, which I infinitely preferred. This was nothing less than an outbreak of boils all over me, upon which, every domestic application having failed, and gallons of herb tea only making me worse, Dr. Brown was called in, and pronounced my health in sore need of restoration. The regimen of Crayshaw's was not to be recovered from in a day, and the old doctor would not hear of my living altogether in the town. If I went to the office at all, he said, I must ride in early, and ride out in the evening. So much fresh air and exercise were imperative, and I must eat two solid meals a day under no less careful an eye than that of my mother.

She was delighted. She thought (even more than usual) that Doctor Brown was a very Solomon in spectacles, and I quite agreed with her. The few words that followed gave a slight shock to her favourable opinion of his wisdom, but I need hardly say that it confirmed mine.

He had given me a kindly slap on the shoulder, which happened at that moment to be the sorest point in my body, and I was in no small pain from head to foot. I only tightened my lips, but I suppose he bethought himself of what he had done, and he looked keenly at me and said, "You can bear pain, Master Jack?"

"Oh, Jack's a very brave boy," said my dear mother. "Indeed, he's only too brave. He upset his father and me terribly last week by wanting to go to sea instead of to the office."

"And much better for him, ma'am," said the old doctor, promptly; "he'll make a first-rate sailor, and if Crayshaw's is all the schooling he's had, a very indifferent clerk."

"That's just what I think!" I began, but my mother coloured crimson with distress, and I stopped, and went after her worsted ball which she had dropped, whilst she appealed to Doctor Brown.

"Pray don't say so, Doctor Brown. Jack is very good, and it's all quite decided. I couldn't part with him, and his father would be so annoyed if the subject --  -- "

"Tut, tut, ma'am!" said the doctor, pocketing his spectacles; "I never interfere with family affairs, and I never repeat what I hear. The first rules of the profession, young gentleman, and very good general rules for anybody."

I got quite well again, and my new life began. I rode in and out of the town every day on Rob Roy, our red-haired pony. After tea I went to the farm to be taught by Mr. Wood, and at every opportunity I devoured such books as I could lay my hands on. I fear I had very little excuse for not being contented now. And yet I was not content.

It seems absurd to say that the drains had anything to do with it, but the horrible smell which pervaded the office added to the distastefulness of the place, and made us all feel ill and fretful, except my uncle, and Moses Benson, the Jew clerk. He was never ill, and he said he smelt nothing; which shows that one may have a very big nose to very little purpose.

My uncle pooh-poohed the unwholesome state of the office, for two reasons which certainly had some weight. The first was that he himself had been there for five-and-twenty years without suffering by it; and the second was, that the defects of drainage were so radical that (the place belonging to that period of house-building when the system of drainage was often worse than none at all) half the premises, if not half the street, would have to be pulled down for any effectual remedy. So it was left as it was, and when Mr. Burton, the head clerk, had worse headaches than usual, he used to give me sixpence for chloride of lime, which I distributed at my discretion, and on those days Moses Benson used generally to say that he "fancied he smelt something."

Moses Benson was an articled clerk to my uncle, but he had no pretensions to be considered a gentleman. His father kept a small shop where second-hand watches were the most obvious goods; but the old man was said to have money, though the watches did not seem to sell very fast, and his son had duly qualified for his post, and had paid a good premium. Moses was only two or three years older than I, not that I could have told anything about his age from his looks. He was sallow, and had a big nose; his hands were fat, his feet were small, and I think his head was large, but perhaps his hair made it look larger than it was, for it was thick and very black, and though it was curly, it was not like Jem's; the curls were more like short ringlets, and if he bent over his desk they hid his forehead, and when he put his head back to think, they lay on his coat-collar. And I suppose it was partly because he could not smell with his nose, that he used such very strong hair-oil, and so much of it. It used to make his coat-collar in a horrid state, but he always kept a little bottle of "scouring drops" on the ledge of his desk, and when it got very bad, I knelt behind him on the corner of his stool and scoured his coat-collar with a little bit of flannel. Not that I did it half so well as he could. He wore very odd-looking clothes, but he took great care of them, and was always touching them up, and "reviving" his hat with one of Mrs. O'Flannagan's irons. He used to sell bottles of the scouring drops to the other clerks, and once he got me to get my mother to buy some. He gave me a good many little odd jobs to do for him, but he always thanked me, and from the beginning to the end of our acquaintance he was invariably kind.

I remember a very odd scene that happened at the beginning of it.

Mr. Burton (the other clerk, whose time was to expire the following year, which was to make a vacancy for me) was a very different man from Moses Benson. He was respectably connected, and looked down on "the Jew-boy," but he was hot-tempered, and rather slow-witted, and I think Moses could manage him; and I think it was he who kept their constant "tiffs" from coming to real quarrels.

One day, very soon after I began office-life, Benson sent me out to get him some fancy notepaper, and when I came back I saw the red-haired Mr. Burton standing by the desk and looking rather more sickly and cross than usual. I laid down the paper and the change, and asked if Benson wanted anything else. He thanked me exceedingly kindly, and said, "No," and I went out of the enclosure and back to the corner where I had been cutting out some newspaper extracts for my uncle. At the same time I drew from under my overcoat which was lying there, an old railway volume of one of Cooper's novels which Charlie had lent me. I ought not to have been reading novels in office-hours, but I had had to stop short last night because my candle went out just at the most exciting point, and I had had no time to see what became of everybody before I started for town in the morning. I could bear suspense no longer, and plunged into my book.

How it was in these circumstances that I heard what the two clerks were saying, I don't know. They talked constantly in these open enclosures, when they knew I was within hearing. On this occasion I suppose they thought I had gone out, and it was some minutes before I discovered that they were talking of me. Burton spoke first, and in an irritated tone.

"You treat this young shaver precious different to the last one."

The Jew spoke very softly, and with an occasional softening of the consonants in his words. "How obsherving you are!" said he.

Burton snorted. "It don't take much observation to see that. But I suppose you have your reasons. You Jews are always so sly. That's how you get on so, I suppose."

"You Gentiles," replied Moses (and the Jew's voice had tones which gave him an infinite advantage in retaliating scorn), "you Gentiles would do as well as we do if you were able to foresee and knew how to wait. You have all the selfishness for success, my dear, but the gifts of prophecy and patience are wanting to you."

"That's nothing to do with your little game about the boy," said Burton; "however, I suppose you can keep your own secrets."

"I have no secrets," said Moses gently. "And if you take my advice, you never will have. If you have no secrets, my dear, they will never be found out. If you tell your little designs, your best friends will be satisfied, and will not invent less creditable ones for you."

"If they did, you'd talk 'em down," said Burton roughly. "Short of a woman I never met such a hand at jaw. You'll be in Parliament yet --  -- " ("It is possible!" said the Jew hastily,) "with that long tongue of yours. But you haven't told us about the boy, for all you've said."

"About this boy," said Moses, "a proverb will be shorter than my jaw. 'The son of the house is not a servant for ever.' As to the other -- he was taken for charity and dismissed for theft, is it not so? He came from the dirt, and he went back to the dirt. They often do. Why should I be civil to him?"

What reply Mr. Burton would have made to this question I had no opportunity of judging. My uncle called him, and he ran hastily up-stairs. And when he had gone, the Jew came slowly out, and crossed the office as if he were going into the street. By this time my conscience was pricking hard, and I shoved my book under my coat and called to him: "Mr. Benson."

"You?" he said.

"I am very sorry," I stammered, blushing, "but I heard what you were saying. I did not mean to listen. I thought you knew that I was there."

"It is of no importance," he said, turning away; "I have no secrets."

But I detained him.

"Mr. Benson! Tell me, please. You were talking about me, weren't you? What did you mean about the son of the house not being a servant for ever?"

He hesitated for an instant, and then turned round and came nearer to me.

"It is true, is it not?" he said. "Next year you may be clerk. In time you may be your uncle's confidential clerk, which I should like to be myself. You may eventually be partner, as I should like to be; and in the long run you may succeed him, as I should like to do. It is a good business, my dear, a sound business, a business of which much, very much, more might be made. You might die rich, very rich. You might be mayor, you might be Member, you might -- but what is the use? You will not. You do not see it, though I am telling you. You will not wait for it, though it would come. What is that book you hid when I came in?"

"It is about North American Indians," said I, dragging it forth. "I am very sorry, but I left off last night at such an exciting bit."

The Jew was thumbing the pages, with his black ringlets close above them.

"Novels in office-hours!" said he; but he was very good-natured about it, and added, "I've one or two books at home, if you're fond of this kind of reading, and will promise me not to forget your duties."

"Oh, I promise!" said I.

"I'll put them under my desk in the corner," he said; "indeed, I would part with some of them for a trifle."

I thanked him warmly, but what he had said was still hanging in my mind, and I added, "Are there real prophets among the Jews now-a-days, Mr. Benson?"

"They will make nothing by it, if there are," said he; and there was a tone of mysteriousness in his manner of speaking which roused my romantic curiosity. "A few of ush (very few, my dear!) mould our own fates, and the lives of the rest are moulded by what men have within them rather than by what they find without. If there were a true prophet in every market-place to tell each man of his future, it would not alter the destinies of seven men in thish wide world."

As Moses spoke the swing door was pushed open, and one of my uncle's clients entered. He was an influential man, and a very tall one. The Jew bent his ringlets before him, almost beneath his elbow, and slipped out as he came in.



Chapter XIII.

"Then, hey for boot and horse, lad, And round the world away! Young blood must have its course, lad, And every dog his day." -- C. KINGSLEY.


Moses Benson was as good as his word in the matter of books of adventure. Dirty books, some without backs, and some with very greasy ones (for which, if I bought them, I seldom paid more than half-price), but full of dangers and discoveries, the mightiness of manhood, and the wonders of the world. I read them at odd moments of my working hours, and dreamed of them when I went home to bed. And it was more fascinating still to look out, with Charlie's help, in the Penny Numbers, for the foreign places, and people, and creatures mentioned in the tales, and to find that the truth was often stranger than the fiction.

To live a fancy-life of adventure in my own head, was not merely an amusement to me at this time -- it was a refuge. Matters did not really improve between me and my father, though I had obeyed his wishes. It was by his arrangement that I spent so much of my time at home with the Woods, and yet it remained a grievance that I liked to do so. Whether my dear mother had given up all hopes of my becoming a genius I do not know, but my father's contempt for my absorption in a book was unabated. I felt this if he came suddenly upon me with my head in my hands and my nose in a tattered volume; and if I went on with my reading it was with a sense of being in the wrong, whilst if I shut up the book and tried to throw myself into outside interests, my father's manner showed me that my efforts had only discredited my candour.

As is commonly the case, it was chiefly little things that pulled the wrong way of the stuff of life between us, but they pulled it very much askew. I was selfishly absorbed in my own dreams, and I think my dear father made a mistake which is a too common bit of tyranny between people who love each other and live together. He was not satisfied with my doing what he liked, he expected me to be what he liked, that is, to be another person instead of myself. Wives and daughters seem now and then to respond to this expectation as to the call of duty, and to become inconsistent echoes, odd mixtures of severity and hesitancy, hypocrites on the highest grounds; but sons are not often so self-effacing, and it was not the case with me. It was so much the case with my dear mother, that she never was of the slightest use (which she might have been) when my father and I misunderstood each other. By my father's views of the moment she always hastily set her own, whether they were fair or unfair to me; and she made up for it by indulging me at every point that did not cross an expressed wish of my father's, or that could not annoy him because he was not there. She never held the scales between us.

And yet it was the thought of her which kept me from taking my fate into my own hands again and again. To have obeyed my father seemed to have done so little towards making him satisfied with me, that I found no consolation at home for the distastefulness of the office; and more than once I resolved to run away, and either enlist or go to Liverpool (which was at no great distance from us) and get on board some vessel that was about to sail for other lands. But when I thought of my mother's distress, I could not face it, and I let my half-formed projects slide again.

Oddly enough, it was Uncle Henry who brought matters to a crisis. I think my father was disappointed (though he did not blame me) that I secured no warmer a place in Uncle Henry's affections than I did. Uncle Henry had no children, and if he took a fancy to me and I pleased him, such a career as the Jew-clerk had sketched for me would probably be mine. This dawned on me by degrees through chance remarks from my father and the more open comments of friends. For good manners with us were not of a sensitively refined order, and to be clapped on the back with -- "Well, Jack, you've got into a good berth, I hear. I suppose you look to succeed your uncle some day?" was reckoned a friendly familiarity rather than an offensive impertinence.

I learned that my parents had hoped that, as I was his nephew, Uncle Henry would take me as clerk without the usual premium. Indeed, when my uncle first urged my going to him, he had more than hinted that he should not expect a premium with his brother's son. But he was fond of his money (of which he had plenty), and when people are that, they are apt to begin to grudge, if there is time, between promise and performance. Uncle Henry had a whole year in which to think about foregoing two or three hundred pounds, and as it drew to a close, it seemed to worry him to such a degree, that he proposed to take me for half the usual premium instead of completely remitting it; and he said something about my being a stupid sort of boy, and of very little use to him for some time to come. He said it to justify himself for drawing back, I am quite sure, but it did me no good at home.

My father had plenty of honourable pride, and he would hear of no compromise. He said that he should pay the full premium for me that Uncle Henry's other clerks had had to pay, and from this no revulsion of feeling on my uncle's part would move him. He was quite bland with Uncle Henry, and he was not quite bland towards me.

When I fairly grasped the situation (and I contrived to get a pretty clear account of it from my mother), there rushed upon me the conviction that a new phase had come over my prospects. When I put aside my own longings for my father's will; and every time that office life seemed intolerable to me, and I was tempted to break my bonds, and thought better of it and settled down again, this thought had always remained behind: "I will try; and if the worst comes to the worst, and I really cannot settle down into a clerk, I can but run away then." But circumstances had altered my case, I felt that now I must make up my mind for good and all. My father would have to make some little sacrifices to find the money, and when it was once paid, I could not let it be in vain. Come what might, I must stick to the office then, and for life.

Some weeks passed whilst I was turning this over and over in my mind. I was constantly forgetting things in the office, but Moses Benson helped me out of every scrape. He was kinder and kinder, so that I often felt sorry that I could not feel fonder of him, and that his notions of fun and amusement only disgusted me instead of making us friends. They convinced me of one thing. My dear mother's chief dread about my going out of my own country was for the wicked ways I might learn in strange lands. A town with an unpronounceable name suggested foreign iniquities to her tender fears, but our own town, where she and everybody we knew bought everything we daily used, did not frighten her at all. I did not tell her, but I was quite convinced myself that I might get pretty deep into mischief in my idle hours, even if I lived within five miles of home, and had only my uncle's clerks for my comrades.

During these weeks Jem came home for the holidays. He was at a public school now, which many of our friends regarded as an extravagant folly on my father's part. We had a very happy time together, and this would have gone far to keep me at home, if it had not, at the same time, deepened my disgust with our town, and my companions in the office. In plain English, the training of two good schools, and the society of boys superior to himself, had made a gentleman of Jem, and the contrast between his looks and ways, and manners, and those of my uncle's clerks were not favourable to the latter. How proud my father was of him! With me he was in a most irritable mood; and one grumble to which I heard him give utterance, that it was very inconvenient to have to pay this money just at the most expensive period of Jem's education, went heavily into the scale for running away. And that night, as it happened, Jem and I sat up late, and had a long and loving chat. He abused the office to my heart's content, and was very sympathetic when I told him that I had wished to go to sea, and how my father had refused to allow me.

"I think he made a great mistake," said Jem; and he told me of "a fellow's brother" that he knew about, who was in the Merchant Service, and how well he was doing. "It's not even as if Uncle Henry were coming out generously," he added.

Dear, dear! How pleasant it was to hear somebody else talk on my side of the question. And who was I that I should rebuke Jem for calling our worthy uncle a curmudgeon, and stigmatising the Jew-clerk as a dirty beast? I really dared not tell him that Moses grew more familiar as my time to be articled drew near; that he called me Jack Sprat, and his dearest friend, and offered to procure me the "silver-top" (or champagne) -- which he said I must "stand" on the day I took my place at the fellow desk to his -- of the first quality and at less than cost price; and that he had provided me gratis with a choice of "excuses" (they were unblushing lies) to give to our good mother for spending that evening in town, and "having a spree."

From my affairs we came to talk of Jem's, and I found that even he, poor chap! was not without his troubles. He confided to me, with many expressions of shame and vexation, that he had got into debt, but having brought home good reports and even a prize on this occasion, he hoped to persuade my father to pay what he owed.

"You see, Jack, he's awfully good to me, but he will do things his own way, and what's worse, the way they were done in his young days. You remember the row we had about his giving me an allowance? He didn't want to, because he never had one, only tips from his governor when the old gentleman was pleased with him. And he said it was quite enough to send me to such a good and expensive school, and I ought to think of that, and not want more because I had got much. We'd an awful row, for I thought it was so unfair his making out I was greedy and ungrateful, and I told him so, and I said I was quite game to go to a cheap school if he liked, only wherever I was I did want to be 'like the other fellows.' I begged him to take me away and to let me go somewhere cheap with you; and I said, if the fellows there had no allowances, we could do without. As I told him, it's not the beastly things that you buy that you care about, only of course you don't like to be the only fellow who can't buy 'em. So then he came round, and said I should have an allowance, but I must do with a very small one. So I said, Very well, then I mustn't go in for the games. Then he wouldn't have that; so then I made out a list of what the subscriptions are to cricket, and so on, and then your flannels and shoes, and it came to double what he offered me. He said it was simply disgraceful that boys shouldn't be able to be properly educated, and have an honest game at cricket for the huge price he paid, without the parents being fleeced for all sorts of extravagances at exorbitant prices. And I know well enough it's disgraceful, what we have to pay for school books and for things of all sorts you have to get in the town; but, as I said to the governor, why don't you kick up a dust with the head master, or write to the papers -- what's the good of rowing us? One must have what other fellows have, and get 'em where other fellows get 'em. But he never did -- I wish he would. I should enjoy fighting old Pompous if I were in his place. But they're as civil as butter to each other, and then old Pompous goes on feathering his nest, and backing up the tradespeople, and the governor pitches into the young men of the present day."

"He did give you the bigger allowance, didn't he?" said I, at this pause in Jem's rhetoric.

"Yes, he did. He's awfully good to me. But you know, Jack, he never paid it quite all, and he never paid it quite in time. I found out from my mother he did it on purpose to make me value it more, and be more careful. Doesn't it seem odd he shouldn't see that I can't pay the subscriptions a few shillings short or a few days late? One must find the money somehow, and then one has to pay for that, and then you're short, and go on tick, and it runs up, and then they dun you, and you're cleaned out, and there you are!"

At which climax old Jem laid his curly head on his arms, and I began to think very seriously.

"How much do you owe?"

Jem couldn't say. He thought he could reckon up, so I got a pencil and made a list from his dictation, and from his memory, which was rather vague. When it was done (and there seemed to be a misty margin beyond), I was horrified. "Why, my dear fellow!" I exclaimed, "if you'd had your allowance ever so regularly, it wouldn't have covered this sort of thing."

"I know, I know," said poor Jem, clutching remorsefully at his curls. "I've been a regular fool! Jack! whatever you do -- never tick. It's the very mischief. You never know what you owe, and so you feel vague and order more. And you never know what you don't owe, which is worse, for sometimes you're in such despair, it would be quite a relief to catch some complaint and die. It's like going about with a stone round your neck, and nobody kind enough to drown you. I can't stand any more of it. I shall make a clean breast to Father, and if he can't set me straight, I won't go back; I'll work on the farm sooner, and let him pay my bills instead of my schooling -- and serve old Pompous right."

Poor Jem! long after he had cheered up and gone to bed, I sat up and thought. When my premium was paid where was the money for Jem's debts to come from? And would my father be in the humour to pay them? If he did not, Jem would not go back to school. Of that I was quite certain. Jem had thought over his affairs, which was an effort for him, but he always thought in one direction. His thoughts never went backwards and forwards as mine did. If he had made up his mind, there was no more prospect of his changing it than if he had been my father. And if the happy terms between them were broken, and Jem's career checked when he was doing so well! -- the scales that weighed my own future were becoming very uneven now.

I clasped my hands and thought. If I ran away, the money would be there for Jem's debts, and his errors would look pale in the light of my audacity, and he would be dearer than ever at home, whilst for me were freedom, independence (for I had not a doubt of earning bread-and-cheese, if only as a working man): perhaps a better understanding with my father when I had been able to prove my courage and industry, or even when he got the temperate and dutiful letter I meant to post to him when I was fairly off; and beyond all, the desire of my eyes, the sight of the world.

Should I stay now? And for what? To see old Jem at logger-heads with my father, and perhaps demoralized by an inferior school? To turn my own back and shut my eyes for ever on all that the wide seas embrace; my highest goal to be to grow as rich as Uncle Henry or richer, and perhaps as mean or meaner? Should I choose for life a life I hated, and set seals to my choice by drinking silver-top with the Jew-clerk? -- No, Moses, no!

*    *    *    *    *

I got up soon after dawn and was in the garden at sunrise the morning that I ran away. I had made my plans carefully, and carried them out, so far with success.

Including the old miser's bequest which his lawyer had paid, there were thirteen pounds to my name in the town savings-bank, and this sum I had drawn out to begin life with. I wrapped a five-pound note in a loving letter to Jem, and put both into the hymn-book on his shelf -- I knew it would not be opened till Sunday. Very few runaways have as much as eight pounds to make a start with: and as one could not be quite certain how my father would receive Jem's confession, I thought he might be glad of a few pounds of his own, and I knew he had spent his share of the miser's money long ago.

I meant to walk to a station about seven miles distant, and there take train for Liverpool. I should be clumsy indeed, I thought, if I could not stow away on board some vessel, as hundreds of lads had done before me, and make myself sufficiently useful to pay my passage when I was found out.

When I got into the garden I kicked my foot against something in the grass. It was my mother's little gardening-fork. She had been tidying her pet perennial border, and my father had called her hastily, and she had left it half finished, and had forgotten the fork. A few minutes more or less were of no great importance to me, for it was very early, so I finished the border quite neatly, and took the fork indoors.

I put it in a corner of the hall where the light was growing stronger and making familiar objects clear. In a house like ours and amongst people like us, furniture was not chopped and changed and decorated as it is now. The place had looked like this ever since I could remember, and it would look like this tomorrow morning, though my eyes would not see it. I stood stupidly by the hall table where my father's gloves lay neatly one upon the other beside his hat. I took them up, almost mechanically, and separated them, and laid them together again finger to finger, and thumb to thumb, and held them with a stupid sort of feeling, as if I could never put them down and go away.

What would my father's face be like when he took them up this very morning to go out and look for me? and when -- oh when! -- should I see his face again?

I began to feel what one is apt to learn too late, that in childhood one takes the happiness of home for granted, and kicks against the pricks of its grievances, not having felt the far harder buffetings of the world. Moreover (which one does not think of then), that parental blunders and injustices are the mistakes and tyrannies of a special love that one may go many a mile on one's own wilful way and not meet a second time. Who -- in the wide world -- would care to be bothered with my confidence, and blame me for withholding it? Should I meet many people to whom it would matter if we misunderstood each other? Would anybody hereafter love me well enough to be disappointed in me? Would other men care so much for my fate as to insist on guiding it by lines of their own ruling?

I pressed the gloves passionately against my eyes to keep in the tears. If my day-dreams had been the only question, I should have changed my mind now. If the home grievances had been all, I should have waited for time and patience to mend them. I could not have broken all these heart-strings. I should never have run away. But there was much more, and my convictions were not changed, though I felt as if I might have managed better as regards my father.

Would he forgive me? I hoped and believed so. Would my mother forgive me? I knew she would -- as GOD forgives.

And with the thought of her, I knelt down, and put my head on the hall table and prayed from my soul -- not for fair winds, and prosperous voyages, and good luck, and great adventures; but that it might please GOD to let me see Home again, and the faces that I loved, ah, so dearly, after all!

And then I got up, and crossed the threshold, and went out into the world.

<eob>

The Story Of The 6Th Battalion, The Durham Light Infantry

By

Capt. R.B. Ainsworth, M.C.



Chapter I.

The "Salient."

First Phase.


The end of March, 1915, found the 50th (Northumbrian) Division of the Territorial Force awaiting orders to proceed overseas. The infantry of the Division consisted of the 149th Infantry Brigade (4th, 5th, 6th and 7th Battalions Northumberland Fusiliers), the 150th Infantry Brigade (4th Battalion East Yorkshire Regiment, 4th and 5th Battalions Yorkshire Regiment, and 5th Battalion The Durham Light Infantry), and the 151st Infantry Brigade (6th, 7th, 8th and 9th Battalions The Durham Light Infantry). Early in April, when the 6th Battalion The Durham Light Infantry were in billets at Gateshead, the orders arrived and on the 10th April Capt. F. Walton proceeded to Havre to make arrangements for the arrival of the transport section. The first detachment of men to leave Gateshead consisted of the transport and machine-gun sections which, under Major J.E. Hawdon, Second in Command, and Lieut. H.T. Bircham, Transport Officer, entrained at the Cattle Market, Newcastle, on the 17th April for Southampton, en route for Havre.

Two days later the remainder of the Battalion entrained at the Central Station, Newcastle, with the following officers: Lieut.-Col. H.C. Watson in command, Capt. J.W. Jeffreys, Adjutant; Major W.M. Mackay, Medical Officer; Capt. A.P. Cummins, commanding A Company; Major S.E. Badcock, commanding B Company; Capt. W.H.D. Devey, commanding C Company; and Capt. J. Townend, commanding D Company. Arriving at Folkestone the same day, the Battalion embarked for Boulogne, where it arrived about midnight and marched up to Ostrohove Camp.

The following day it entrained at Pont de Briques Station, on the train which brought the transport and machine-gun sections from Havre. The complete battalion detrained at Cassel, and after marching all night arrived in billets at Hardifort at 5 a.m. on the 21st April.

On the 23rd April orders were received to march at very short notice to Steenvoorde, where the whole of the 151st Infantry Brigade, commanded at this time by Brig.-General Martin, was assembled in a field at the eastern end of the town. During the remainder of the day the men were allowed to rest. At dusk two battalions of the Brigade, the 7th and 9th Battalions, marched off in fighting order. The other two Battalions (the 6th and 8th) proceeded by 'buses through Poperinghe to Vlamertinghe, where they took over a hut camp recently vacated by the 9th Royal Scots.

It was now evident that the lessons which the Battalion had learnt during its long period of training were very soon to be put into practice. The 24th April was spent in testing rifles and making final preparations for action, and in the evening an order arrived from the Brigade to get ready to move quickly. This order was given out and within half an hour the Battalion was on the pave road, marching towards Ypres. It entered the town as night settled on it. At this date the town was not ruined and the results of the shelling were hardly noticeable. As the Battalion was passing the Cloth Hall a shell came screaming faintly towards it, and, passing over, burst with a dull roar in the city a quarter of a mile away. There had been no talking in the ranks nor any sound except the beat of ammunition boots on the pave, but when this shell screamed overhead and burst, ejaculation in the good old Durham tongue could be heard passing cheerily up the length of the column. Two or three more shells passed over, but none burst near the Battalion.

Reaching the top of the hill to the east of the city and leaving the white walls of Potijze Chateau on the left, the Battalion turned off the road and filed into the G.H.Q. line, a Battalion of the Shropshire Light Infantry climbing out to make room. This trench was of the breastwork type, and a novelty to the men whose idea of a trench was a ditch below the ground level. The dispositions of the Battalion were as follows: A Company were on the south side of the Potijze road and the remainder on the north side, with B Company on the right, D Company in the centre, and C Company on the left. The machine-gun section was with D Company. Transport lines were established just behind the Chateau near to a Canadian Battery. The position was unfortunate, for the section came under heavy shell fire and had several men and horses hit.

Sunday, the 25th April, was the first day spent by the Battalion in the trenches. There was a considerable amount of shelling, but fortunately the Battalion in the trenches did not suffer. In the evening, as it got dark, the Battalion moved out of the trench and, forming up on the road which it had left the previous night, marched in fours for about a mile to Velorenhoek village, which was then almost intact. There the Battalion came under the orders of the 85th Infantry Brigade, and halted. All ranks slept for some hours on the roadside, or in the fields, gardens or cottages close to the road. Before dawn the Brigadier ordered the Battalion to vacate the village, and the column moved a few hundred yards up the road to the east. Here the Companies left the road and the men improved with their entrenching tools the little cover in the form of ditches and trenches which was to be found, and then lay down. Throughout this and the succeeding days the men were in marching order with full packs. The transport moved back to Potijze Wood, except the ration limbers, which went back to Poperinghe.

About 10 a.m. on the 26th word was passed for the Commanding Officer and Adjutant, who accordingly reported to the Brigadier of the 85th Brigade. He was standing on the north side of the road on a little rising ground from which there was a view for a mile or two to the eastward. He gave the following order verbally: "The Germans have broken through our line and are advancing south-west. The Durham Light Infantry (6th Battalion) will advance and take up positions between Zonnebeke level crossing and Hill 37." He described the position of the crossing, later known as Devil's Crossing, by pointing out the direction and stated that the hill with a few trees on it to the E.N.E. was Hill 37. He further stated that the Shropshire Light Infantry would be on the right and that Lieut.-Colonel Bridgford, of that Regiment, would be in command of the 6th Battalion.

Orders were accordingly issued to Company Commanders verbally by the Adjutant as follows: The Battalion is to occupy the line between Hill 37, which can be seen on the left front, and Zonnebeke crossing, which lies on the road. Captain Cummins's Company (A) will march on the crossing and Captain Townend's Company (D) on Hill 37. Major Badcock's Company (B) and Captain Devey's Company (C) will divide the space between. Advance in artillery formation, take advantage of the cover afforded by the ground, and each Company Commander should accompany one of his rear Platoons. When Companies had gained suitable positions on this line they were to deploy and attack by fire any bodies of the enemy who might attempt to cross their front. The whole operation was under direct observation by enemy balloons, and as soon as the Companies moved an intense barrage was put down. B Company, on the right, however, had a comparatively good time and suffered very few casualties, whilst No. 5 Platoon, under Lieut. A.B. Hare, had none at all, and reached Zonnebeke Crossing in safety. The remaining Companies got the full effect of the barrage, which included gas shells, and lost direction towards the left. Capt. W.H.D. Devey, commanding C Company, was wounded, Capt. J. Monkhouse killed, and 2nd Lieut. H.H. Nicholson wounded. As a result of the loss of direction a gap was formed, and A Company were pushed forward to fill it. In spite of heavy casualties the line was maintained, and continued to advance, firing all the time on the enemy, who could be seen from the new positions. It was not till they had advanced a considerable distance that the officers and men found that there was another line of British troops ahead of them, holding out in shell-holes, on hillsides, etc.

When this was discovered, Lieut. T.B. Heslop, with No. 11 Platoon and part of No. 9 Platoon, joined the London Rifle Brigade; 2nd Lieut. R.V. Hare, with No. 10 Platoon, joined a Battalion of the Shropshire Light Infantry, and 2nd Lieut. G. Angus, with the remainder of No. 9 Platoon, took up a position in support on the hill. By this time A and D Companies were in the forward positions. As already described, A Company had moved up to fill the gap between B and C Companies, and D Company had also moved to the assistance of C Company. As a result, the men of all Companies were mixed together, and it is difficult to say how they were distributed, but A Company seem to have been in two parts, one with D Company and one next to B Company. The former passed over Hill 37 and eventually joined the London Rifle Brigade in some ditches which formed the front line. There they suffered many casualties. Amongst others, Major S.E. Badcock and 2nd Lieut. Kynoch were killed and Capt. F. Walton and 2nd Lieut. G. Kirkhouse were wounded. As soon as the advance had commenced, the Adjutant, Capt. J.W. Jeffreys, had galloped through the barrage to find Zonnebeke crossing. Having shown it to the Company on the right flank he proceeded along the line and found a Platoon of D Company under 2nd Lieut. Lyon digging themselves in. A little further along another Platoon was found, and whilst showing them the line he was heavily fired on. After returning to Brigade Headquarters for a fresh horse he went to Hill 37 and there heard of D Company from some men of the Rifle Brigade. Before dusk all formed parties had got into touch with Battalion Headquarters, which were at Zevencote barn, beside Zonnebeke level crossing.

About 4 p.m. Lt.-Col. Bridgford, who was in command of all troops in this sector, issued orders for an attack to be made to clear the enemy from the Fortuin-Passchendaele Road. The attack was to be made by two Companies of the Shropshire Light Infantry, with the 7th Durham Light Infantry in support and the 6th in reserve. The attacking troops were to pass through the front line and establish a new line on the road when captured. A conference of officers was held, and it was ascertained that the men available for the attack were as follows: -- No. 3 Platoon under 2nd Lieut. Blenkinsop, Nos. 5, 7 and 8 Platoons, under Capt. T. Welch, with Lieuts. A.B. Hare and H.C.W. Haythornthwaite; No. 9 Platoon under 2nd Lieut. G. Angus, and about forty men of D Company under Capt. J. Townend and 2nd Lieut. P.H.B. Lyon.

The Battalion, which was lying in a trench near the road, began to advance about 7 or 8 p.m., moving in artillery formation and following the 7th Durham Light Infantry towards the ridge to the north of Zonnebeke.

On reaching the ridge, which was found unoccupied, the 7th Battalion moved off to Zonnebeke and the 6th Battalion was ordered to send three Companies to the support of the Hampshire Regiment on Gravenstafel Ridge further to the north.

In accordance with the orders issued by Lt.-Col. Hicks, commanding the Hampshires, B Company, who were about 90 strong, left the remainder of the Battalion, who were now at Hicks' Farm and moved to reinforce 2nd Lieut. Ball of the Royal Fusiliers (28th Div.), who, with 100 men, was holding a position on the Gravenstafel Ridge. This position consisted of a much battered breastwork, of which only isolated portions offered any cover. The remainder of the Battalion was then divided. C Company were sent to garrison a strong point near a neighbouring farm, leaving No. 9 Platoon, under 2nd Lieut. G. Angus, to form a ration party. A Company was held in reserve in isolated trenches. Battalion Headquarters and D Company moved back to Zevencote barn, where the Company occupied some trenches.

On the night of the 27th April, A Company with about twenty men of D Company were sent to fill a gap between the Hampshires and the Shropshires, where they dug themselves in. The following day Capt. A.P. Cummins and Capt. D. Park were seriously wounded by a sniper firing from behind their line, and 2nd Lieut. Blenkinsop took over command till the arrival at night of Lieut. R.V. Hare. C.S.M. Lancaster of A Company was also badly wounded.

The men on the left of B Company, under Lieut. H.C.W. Haythornthwaite during these days, were in very close touch with the enemy, being separated from them in the same trench by a block about ten yards wide. They were the first of the Battalion to use rifle grenades, which were taken up to them by a party of the Buffs. On the night of the 28th April No. 6 Platoon was sent up to join the Company, but it was found that they could not be accommodated in the trench and they returned to Battalion Headquarters. All through this period the Company was existing under very difficult conditions. The evacuation of wounded was almost impossible, and Corpl. Hardy did excellent work in establishing an aid post and attending to wounded for four days and nights. He was subsequently mentioned in dispatches for this good work. Their only rations were taken up on the night of the 28th by a party of No. 9 Platoon under Corpl. Hall, and water was collected from shell holes in empty ammunition boxes.

Whilst in the front line, both A and B Companies were constantly under fire from trench mortars ("sausages") and snipers, some of whom were firing from the rear. Several of the posts held by B Company were blown in, and in one, occupied by Sergt. Bennison and ten men, all were hit except Ptes. Walters and Fenwick. In another post the shelter was blown in and several men wounded and buried. Pte. Robinson, the only man not hit, crossed the open to the next post, but was unable to obtain assistance. He thereupon went back, and under constant fire, dug out several men. For this action he was awarded the D.C.M. and Croix de Guerre.

The machine-gun section was in action on the 26th April, and for his good work in handling them Lieut. W.P. Gill was awarded the Military Cross. After being withdrawn on the night of the 26th the guns were kept in reserve at Battalion Headquarters.

During the whole of the four days the Battalion was in the line, parties from D Company under 2nd Lieut. G. Angus did good work in distributing rations, which were brought up from Poperinghe to Zonnebeke Crossing by limber. The exact location of the different parties was doubtful, and the absence of roads, tracks or landmarks made the delivery of rations to the men a very unpleasant task.

On the 30th April came news of relief. A Company were relieved at night by the 1st Battalion Northumberland Fusiliers and moved back to the Convent near Velorenhoek. B Company had further unpleasant experiences. Their relief by a Battalion of the Royal Fusiliers took place nearly at dawn, and it was impossible to get further than Hicks' Farm before it was too light to move. They were accordingly put into a barn and some trenches for the day, being still only about 300 yards from the enemy, whose aeroplanes were very active directing fire on to the position. This fire was fairly successful, and the barn was hit and set on fire and Lieut. A.B. Hare wounded. The men showed excellent discipline on this occasion and stood fast till led out to occupy a neighbouring trench. At night the Company rejoined the rest of the Battalion at the Convent, where the whole were accommodated in trenches near the road.

In addition to the honours already mentioned the following were subsequently awarded for work during this period: -- Capt. T. Welch received the Military Cross for his work with B Company on Gravenstafel Ridge, being the first officer in the Brigade to win the decoration; R.S.M. G. Perry, who had been doing excellent work for the Battalion since mobilization, was granted the D.C.M. for his work in organising ration parties; and C.S.M.s McNair and Bousfield (afterwards commanding 15th D.L.I.) also received the D.C.M. for gallantry after casualties to officers. Others, who did excellent work, but received no decoration, were Lieut. W.F.E. Badcock, Signalling Officer, and his Sergeant, H. Elliott; Sergts. Linsley and Wallace, of B Company; Pte. Newton of A Company, and Pte. Hall of C Company.

The casualties had been fairly heavy, and included fifteen officers, amongst whom was Lieut.-Col. H.C. Watson, who left the Battalion sick on the 28th April. Capt. J.W. Jeffreys had assumed command with Lieut. R.V. Hare as Adjutant.


Second Phase.

On the 30th April the enemy delivered another attack, using gas. This fell mainly on the Irish Regiment, but the 6th Battalion in reserve occupied battle positions, and collected many men who were driven back by the gas. At night the Battalion marched back to huts in Brielen Wood, where it rested for 24 hours. Leaving there, it marched to St. Jansterbiezen, where it was inspected on the morning of the 2nd May by Sir John French, who thanked the men for their good work and praised especially A and B Companies. On the 8th May a draft of officers joined the Battalion, and the following day a move was made back to Brielen Woods. Here the Battalion, living in bivouacs, was in Divisional reserve for one day. The transport and Q.M. Stores moved into a field near Poperinghe.

After this short rest the Battalion learnt that it was to return to the scene of its first experiences. On the 10th May it marched to Potijze and occupied the G.H.Q. line near the railway and some dug-outs in the cutting south-east of Ypres. Here the men were shelled at intervals, particularly on the 13th, and spent the nights on working parties. It was whilst in this area that the new gas respirators, consisting of a pad of cotton wool and a strip of muslin, were issued on a scale of one to every twelve men. On the 19th May Major W.E. Taylor, York and Lancaster Regiment, arrived and took over command from Capt. Jeffreys. Two days later the Battalion was relieved by the East Surrey Regiment, and returned to Brielen huts.

During the next few days the artillery fire increased considerably on both sides, and just before dawn on Whit Monday, the 24th May, the Germans launched their gas attack. The gas cloud drifted towards Brielen and the men were roused and moved about half a mile from the camp to which they returned for breakfast and to prepare to move into action. The morning had turned out bright and fine when they paraded and marched off to Potijze. In those days the road leading out of Ypres eastwards was still marked by leafy trees, and as the Battalion marched along it, trees, branches and leaves were lying about, brought down by the heavy fire. Arriving at the wood, which was being heavily shelled, the men were put into ditches and half-dug trenches. Later in the day packs were collected, and in the lighter "Fighting Order" the men manned the G.H.Q. line in front of the wood, being in reserve to the 3rd Battalion Middlesex Regiment, who were under orders to deliver a counter-attack. Whilst taking up this position Major Taylor was wounded and 2nd Lieut. J.M. Hare killed, and Capt. Jeffreys again assumed command. The counter-attack was cancelled and the Battalion moved back to dug-outs on the Menin Road, where it stayed all the next day.

On the night of the 25th May the whole Battalion paraded as a working party to dig a front line trench to fill a gap caused by the German attack. The right of this trench was on the railway cutting, the enemy being on the other side of the cutting. The men worked magnificently and finished the task in less than two hours. As soon as it was completed the new trench was occupied by a Battalion of the Buffs. After two more nights spent on working parties the men were relieved and marched back to bivouacs in Brielen Wood. On the 2nd June orders were received to move further back, and they marched through Poperinghe to a field on the south of the town, where they spent the night and the next day, moving again on the 4th to bivouacs at Ouderdom.

The organisation of the Battalion was now to undergo a change which did not meet with universal approval amongst its members. On the 8th June it was amalgamated with the 8th Durham Light Infantry, the new Battalion being constituted as follows: Lieut.-Col. J. Turnbull, V.D. (8th D.L.I.) in command; Capt. G.A. Stevens (Royal Fusiliers), Adjutant; A Company (8th D.L.I.), Capt. T.A. Bradford; B Company (A and B Companies of 6th D.L.I.), Lieut. W.P. Gill; C Company (6th D.L.I.), Lieut. T.B. Heslop; D Company (6th D.L.I.), Capt. F.H. Livesay; Machine-gun section, 2nd Lieut. R.A. Howe (6th D.L.I.); transport section, Lieut. Ramsay (8th D.L.I.); Quartermaster, Lieut. W.M. Hope (6th D.L.I.). All supernumerary staff were sent to the base at Harfleur. At the same time the 7th Battalion became Divisional Pioneers and the 5th Battalion Loyal North Lancashire Regiment joined the 151st Brigade.

On the evening of the 11th June the new Battalion marched by Companies to dug-outs in the grounds of Kruisstraat Chateau, south of Ypres. The following day the march was resumed via the Lille gate and Maple Copse to Sanctuary Wood, where the Battalion was lent to the 149th Infantry Brigade to provide working parties for the improvement of the Hooge defences. It was during this move that the transport, on the 14th June, had its worst experience of the famous Hell Fire Corner, where it was shelled and a water cart was completely destroyed.

Wednesday, the 16th June, had been chosen for an attack on Hill 60 by the 3rd Division, the 50th Division being ordered to co-operate by making a demonstration. At 2.30 a.m. the Battalion moved into the support trenches, twenty minutes before the bombardment commenced. At 4.15 a.m. the 3rd Division assaulted, and their apparent success which could be seen from the rear was greeted with much enthusiasm by the men. About two hours later a message was received from a commanding officer in Zouave Wood that he was about to attack north-east of Hooge. Accordingly, two Companies under Major Hawdon were sent in support, the others being assembled ready to follow. The attack was cancelled, however, and at 7.30 a.m. the Battalion re-assembled in its original trenches. At night it moved up and relieved the 7th Northumberland Fusiliers in the Hooge defences. The disposition of Companies was as follows: B Company, under Lieut. Gill, were in "B9" trench. A Company, under Capt. Bradford, in "H13" and "H14" trenches; C Company, under Lieut. Heslop, in the Hooge Chateau stables; and D Company, under Capt. Livesay, in support in "H16" trench. The trenches, especially those occupied by B Company, had been much battered, and a considerable amount of work had to be done on them during the night. At this time the Chateau and stables were still standing, and though C Company were in occupation of the stables, the Germans held the Chateau, from the windows of which their snipers were able to give considerable trouble.

The following day was marked by considerable shelling, and at night a successful bombing enterprise was led against a sap head. For two days the position remained unchanged, the Battalion being engaged in repairing the trenches and carrying up rations and ammunition, till on the night of the 18th it was relieved by a Company of the 7th Northumberland Fusiliers and a Battalion of the Wiltshire Regiment, and went to F. hutments south of Vlamertinghe.

This concluded the Battalion's first tour in the "Salient."




Chapter II.

Armentieres And The Return To The "Salient."

First Phase.


On Sunday, the 20th June, the Battalion marched off from Vlamertinghe at 8.30 a.m. through Ouderdom and Locre to Dranoutre, where it went into bivouacs at Corunna Farm, being now in the II Corps commanded by Sir Charles Ferguson, who inspected and addressed the men the following day. In the evening, after their inspection, they moved up to the front line and took over the trenches from "E1" to the barricade on the Kemmel-Wytschaete Road -- a quiet sector except for trouble from snipers.

A few days after taking over, an interesting incident occurred. A notice board was put up in the German trenches bearing the words "Lemberg is taken." It was accompanied by cheering and the lighting of flares, to which the front line Companies replied by rapid fire in the direction of the board. The same day (23rd June) work was started on the mines, which were eventually blown up in the successful attack on the Wytschaete Ridge in June, 1917. Apart from this, nothing of interest occurred beyond the usual reliefs till the middle of July. An announcement which aroused considerable delight was made on the 15th July to the effect that leave to England was to be granted, two officers and three other ranks being allowed to be away at a time for periods of six and four days respectively.

On the 16th July the Battalion was relieved and moved from Kemmel at 7.30 p.m. proceeding via Dranoutre and Bailleul to Armentieres, where it arrived at 1 a.m. the next morning and went into billets at the Blue factory. The following night it moved up to relieve Battalions of the Royal Scots and Monmouths. B Company under Lieut. R.V. Hare, took over "67" trench, C Company under Lieut. T.B. Heslop, "68" trench, A Company under Capt. Ritson (8th D.L.I.), "69" trench, and D Company under Capt. Livesay, Lille Post. The sector proved to be very quiet and the trenches exceptionally good. It is interesting to note that about this time the training of bombers was organised, and 2nd Lieut. P.H.B. Lyon of the Battalion was appointed first Brigade Bombing Officer.

The men were now beginning to realize that their first taste of conditions in France was not typical of the whole front, and that war had its more pleasant side. After the "Salient," the Armentieres trenches were a picnic, and though there is little of historic interest to record concerning the tour, it formed the subject of many conversations and jests when harder times followed. Many times, probably, in the water-logged shell holes of Passchendaele in 1918 was it recalled how once at Armentieres even the duck boards were cleaned daily and men were crimed for throwing matches on them. It is not forgotten either how the Battalion Band first came into being at Houplines.

On the 11th August, the 6th and 8th Battalions once more assumed a separate identity. Major Borrett, D.S.O., the King's Own, took over command of the 6th Battalion with Capt. Jeffreys once more as Adjutant. Four days later Major Borrett left and handed over the command to Capt. Jeffreys, 2nd Lieut. P.H.B. Lyon becoming Adjutant. On this re-organization the Companies of the Battalion became known as W, X, Y, and Z. About the same time the 5th Battalion Loyal North Lancashire Regiment left the Brigade, and was replaced by the 5th Battalion Border Regiment.

Early in September, some excitement was caused by the rumour that the "Mushroom," a circular trench in the Battalion sector, was mined and likely to be blown up. Bombers of W Company patrolled it and slept in it for six nights without result. On the 25th September the heavy firing at Loos caused a little anxiety. The day after this the Battalion sector was slightly altered by the taking over of the Houplines trenches from the 12th Division. A little more excitement than usual occurred on 13th October, when a demonstration was made by the artillery and the throwing of smoke bombs.

The tour ended on the 10th November, when the Battalion was relieved and marched to billets at La Creche, near Bailleul, where it stayed for a month enjoying its first rest since embarkation.


Second Phase.

Early in December it was known that the next tour was to be once more in the "Salient." On the 17th December the Battalion entrained at Steenwercke for Poperinghe, from where it marched to Dickebusch huts, which are always remembered as being built on islands in a sea of mud. The following night another march via Kruisstraat and Zillebeke brought the men to Maple Copse where they relieved the 11th Royal Scots (9th Division). The trenches were found to consist of holes and ditches which were worked on till they were quite good and dry. It was here that arrangements were first made for the prevention of trench feet.

Sunday, the 19th December, was marked by a German gas attack north of Hooge, but the Battalion was not involved. The following day the artillery activity continued, and Lieut.-Col. Jeffreys was wounded whilst going round a new piece of the line which had been taken over from the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders. Major G.A. Stevens (8th D.L.I.) took over command, and the following day Capt. R.B. Bradford (afterwards Brig.-Gen. Bradford, V.C.) joined as Adjutant. An unusual occurrence took place on the 22nd December, when two Russians, who had been prisoners in Germany and had been working behind the line, escaped and came into the trenches in the Battalion sector. On Christmas Day the Battalion was out of the line and in the huts at Dickebusch. Capt. Bradford left on the 31st December to join the 7th Battalion, and was succeeded as Adjutant by 2nd Lieut. C.E. Yaldwyn.

On New Year's morning the Battalion had its first experience of a really heavy British bombardment of the enemy's trenches. The bombardment was so intense that it was possible to find one's way about Sanctuary Wood by the light of the gun flashes. The only other incident of importance in the first month of 1916 was the departure of the machine-gun section which, under 2nd Lieut. L. Brock, was sent to form part of the Brigade Machine Gun Company. To replace the guns, the first Lewis Guns were issued and put under the command of 2nd Lieut. J.P. Moffitt. It was also about this time that the Battalion journal, The Whizz-Bang, came into existence, edited and run by 2nd Lieut. Yaldwyn. Its illustrations by Lieut. Catford and articles were much appreciated, but, unfortunately, its publication ceased in November of the same year.

Throughout January and February there were local artillery combats which terminated with the capture of Hill 60 and "The Bluff." On the 1st March there was a demonstration at 5 p.m., which consisted of artillery and infantry fire and cheering as if for an attack. The following morning at 4.32 a.m. the 3rd Division attacked and captured International and New Year trenches and "The Bean" with over 200 prisoners. On the 18th March, the Battalion was relieved and moved to Poperinghe by train from Ypres. Four days later it returned again by train and took over the recently captured Bluff trenches from the 10th Royal Welsh Fusiliers (3rd Division). These trenches were round the edge of the Bluff crater and were in a very bad condition due to the rain and heavy shelling, and were littered with remnants of German equipment and their dead. X Company were on the right in New Year trench supported by Y Company in Gordon Post. W Company were in the centre in "The Loop," and Z Company on the left in "The Bean."

On the 27th March, at 4.15 a.m., the 3rd Division on the right attacked at St. Eloi, and during the attack the Medical Officer (Capt. White) and a party of stretcher bearers rendered valuable assistance. A few days later (2nd April) the Battalion was relieved by the Canadians, who had suffered heavily from shell fire in coming up, and moved again to Dickebusch, where there was a stay of two days before moving South to Scottish Lines at Westoutre and La Clyte.

A week later, on the 8th April, the Battalion was again in the line, this time relieving the 7th Battalion Shropshire Light Infantry in trenches N and O, in front of Wytschaete, with back area at La Clyte. These trenches were of the breastwork type. About this time there was a good deal of fighting on the left, where the Germans were trying to retake the St. Eloi craters.

On the 24th April the Battalion was relieved and marched to rest billets at Berthen. These billets were found to be farms scattered over a large area. A few days after arrival, Lieut.-Col. Jeffreys, D.S.O., returned and took over command from Lieut.-Col. Stevens, who went as Brigade Major to a Canadian Brigade. Early on the morning of the 30th the Battalion was roused by the news of a gas attack, but after standing to till daylight it was not required to move. A week later, 2nd Lieut. G. Kirkhouse was appointed Adjutant in place of 2nd Lieut. Yaldwyn, and on the 8th May the Battalion returned to La Clyte for four days working parties. The only other incidents of importance during May were an inspection by Sir Douglas Haig and the farewell inspection and address on the 16th by Brig.-Gen. Shea prior to his departure to take over command of the 30th Division. He was succeeded by Brig.-Gen. Westmorland.

On the 28th May the Battalion returned to the trenches it had left a month before, and on the 2nd June the men were able to watch the German attack between Hill 60 and Hooge and the Canadian counter-attacks on the following day. Lieut. Ebsworth, M.C., D.C.M., East Lancashire Regt., joined as Adjutant on the 7th June. During this tour the first Battalion raid was made by men of Y Company under 2nd Lieut. H.C. Annett and 2nd Lieut. J.F.G. Aubin, who was Battalion Bombing Officer. The party consisted of 24 men, including two bombing squads, and had as its object identification of the enemy on the immediate front. The night of the 6th June was chosen and the party went out as arranged. In No Man's Land they met a large enemy wiring party and their object was not attained. Three nights later, however, a German was captured, and again on the 12th the raiding party went out, this time with the object of killing Boches. They entered the enemy trench, and after doing considerable damage with bombs and rifles, returned without casualty.

Apart from these incidents the sector was on the whole quiet, except for a certain amount of sniping. The principal feature was the daily enemy bombardment with trench mortars, which lasted from one to three hours, and was on occasions very heavy. The front line, however, was thinly held and very few casualties resulted. After receiving two drafts of 190 and 110 men respectively the Battalion was relieved on 7th August by the 7th Battalion King's Own and moved to its old billets at Berthen.

This ended the second phase of its war history, and a few days later it moved South to the Somme area.




Chapter III.

The Somme.

First Phase.


On the 10th August, 1916, the Battalion entrained at Godewaersvelde, and detraining at Candas, marched to Heuzecourt and spent four days resting. The 15th, 16th and 17th were spent in marching through Vignacourt and Villers Bocage to Baizieux, where the men bivouaced in the wood. Here two accidents occurred. Major F. Walton, Second in Command, and Lieut. Ebsworth, M.C., Adjutant, were thrown from their horses and sustained broken limbs. 2nd Lieut. Kirkhouse resumed duties as Adjutant.

Nearly a month was spent in the wood, the time being devoted to training in the new wave formation for the coming offensive. It was about this time that distinguishing marks were adopted in the Division and the Battalion began to wear the red diamonds which came to be regarded with almost as much pride as the cap badge, and continued to be worn as long as the Battalion existed as a unit in France. On the 6th September Brig.-Gen. N.J.G. Cameron took over command of the Brigade. Four days later the Battalion moved to bivouacs in Becourt Wood, and there the final preparations were made for action, and amid the growing violence of the artillery preparation it moved again on the 14th September to Shelter Wood.

Zero for the second phase of the Somme battle was 6.20 a.m. on the 15th September. The 149th and 150th Infantry Brigades were then in the front line between High Wood and Martinpuich with the 151st Brigade in reserve. At zero the Battalion moved from Shelter Wood by way of Sausage Valley to an old German trench at the south-west corner of Mametz Wood. About noon a further forward move was made, Y and Z Companies to the northern edge of the wood, and W and X Companies to a position a little further forward between Mametz and Bazentin-le-Petit Woods. So far the Battalion had escaped shell fire, and the men were much interested in prisoners who were being escorted to the rear. About 11 a.m. a message was received that the 47th Division had failed to take High Wood, and that the two Brigades of the 50th Division had secured their objectives. Later came a message that the 47th Division had taken High Wood at the second attempt.

Rations arrived about 5 p.m., and whilst they were being distributed Lieut.-Col. Jeffreys returned from Brigade Headquarters with orders to move up at once. Accordingly the Battalion paraded and marched up the road to the Quarry at Bazentin-le-Petit. By this time the area was full of movement. Guns, ammunition, ration wagons and troops were everywhere moving up after the advance.

After a conference at Brigade Headquarters orders were again issued for a move, and at 9 p.m. the Battalion in fours, led by the Commanding Officer and a guide from the Northumberland Fusiliers moved from the Quarry with orders to attack from Eye and Clarke's trenches at 9.30 p.m. The attack was to be made in four waves, with the 9th Durham Light Infantry, who had been in position all the afternoon, on the right, the 6th in the centre, and the 5th Border Regiment on the left. Unfortunately the guide lost his way, and after unnecessary wandering the head of the Battalion arrived in Clarke's trench, at the junction with Bethel sap, at 9.15 p.m. After considerable difficulty, owing to ignorance of the ground, the Companies got into position. W Company, under Capt. J. Cook, was on the left of the first wave, and X Company, under Capt. W.F.E. Badcock, on the right, with Z (left) and Y (right) in support. Just as they got into Clarke's trench 2nd Lieut. Annett, commanding Y Company, was killed, and 2nd Lieut. B.J. Harvey, though wounded, took command.

At the time appointed for the attack the 5th Border Regiment could not be located, so the 6th and 9th Durham Light Infantry, after waiting about an hour, advanced. Crossing Hook trench, which had been the enemy front line in the morning and was now held by remnants of the 149th Brigade, they moved down the slope towards Starfish and Prue trenches, the first objective. They were met by a certain amount of machine-gun and rifle fire, and had a few casualties, including Capt. Badcock, who was wounded. The 6th Battalion continued to advance, however, until completely checked by machine-gun fire, and then took cover in ditches and shell holes. It was then discovered that there was a considerable gap on the right, but by moving men in that direction touch was regained with the 9th Battalion.

About 3.30 a.m. on the 16th the Commanding Officer took up Z Company to reinforce the front line, and the 5th Border Regiment also moved up at the same time. The whole line was then pushed forward and straightened. Battalion Headquarters remained in Clarke's trench.

Further orders were received to attack again at 9.15 a.m., but they never readied the Companies, and nothing happened. Things were fairly quiet during the day, and at night a shallow communication trench was dug over the ridge and attempts made to improve the forward positions. Efforts were also made to collect the Battalion into Companies, but on the 17th the only parties under the control of Headquarters were half of W Company, under Capt. Cook, part of X Company, under Lieut. Harriss, a Platoon of Z Company, under Lieut. W.B. Hansell, and Y Company, in reserve in a sunken road, under 2nd Lieuts. McVicker and Richardson. It was known that other isolated groups were in positions in the front line. One of these was organised for defence under orders of Private B. McLinden of X Company, who subsequently received the Military Medal.

The chief obstacle to a further advance was an enemy strong point called the Crescent. Accordingly a party was organised to attack it, consisting of two bombing squads, one each from the 6th and 8th Battalions under 2nd Lieut. J.F.G. Aubin, now Brigade Bombing Officer. Leaving by way of Crescent Alley at 6 p.m., they met with considerable shell fire and were disorganised. Re-forming, however, they went out again with the same result. The shelling proved to be the preliminary to an attack on the 150th Brigade, which was beaten off, Y Company being used to assist their neighbours with Lewis guns.

The following day (18th) was misty, and it was thought that the Germans were evacuating Starfish trench. An attack was therefore ordered to occupy it. This attack was made by the 6th Battalion on the left and the 9th on the right, each providing 100 men. 2nd Lieut. W. Little, with 50 men of W Company, composed the Battalion's front line, and 2nd Lieut. W.F. Charlton, with 50 of Z Company, the supporting line. A few men of other Companies were also mixed with these two lines. Shortly after starting they came under heavy machine-gun fire and had a number of casualties, including 2nd Lieut. Charlton, who was killed. Some of the party returned to their line during the day and others at night. All who had been near the enemy trench reported it to be strongly held.

During the morning Y Company were sent up to relieve W, X and Z Companies in the front line. Owing to the trenches being very muddy after rain, and at all places very shallow, this was a difficult operation. To add to the difficulty the 8th Battalion began to arrive to relieve the Battalion before the Company relief was complete. However, they at last got out and moved back to 6th Avenue East and the intermediate line, where two days were spent in cleaning up. Here Lieut. Ebsworth rejoined as Adjutant, and the officers and men who had been left at the transport lines also came up.

On the 20th September, the Battalion moved further back to shelter in Mametz Wood, where a draft of 50 men from the 2/6th Battalion, Essex Regiment, joined. After four days' rest it again went forward to the intermediate line. The same day Major Wilkinson, of the 149th Machine Gun Company, joined as second in command. The following night the whole Battalion turned out to dig a jumping-off trench. Lieut.-Col. Jeffreys took them as far as the Battalion Headquarters of the 5th Durham Light Infantry from where Lieut. Ebsworth and a guide led them to the position. The guide lost his way, and after wandering about nearly all night, the Battalion returned without doing any work.

On the 26th September Lieut.-Col. Jeffreys left the Battalion to proceed to England for three months' rest, and Major Wilkinson took over command. The following day a move was made to Hook trench, where the men lived in small shelters and provided working parties at nights. This trench was on the sky line, and as a result received considerable attention from the enemy gunners. To prevent casualties, and also to provide more room, two Companies were pushed forward on the 28th to Starfish trench. From these positions, in the afternoon, the Battalion relieved the 9th Battalion in the front line. The relief was observed, and the communication trench shelled. The disposition of Companies was, from right to left: Y, Z, W, X, each Company having two Platoons in the front line (North Durham Street) and two Platoons in the support line (South Durham Street). At night they occupied battle positions, and extended the trench they occupied by 150 to 300 yards. The 9th Battalion was in support in Crescent Alley. On the left were the 5th Border Regiment, and on the right the 47th Division, but it was not possible to get into touch with the flanks during the night. The Company Commanders were now W Company, 2nd Lieut. Barnett; X Company, 2nd Lieut. Lean; Y Company, Lieut. Catford; and Z Company, Capt. Peberdy. By dawn all preparations, including the alteration of watches to winter time, were completed for the attack, which had been ordered for the 1st October.

The preliminary bombardment commenced at 7 a.m. and continued till zero (3.15 p.m.), when it changed to a barrage. Unfortunately there were some casualties from shells falling short, the total casualties for the day being about 40, including the Commanding Officer wounded. Lieut.-Col. R.B. Bradford, now commanding the 9th Battalion, asked for and was given permission to take command of the two Battalions, and for his subsequent work that day was awarded the V.C. He arrived at Battalion Headquarters at zero, and at once went up to the front line.

The attack commenced at 3.15 p.m., but, partly on account of the failure of the 47th Division on the right, and partly owing to the wire not being properly cut, the attackers were held up by machine-gun fire and suffered heavy casualties. After considerable fighting with bombs and rifles three Lewis gun teams of X Company, under 2nd Lieut. T. Little and 2nd Lieut. C.L. Tyerman, and one team of W Company under 2nd Lieut. Barnett, succeeded in getting a footing in the first objective. These organised the position and carried on bombing attacks, 2nd Lieut. Little being killed. During these operations Lieut.-Col. Bradford arrived on the scene, and immediately took charge of the situation, and under his direction and leadership the whole of the first objective was gained. A Company of the 9th Battalion then came up, and using the new position as a starting point, advanced and took the final objective after dark.

About dusk a counter-attack was attempted by the enemy on the right front. Advancing in extended order, about twenty of the enemy were challenged, and they all cheered, shouting "Hooray." As they showed no further friendly signs they were fired on and driven off. During the night a further counter-attack developed from the valley on the right, but this also was repulsed.

The following day, by organised bombing, the whole of the final objective was captured and held, and communication trenches were dug back to North Durham Street.

The casualties during the two days had been very heavy, and included amongst the officers, in addition to those already mentioned, 2nd Lieut. Peacock, killed, and 2nd Lieut. Lean, Capt. Peberdy, Lieut. Cotching, 2nd Lieut. Barnett and 2nd Lieut. Appleby wounded. Amongst the decorations gained were Military Medals awarded to Corporal Dixon and Privates Rushforth and Atkinson, all signallers, and Private Turnbull of Y Company. Good work was also done by Sergeants Gowland and Winslow.

On the night of the 2nd October Lieut.-Col. Bradford handed over the command of the Battalion to Lieut. Ebsworth, and it was relieved by the 7th Northumberland Fusiliers the night after. Owing to the mud the relief did not commence until 4 a.m., and it was almost dawn before the Battalion reached Headquarters, from where it was led by Lieut. Ebsworth to Starfish trench. Here it was joined by R.S.M. Perry and the C.S.M.'s and a draft which had been used as a carrying party. The officers left were Lieut. Ebsworth, 2nd Lieut. Kirkhouse, Adjutant; 2nd Lieut. K.B. Stuart, Signalling Officer, and 2nd Lieut. Tyerman; the Medical Officer, Capt. J.G. Hill, arrived later.

After a short rest the Battalion marched back to bivouacs in Becourt Wood for one night.


Second Phase.

On the 4th October, the Battalion moved back to tents in Henencourt Wood, where drafts arrived, and remained for three weeks, reorganising and training. The Company Commanders were now: -- W Company, 2nd Lieut. A.S. Tate; X Company, 2nd Lieut. J.H.F. Ludgate; Y Company, 2nd Lieut. R.H. Stewart; and Z Company, 2nd Lieut. C.L. Tyerman.

At the end of this period, on the 23rd October, the Battalion left the Wood and marched back to Becourt, where two days were spent in tents. On the 25th October the men were on the move again over familiar ground and soon found themselves in tents just outside Mametz Wood. After a week spent on working parties they moved up to the front line, W Company, now under 2nd Lieut. R.H. Wharrier, being in front in Snag trench and the other three Companies in close support in the Flers line. On the night of Saturday, the 4th November, X, Y and Z Companies took over the front line in preparation for an attack on the Butte de Warlencourt on the Sunday morning. Zero had been fixed for 9.15 a.m. and the relief was not complete, owing to the extremely bad state of the trenches, till 9 a.m. The Battalion was disposed for the attack with X Company on the right, Y in the centre, Z on the left and W in support, with the 9th Battalion on the left flank and the 8th on the right. This fateful day, 5th November, proved to be the most disastrous the Battalion had yet passed through. The enemy position was exceptionally strong, the trenches from which the attack started were so muddy that several men were drowned in them, and the time for preparation was so short that the attack broke down almost as soon as it had started. The casualties were very heavy, and included amongst the officers 2nd Lieut. K.B. Stuart, 2nd Lieut. Fell, 2nd Lieut. A.S. Ritson, 2nd Lieut. S. Robson, 2nd Lieut. T.F. Applegarth, and 2nd Lieut. G.W. Robson, all killed, and all the remaining Company officers, except 2nd Lieut. Wharrier, wounded. Amongst the honours awarded were the M.C. to 2nd Lieut. Wharrier and the Military Medal to L.-Cpl. H. Cruddace, who was also promoted to be sergeant. A monument was afterwards erected on the Butte to the memory of those of the Battalion who fell on this day.

On the following night the Battalion was relieved by the 5th Battalion and went back to Mametz Wood, where it stayed till the end of the month supplying working parties daily. Several new officers joined here, including Lieut.-Col. H.M. Allen, Black Watch, who took over command; Lieut. (now Major) Ebsworth becoming Second in Command.

Towards the end of the month came rumours of a rest, and on the 30th the Battalion marched off once more to Becourt, where it was this time accommodated in huts. After a night there it marched back to billets at Warloy, where it stayed during the whole of December, training and resting. The rest was thoroughly enjoyed by all ranks. On Christmas Day sports were held which included a mounted officers' race won by Lieut. H.T. Bircham, M.C., transport officer.

On New Year's Day the Battalion was on its way back to the line. The first day's march took it to billets in Albert, the billets being partially destroyed houses. The following day the march was resumed to a hut camp near the quarry at Bazentin-le-Petit, well known to the few remaining survivors of the 15th September. After a few days in this camp, troubled only by an occasional shell, a move was made into High Wood West camp, a cheerless place consisting of black tarpaulin huts. From this and a similar camp across the valley (High Wood East) the Battalion did two tours in the front line at Factory Corner, where the line consisted of more or less isolated posts. The support line, where a few days were spent, was just in front of Flers. During these tours the weather was exceedingly cold and the men suffered considerably, both in the line and in the camp. There was also a considerable amount of shell fire. Parties carrying up rations and pushing trolleys up the light railway from Clarke's Dump had several casualties, and on one occasion the camp was hit and all the signallers who had been left out of the line for training became casualties. In the line itself the only outstanding incident happened to a patrol which found itself surrounded one night, but succeeded in getting back safely. Towards the end of the month came rumours of relief, and on the 24th January the Division was relieved by the 1st Australian Division. The Battalion came out to a new hut camp on the Beaver Road, between the Bazentin and Mametz Woods. The next day it marched to Becourt Camp, the air being full of rumours as to the future.

It soon became known, however, that the Division was moving south to take over a section of the line hitherto held by the French, still in the Somme area, just south of Peronne. From Becourt the Battalion continued its march to Ribemont. The march was uneventful except for the fact that the two rear Companies took a wrong turning, and after a roundabout journey arrived late at the halting place for dinner. At Ribemont it stayed for about three weeks, during which training was carried out, the men being accommodated in barns. Col. Allen was still in command with Lieut. T.J. Arnott (Gordon Highlanders) as Adjutant. There was little of interest during this period and, on the whole, everybody was pleased when the move was resumed to huts at Hamel. After a few days there the Battalion marched to billets at Proyart, where Lieut.-Col. J.W. Jeffreys, D.S.O., returned and took over command. Again, in three or four days it marched to Foucaucourt, where it was in Divisional Reserve. This village, which had at one time been in the front line system, was practically nothing but ruins and the Battalion was accommodated in a large camp of French huts, fitted with wire beds, each hut holding about 150 men. Here, final preparations were made for the line, which was visited by officers who reported that the trenches were dry and in good condition. It was very frosty weather at this time, but unfortunately before the Battalion moved up a thaw had set in. The relief of the 5th Yorkshire Regiment will never be forgotten by those of the Battalion who took part in it. Following on the methods adopted by the French the relief took place through very long communication trenches, running from Estrees through Berny to the line in front of Misery. These trenches, as a result of the thaw, were everywhere knee deep in mud and usually waist deep, and men arrived in the line without boots and in a few cases without trousers, having lost them in the mud. The experiences of X Company were perhaps the worst. Leaving camp at about 5 p.m., then 130 strong, they were met by guides, who lost their way, and eventually arrived in the front line at dawn, having lost over 100 men stuck in the mud. The relief was not reported complete till 4 p.m. the next day. The front line trenches were worse if possible than the communication trenches, and the days that followed were most unpleasant. There was very little cover from enemy snipers, who were pretty active, and there were several casualties from fishtail trench mortars. One night was marked by a very intense "strafe" for a short time with rifle grenades and trench mortars. It afterwards appeared that this was the enemy's parting shot, for soon after the Division was relieved the enemy's extensive retirement on this sector took place. After two tours in the front line, one in support in trenches round Berny, and one in reserve at Foucaucourt, the Battalion was relieved early in March by the 2/5th South Staffordshire Regiment (59th Division), who had just come from Ireland and had not previously seen any fighting in France. On relief the Battalion returned to Foucaucourt.

Towards the end of the tour Lieut.-Col. Jeffreys left the Battalion for a few days in hospital, during which time Major Little, of the 5th Border Regiment, and Major Crouch of the 9th Durham Light Infantry, both held command. He returned, however, when the Battalion came out of the line.

This ended the tour in the Somme region, but the Battalion did not leave the area till the end of the month, the period being spent in huts at Morcourt, where an energetic programme of training and sports was carried out. The principal feature of the sports was the success of members of the Battalion, including Sergt. Young and Ptes. Nimney and Moody in the Brigade and Divisional boxing contests. Although there were no outstanding incidents to record of this training, Morcourt seems to mark one of those turning points in the history of the Battalion from which all subsequent events date. So many small things occurred there that it was remarked by later comers that it appeared to them that the Morcourt training must have lasted for months. One event, however, can be pointed to as a turning point. On the 25th March, Lieut.-Col. Jeffreys, who had never fully recovered from the wounds received in Sanctuary Wood, was ordered to return to England on account of ill-health, and handed over command to Major W.D. Carswell Hunt, M.C., of the 7th Durham Light Infantry. Colonel Jeffreys' personal influence and fighting qualities, strongly reflected even in his absence in those officers who had received their early training under him, had been largely responsible for the reputation and the success of the Battalion during its first two years of fighting and his departure was greatly regretted by all ranks.

A few days after he left, the Battalion was on the move to take part in the battle which was about to begin at Arras.




Chapter IV.

Arras.

First Phase.


From Morcourt the Battalion moved by motor 'buses through Amiens to Talmas preparatory to a long trek on foot. The first two nights were spent at Wargnies and Havernas. Here a famous Church Parade was held, at which the Commanding Officer, in the absence of a Chaplain, preached his first and, as it proved, his last sermon. From there the Battalion marched to Longuevillette and then to Vacquerie-le-Bourcq, spending a night at each place. About this time Lieut. Arnott left the Battalion and Lieut. G.D.R. Dobson (7th Durham Light Infantry) became Adjutant. The next day Blangerval and Blangermont were reached and a short stay made, half the Battalion being accommodated in each village. From here Major Hunt went up by car to see the forward area and died of heart failure on the journey. He was brought back to St. Pol, where he was buried in the cemetery, representatives of several battalions forming the funeral procession. Major A. Ebsworth, M.C., took over command.

When the march was resumed the direction was changed, and, moving eastwards, billets were reached at Neuville-au-Cornet. Rumours were now spreading of the forthcoming battle and a further march to Villers-sur-Simon left no doubt that the Battalion would be involved. These were the last billets occupied by the men, the next portion of the trek bringing them to huts at Montenescourt, about six miles due west of Arras. Here Lieut.-Col. F.W. Robson, D.S.O. (5th Yorkshire Regiment) arrived to take over the command, which he held for nearly a year.

On the evening of the 11th April, in a blinding snowstorm, the Battalion moved forward to the fight. Marching through Arras, they came to the caves at Ronville. These caves were like nothing seen before. Excavated by Spanish prisoners in the middle ages to provide stone for the building of the city, they extended over an enormous area, and were capable of holding thousands of men. The sensation of finding oneself in this huge underground town, complete with electric light and water supply, after stumbling down a long, uneven stairway, will not be forgotten by those who survive.

After one night here, the caves had to be evacuated next morning to make room for more troops coming up. The Germans had now been driven back as far as Wancourt, which was captured the previous day. On leaving the caves, cellars in Ronville village were occupied. No sooner were the men in, however, than orders were received to move further forward. The Battalion paraded on the road leading to Beaurains, which was crowded with vehicles and men, and marched off in the afternoon. After their experiences of trench warfare the sight of open, rolling country, the scene of yesterday's fighting, was very strange and, to some, invigorating. Passing through the ruins of Beaurains and Neuville Vitasse, the route turned across country towards Wancourt, and about dusk the Battalion reached a sunken road, where it halted. Owing to a delay in the arrival of the Lewis gun limbers, the Lewis gunners were behind the rest of the Battalion, and some difficulty was experienced by them in locating the sunken road. Up to this point there had been no firing or signs of activity. After a conference of Commanding Officers a relief of the 14th Division was arranged. W, X and Y Companies moved a little further up and occupied Niger and Nepal trenches, which were some distance behind the front line, and Z Company were sent to dig a trench a little further forward near Wancourt cemetery. Here they remained for the day. At night detailed orders were received for an attack at dawn, the Battalion's frontage being near Wancourt Tower.

At 1 a.m. on the 14th April the men moved to the assembly position in the dry bed of the Cojeul River, with the 8th Battalion in support and 5th Border Regiment in reserve, the 9th Battalion being already in a line just south of Guemappe. The original orders had now been considerably altered, and zero hour arrived before fresh orders had been circulated to the Companies. The result was that at 4.30 a.m., after moving in file from the assembly position to a bank, some 200 yards in front, the Battalion advanced under a barrage in four waves of Companies, W being front and Z in rear, with no orders except a rough indication of the direction.

As they advanced they were met by very heavy machine-gun fire from the front and from Guemappe in their left rear. W and X Companies reached the ridge 500 yards from the starting point, and passing down the other side, were not seen again during the day. Y and Z Companies also reached the ridge, but could get no further. Later they were joined by the 8th Battalion, which was also held up.

The fighting then died down, but apart from one brief message from X Company no trace could be found of the two front Companies, and the casualties in the remaining two were very heavy. To add to the confusion, the 56th Division on the right had lost direction, and men of the London Regiment were everywhere mixed with those of the 50th Division.

At dusk orders were received that the line on the ridge would be taken over by the London Rifle Brigade. As soon as the light permitted search was made for W and X Companies. Eventually the remnants consisting of 4 officers and about 20 men were discovered. Having reached a small system of trenches, they had organised their defence and successfully beaten off determined attempts to surround them. About 80 men were finally assembled after the relief, and more joined the Battalion during the next few days, but the casualties amounted to over 200, or more than 50 per cent, of the total fighting strength. The officers killed were Capt. Brock, Lieut. Richardson, and 2nd Lieuts. Greener, Payne and Newton, whilst many were wounded. Capts. R.S. Johnson and H. Walton, commanding W and X Companies, were subsequently awarded the Military Cross, and Corporal Betts the D.C.M. and Croix de Guerre.

After burying as many bodies as could be recovered, the remnants of the Battalion moved back to dug-outs in the Hindenburg Line on Telegraph Hill, which were reached, after a roundabout march, at dawn.

From these dug-outs the Battalion returned next day to the caves at Ronville, where it was re-organised and re-equipped ready for further action. After four days' rest it again moved up, on the 21st April, this time to dug-outs in the trench system known as "The Harp," the Q.M. Stores remaining in Arras, where on the 22nd April Lieut. Lewis, acting Q.M., was killed by a shell. In "The Harp" fighting stores were issued, as the Battalion was to be in reserve for the attack on the 23rd April. At zero hour, just at dawn on that date, St. George's Day, the bombardment commenced, and the sight of the gun flashes against the red sky as the Battalion moved forward will not readily be forgotten. After two halts in sunken roads orders were received to occupy Niger trench once more, but by this time the fighting had died down. Although constantly on the alert, no further orders were received, and after two nights there, the Battalion was relieved by the 14th Division and returned to Telegraph Hill. One night was spent there, and the following day, the 27th, it entrained at Arras for Mondicourt, from where it marched to billets at Humbercourt, arriving about 3 a.m.

Here a few days were spent resting and training, and on the 1st May a march was ordered to Berles-au-Bois, which was found to be a village of ruins without inhabitants. After one night there the Battalion marched to Riviere-Grosville, where the billets were quite good. Here Lieut. G.D.R. Dobson went to hospital, and Lieut. R.B. Ainsworth became Adjutant. Two or three days were spent there, and on the 3rd May a return was made to Humbercourt. Here very pleasant days were spent in training, particularly those on the range at Lucheux Forest, where elaborate field firing schemes were carried out.

After about a fortnight there the Battalion was ordered up in reserve for an attack by the 33rd Division and marched to Monchy-au-Bois, where the accommodation was found to consist of an open field in which was a trench line and much wire. Shelters were erected of ground sheets, and a few tents obtained, and in these the men lived for five days, training being continued. Their services were not required in the line, however, and they marched back to Laherliere. Here a long stay was expected, but the following day the journey was resumed to Souastre, where the Battalion spent perhaps the most enjoyable month in its history. The men were accommodated in a hut camp built round a large parade and sports ground. As a result of easy training, plenty of recreation and fine weather, the moral of the men reached a very high level.


Second Phase.

On the 15th June the Battalion returned to hold the line which it had helped to gain in April. Leaving Souastre, it marched to support at a camp near Henin-sur-Cojeul. There was practically no accommodation here and ground sheets had to be used as shelters. The following day it relieved the 10th Battalion Essex Regiment in the front line, just south of the Cojeul River Valley, opposite Cherisy. After four days in this sector it went out to Divisional reserve near Boisleux-au-Mont, where, on the 27th June, it was visited by Col. the Hon. W.L. Vane, the Honorary Colonel of the Battalion. A regular system of reliefs, which lasted for three months, now commenced. Under this system the Battalion had two periods of four days in the front line and one in support at Henin or Neuville Vitasse, followed by eight days in reserve in camp near Mercatel. The weather was good on the whole, and the trenches in excellent condition. The enemy was only moderately active and there were very few casualties. One of the Battalion areas in this sector was the bank from which the attack started on the 14th April, and whilst there a cross was erected to the memory of those who fell on that day.

As a result of their long stay here, the men became very familiar with the whole area, and their experiences in the communication trenches, Foster Avenue, Shikar Lane, Kestrel Avenue, Avenue Trench and others were talked of for long after. Neither did they forget Lone Sap, from which the enemy captured two of their comrades, Cable Trench, which was raided by a party under 2nd Lieut. B.R. Leatherbarrow, Concrete Trench, the Hindenburg Line, the caves in Marliere Village, which on one occasion produced some interesting souvenirs left by the Boches, and many other localities.

Apart from minor raids and counter-raids, the only outstanding incident was the double raid of the 15th September. This operation was carried out by the 9th Durham Light Infantry in the afternoon and repeated by the 8th Durham Light Infantry in the evening. The Battalion was holding the sector immediately on the right of the raiders, and its function was to draw the enemy's attention and fire by the exhibition of dummy figures and a dummy tank, which were later on view at the United Services Museum in Whitehall. 2nd Lieut. Leatherbarrow was in charge of these dummies, assisted by Sergeant P. Finn, who was awarded the Military Medal for his work.

Other decorations earned during this period were Military Medals awarded to Corporal Nesbitt and Private Allison of X Company for digging out a man buried by shell fire, under very dangerous conditions.

Apart from good work in the line not only in patrolling, etc., but also in improving the trenches till they were probably as good as any on the whole front, considerable work was done on the erection of reserve camps and horse standings. It was with some regret therefore that when at Northumberland Lines, a very comfortable hut camp near Mercatel, the men heard that they were to leave the area before the winter.

Early in October they marched to a canvas camp at Gomiecourt, just off the main Bapaume road, and stayed there a short time training. The arrival of representatives from Divisions in the "Salient," to instruct in the methods adopted in the recent successful fighting there, left no doubts as to the next move.




Chapter V.

Return To The "Salient."


About the end of October the Battalion marched one night to Bapaume, where it entrained for Esquelbecq, north-west of Cassel. On detraining it marched to billets at Eringhem for two nights. From there the march was continued to Arneke, and there the men were told that a short stay would be made, but early the next day orders were received to march to Proven, just inside the Belgian frontier. On the road, however, fresh orders were received, and the latter part of the journey, from Wormhoudt, was done by train.

On arrival at Proven the Battalion occupied Piddington Camp on the Poperinghe road, and incidentally, renewed the acquaintance of Belgian mud. After one night there it moved for the next night to bivouacs known as Sarawak Camp, in the woods north of Poperinghe. This will probably be remembered as one of the dirtiest camps ever occupied. The last stage of the journey eastwards was done by train from Proven to Boesinghe. Arriving at the latter place in the morning, the men proceeded to Hulls Farm Camp close by, on the Ypres road. This camp was occupied, however, by the 4th Battalion Northumberland Fusiliers, which was moving up in the afternoon to take part in an attack along the Ypres-Staden railway north of Poelcapelle. Whilst lying in an open field waiting to occupy the camp a visit was received from a squadron of Gotha bombing planes, and about 20 casualties were suffered. About 5 p.m. the camp was taken over. Here the Battalion remained for three days, and had considerable experience of Hun aeroplane bombs, fortunately without further casualties. Exceptionally large working parties were demanded on each of the three nights, and their experiences were perhaps worse than those of the tour in the line which was to follow.

The third battle of Ypres was still in progress at this time, and Passchendaele had not yet been taken. On the front between the railway and Houthulst Forest, due north of Poelcapelle, the 149th Infantry Brigade had attacked and advanced the line slightly. A further attack by battalions of the 150th Brigade had partially failed, and about the beginning of November the battalion moved up to occupy the left sector of the line which was just inside the forest.

The journey up to the front line was far from pleasant. After crossing the canal it consisted of a six-mile walk along a duck-board track across one of the most devastated areas on the whole front, and to add to the difficulties, the enemy's artillery was very active. Owing to lack of roads for the transport, each man carried four days' rations. The position consisted of a series of water-logged shell holes, which were troubled considerably by low-flying aeroplanes. Battalion headquarters were in a pill-box known as Egypt House, which received very assiduous attention from the Boche gunners.

As it had been decided to make no further attack on this sector, though an improved position was desired, the nights were spent in pushing forward the posts as far as possible under cover of darkness. This was done very successfully, and the battalion line was advanced during the tour by 200 yards with very few casualties. Several decorations were obtained for this work including the Bar to the Military Cross to Capt. J.F.G. Aubin, M.C., commanding Y Company; and the Military Cross to Capt. P.H.B. Lyon, commanding X Company. Sergts. Britton and Cruddace were awarded Bars to the Military Medal.

After four days in the line, orders were received to move back to the neighbourhood of the canal for two days and then return. In view of the dangerous nature of reliefs, however, an alteration was asked for and obtained, and the Battalion completed its tour of six days. On relief by the 9th Battalion, it moved to Marsouin Farm Camp, near Pilkem, and spent a very unpleasant morning under fire from high velocity shells. Fortunately there were no casualties, and in the afternoon after the relief it again moved to a camp at Elverdinghe for a few nights.

From there it entrained to Watten, and marched to billets at Houlle. Here a very enjoyable month was spent. The maltery, where W and X Companies were billeted, was one of the best billets they had been in for some time. The great feature of this month's training was the sports. After winning the Brigade Football and Cross Country Cups, the battalion won a great triumph by obtaining the Divisional Cross Country Shield. This was given to the unit which had the largest proportion of its ration strength over the course in a certain time. The percentage obtained, 64 per cent., reflected the high state of efficiency to which the Battalion had now attained. For this high standard, a large amount of credit was due to R.S.M. G. Perry, D.C.M., who was unfortunately compelled by ill-health to leave the Battalion at Houlle, and subsequently went home, after nearly three years' active service. At his best on the parade ground and in his lectures on the history of his Regiment, his influence continued to be felt long after his departure, especially as he was succeeded by one whom he had trained in soldiering, C.S.M. J. Taylor, of X Company.

During the first week in December the visit of officers to the line disclosed the new sector to be taken over, which included Passchendaele village, recently captured by the Canadians. A few days later the Battalion entrained at Watten for Brandhoek, where it spent a short time in a hut camp in Divisional reserve. From there it marched up through Ypres to a camp just west of Potijze Wood, the scene of its first action in April, 1915. After two days there a further move was made to the forward area, into a number of shelters known as the Seine area. The next step was to the front line, which consisted of a series of shell hole positions on the Passchendaele Ridge. Not only were these uncomfortably wet, but they were very difficult to locate in the dark, and many will remember the trouble experienced in selecting the routes from the heap of debris of what had once been the village church. Battalion Headquarters were in a German pill-box known as Hamburg. Four days were spent in the front line, and the Battalion then went to Divisional reserve again at Brandhoek. After another tour in the line, it again moved to Brandhoek on Christmas Day, and there completed the 24 days which entitled it to a similar period of rest and training. The whole tour had been without any exciting incidents, and casualties were small, in spite of persistent shelling which made the duck-board tracks (H, K, R.A.M.C., tracks, etc.) very unpleasant. The Christmas at Brandhoek was thoroughly enjoyed by the men. On Boxing Day a Christmas dinner was provided, consisting of turkeys, puddings, port wine, beer, etc., the orderly work being done by the N.C.O.'s, and the carving by the officers. A visit was paid to the Battalion here by the Corps Commander (Lieut-Gen. Sir Aylmer Hunter-Weston), who congratulated the men on their appearance and bearing immediately after an uncomfortable trench tour.

From Brandhoek the Battalion moved by 'bus to the Steenvoorde area, where it was accommodated in very scattered billets for about ten days, during which it was training and resting. It then entrained at Eecke for Wizernes, near St. Omer, and marched to billets at Acquin. A stay of about a fortnight there was occupied in the use of an exceptionally good training area. A return was then made to the former front line, and detraining again at Brandhoek, the Battalion went this time to another hut camp known as Toronto. A similar system of reliefs as before was carried out and the tour was divided up into short periods at Brandhoek, St. Jean, and the Passchendaele sector. The line was somewhat quieter than on the previous occasion. The route to and from the trenches was now a new track called Judah track, a stretch of about three miles, which reflected great credit on the Pioneer Battalions. From Brandhoek to St. Jean and the return journeys were usually done by 'bus or light railway. The tour ended with a night in the cellars in the town of Ypres, and from there the Battalion marched to Ypres station and entrained to Wizernes again, and so to billets in St. Martin-au-Laert, a suburb of St. Omer. These billets were very good, and the advantage of being near a town was fully appreciated. The story of the Battalion would not be complete without a reference to the band, which, under the direction of Sergt. T.O. Hann, M.M., had reached a very high standard, and was second to none in the Division. With the buglers, whose smart appearance attracted much attention, a selection of music was played in the town daily at "Retreat." At this time, also, the Battalion concert party, the "Red Diamonds," trained by Capt. Cardew and Capt. Lyon, provided several very good entertainments.

It was now March, and the great enemy offensive on the Somme was expected. After three weeks, the rest was abruptly terminated by orders to entrain for Amiens, and about the second week in March the Battalion marched off from St. Martin, and entrained at Arques. At this time it was perhaps as efficient as any on the Western front, having had few casualties during the past year, and also having had a large proportion of rest and training. The officers knew their men both in and out of the line, and it was confidently expected that in the coming active operations great credit would be earned -- but the overwhelming disasters of the next three months were never anticipated.




Chapter VI.

The Somme, The Lys And The Aisne.

First Phase.


On detraining at Longeau, the Battalion marched to billets in Corbie, where it stayed for one night. The following day it moved to the south of the main Amiens-Peronne road to Marcelcave, and was then in Fifth Army Reserve. Here, for about a fortnight the finishing touches were put to the training. Included in the programme were the final stages of the Army Rifle Association competition, in which No. 6 Platoon were defeated by a Platoon of the 8th Durham Light Infantry in the final of the Brigade contest. The officers were taken up to certain areas near Peronne, where the Battalion might have to deliver counter-attacks in the event of a German success. About the middle of March rumours of the impending attack became more numerous, and the intelligence reports containing prisoners' statements, etc., were not reassuring. At last, the date of the attack, the 21st March, became fairly certain, and the drum fire heard in the distance on that day was not unexpected.

Orders were issued during the morning for a "stand-to" in readiness to move at very short notice, and about 3.45 p.m. instructions were received to entrain at Gouzeaucourt. In less than an hour the Battalion was on the march, the transport moving at the same time by road. After a short journey it detrained in the pitch dark at Brie, where Lewis guns, etc., were placed on lorries, the orders being to move into billets near Peronne. Whilst waiting for guides, however, a staff officer of the Division arrived with fresh orders. Instead of proceeding to billets the Battalion was to move straight into the fight. The Lewis guns were removed from the lorries and replaced by blankets, and the Battalion marched off in the direction of Tincourt. Just to the south of that village and in front of Beuzy a reserve system of partially dug trenches, known as the Green Line, was at once occupied. This line was the next defence system behind the Brown Line, where the 66th and other Divisions had been overwhelmed in the morning. On the morning of the 22nd March the men watched with interest tanks moving up to counter-attack, but on the whole things were quiet. In the afternoon the shelling became heavier, and in the distance large massed bodies of the enemy could be seen. The first contact occurred when a German scout was wounded and captured by a patrol. Orders were then received that the line was to be held at all costs. The apparent strength of the position, however, inspired confidence, and it was not till towards dusk that the first serious casualties occurred.

About 9 p.m. further orders were received to withdraw to a ridge in the rear, in front of Cardigny. The movement was successfully carried out in the dark, and at dawn the new position was reconnoitred and the dispositions completed. At 7 a.m. the startling orders were received that the Fifth Army was about to withdraw to the west of the Somme, and detailed instructions as to the rearguard action were issued. The Battalion was to cover the retirement of the 5th Durham Light Infantry, which would in turn cover a further withdrawal. Accordingly the village of Cardigny was occupied with a view to a temporary stand. No sooner was this done than the enemy were on the outskirts and their snipers and machine guns were giving considerable trouble. The position soon became untenable, and permission was obtained to withdraw. This was done without loss, largely owing to the courage of Y Company, who, under Capt. J.F.G. Aubin, M.C., formed the rearguard to the Battalion.

The next line of defence was a trench system on a ridge near Le Mesnil, which overlooked the Somme to the rear. Here things were quiet, though it was known that the enemy was working round the flanks, through Peronne on the left and Le Mesnil on the right. There was still a considerable amount of transport on the east of the river, and it was expected that a fight would follow to allow this to get away. After about two hours, however, orders came to cross the river by the Eterpigny footbridge. A route was taken across country towards this bridge, but there being no gap through the marshes and undergrowth, the Battalion was forced to turn aside through Le Mesnil village and, incidentally, to pass under a light shrapnel barrage. It was not known that the village was in the enemy's hands, but as soon as Z Company, who were leading, had reached the far side, the remaining Companies were attacked. Again Y Company distinguished itself, as did W and X Companies. They at once deployed, and though driven towards the marshes, successfully checked the enemy and eventually followed Z Company over the partially destroyed footbridge, about 300 yards long, with the loss of only two officers, Lieut. D.F. Charlton (killed) and 2nd Lieut. A. Dobson (prisoner), and about 20 men. For his action Capt. J.F.G. Aubin, M.C., was awarded the D.S.O.

When all the Companies had been assembled on the west of the river a line was formed, along with the remnants of another Division, overlooking the marshes. By this time the day's fighting had died down, and things remained fairly quiet throughout the night.

Early on the following morning, the 24th March, orders were received to withdraw the Battalion to Foucaucourt. The Companies were therefore assembled on the road and marched back by the main Amiens-Peronne road to an old prisoners of war camp near Foucaucourt village. Further orders awaited them there to be ready to move up again, and in about two hours they were again marching eastwards. About 8 p.m. they were again in position, in reserve, in a line north-east of Estrees.

The next morning the Battalion was hurriedly assembled and moved to Genermont, south of the main road, coming under the orders of the General Commanding the 8th Division. The situation here appeared to be very serious, as the enemy was advancing rapidly. Without any very definite orders the Battalion moved in artillery formation towards Marchelepot, but before reaching it the 8th Division, who were holding the line, had retired to the railway behind the village. Gaps along the line of the railway were accordingly filled by W and Z Companies, but it soon became necessary to put in Y Company also. No further developments occurred till about 5 p.m., when Y Company on the right found that the 24th Division on their right was withdrawing to Chaulnes ridge. A defensive flank was formed, and X Company moved to the north-east of Hyencourt to deliver a counter-attack if necessary. For a couple of hours the prospect looked very black, but the enemy did not press his advantage, and about 7 p.m. orders were received to withdraw the Battalion to a line of old trenches south-east of Pressoire. Here a quiet night was spent, with only a few casualties from shell fire.

About 9 a.m. the next day the enemy renewed his attacks and a hurried withdrawal of the whole of the 8th Division was ordered. The instructions which reached the Battalion were somewhat confused, but along with the Battalions of the 24th Infantry Brigade they moved from the trenches in artillery formation, and passing through the ruins of Lihons -- which was under observation, and consequently was heavily shelled as the men passed through it -- continued the withdrawal almost to Rosieres. About a mile south-east of that village a line was formed, but no further attack took place. In this position the Battalion had the 2nd Northants on its left and a Labour Battalion on its right.

At 9.30 a.m. the next day (the 27th) the Labour Battalion withdrew and forced the two forward Companies of the Battalion to do the same. A counter-attack was delivered, however, and the line restored by the end of the day. The enemy renewed his attacks on the following morning, and the 24th Division on the right retired to Warvillers. Y Company then moved to Vrely to cover the withdrawal of the remainder of the Battalion to a line near Caix. It was during these operations that Lieut.-Col. F.W. Robson, D.S.O., was killed. He had commanded the Battalion for nearly a year, and could truly claim that he had realised his ambition of making it one of the finest in France. The best type of the Territorial officer, his death was a personal loss to every officer and man who served under him. The same day Capt. H. Walton, M.C., commanding Z Company, was also killed.

The three Companies in the Caix valley occupied a wired trench facing Rosieres, and were told that the troops in front would retire and occupy the line with them. Instead, however, these troops passed through them, and the whole line fell back to the wood south-east of Caix. Here the remains of the Battalion were re-organised, and going forward again, re-occupied the Caix line. For this action Capt. G.E. Cardew and 2nd Lieut. R. Wilson received the Military Cross.

It was found impossible to hold the line much longer, and about 4 p.m. the Battalion withdrew along the Beaucourt road and received verbal instructions to move to Moreuil. The cooks, storemen, buglers, etc., who had been left behind when the Battalion had moved up on the 21st March, and had since been in action as part of a composite battalion, had been collected by Major T.B. Heslop, and with some stragglers were now at Ailly-sur-Noye. These were ordered up to the line on the 29th and moved to Demuin Wood, where they arrived after having marched 30 kilometres over congested roads during the previous 20 hours. They remained in the area for several days, and had a very strenuous time with several casualties. After this party had moved up, stragglers were collected by Capt. Aubin at Boves, and these, with the transport, moved by stages to Saleux, passing large numbers of French troops moving up to check the advance. At Saleux the remnants of the Division, except the details who were still in the line, were re-organised in case of emergency, and eventually entrained to Rue and marched to billets at Vron. Here Major Heslop and his party rejoined. These billets were not far from the coast, and it was expected that after the strenuous fortnight there would be a short rest. This was not to be, however, but, as an alternative, rumour suggested a tour of duty in an easy part of the line. This appeared to be confirmed when after two days the Battalion moved by 'bus to the Bethune area.


Second Phase.

On debussing just west of Bethune, the Battalion marched through the town to billets at Beuvry, which was about four miles behind one of the quietest sectors on the British front. Here a draft of about 400 men arrived, and preparations were being made for a relief of the 55th Division near La Bassee. These arrangements, however, were not carried out, and after a few days the Battalion moved by a short railway journey to Estaires, where it occupied billets in the town, all the officers -- except the Commanding Officer, Adjutant, Transport Officer and Capt. Cardew -- being in one billet, the Convent. At this time Estaires, though a very short distance behind the line, was a flourishing town.

After a quiet day and night, alarming rumours of the second German offensive spread, and the next night there was a "stand-to." The day following, the officers and a few N.C.O.'s reconnoitred a line of posts in support which were to be occupied in the event of an attack, and in the evening instructions were received for a relief of the Portuguese Division, which was holding the line, the relief to take place the night after (9th April).

On the night of the 8th April, there was another "stand-to," and at 4 a.m. the threatened attack commenced with a heavy bombardment of the town. One of the first shells burst in the Convent, and all the occupants with two exceptions became casualties. The men, however, got out of their billets in safety, and the highest praise is due to the N.C.O.'s, who gave valuable assistance to the three surviving Company Officers in getting the Battalion into its battle positions in the Cockshy, Marais East and West, and Drumiez posts. Amongst the officers killed in the Convent were Capt. G. Kirkhouse, Capt. J.F.G. Aubin, D.S.O., M.C., and Lieut. C.L. Tyerman, all of whom had seen much service with the Battalion.

The morning was misty, and beyond the fact that the Portuguese were being driven back in confusion, nothing definite could be ascertained as to the situation. The first reports which reached the Commanding Officer (Major T.B. Heslop) were to the effect that three Companies (W, X and Z) had been completely overwhelmed, and that two of his three Company Officers, Capt. Cardew (killed) and 2nd Lieut. Railton (prisoner) were casualties. The remainder of the Battalion, however, under Lieut. A.N. Brown, held its ground till the afternoon, when it was forced to withdraw to the railway near La Gorgue.

At dusk, orders were received to cross the river Lawe and to hold the Western bank. This withdrawal was successful, and the opportunity was taken to reorganise the Battalion, which was divided into two companies, one under Lieut. Brown, with Sergt. P. Finn, M.M., and Sergt. Field; and the other under C.S.M. T. Sordy, M.C., with Sergts. Bell and Cooper. The strength of the Battalion was now barely 100, and when touch had been established on the flanks it was found that it was holding a frontage of about 2,000 yards.

Assistance was therefore asked for, and a company of the Corps Cyclists and a company of the 7th Durham Light Infantry were attached. The latter were sent to fill a gap on the right flank between the Battalion and a Battalion of the Black Watch (51st Division). It was now about 10 a.m. on the 10th April, and the enemy had renewed his attack and gained a footing in Lestrem. From this, however, he was driven by the 7th Durham Light Infantry company, but further to the south he had pressed back the Highlanders.

Orders were then received to withdraw in a N.W. direction to the line of the Lys canal, the company of 7th Durham Light Infantry being moved over to the left flank to fill a gap which had been caused by the readjustment of their line by the 5th Durham Light Infantry. Meanwhile, the 8th Durham Light Infantry, which was in rear, was ordered up to occupy the line between the right flank of the Battalion and the 51st Division.

The new position was being fairly well held when it was reported that the 5th Durham Light Infantry on the left had been forced to retire. Both flanks being now uncertain, the Battalion was withdrawn towards Merville, under very heavy machine-gun fire. A stand was made on the outskirts of the town, but before night the fighting was taking place in the streets of the town.

The next day the retirement continued towards the Foret de Nieppe, and a line was taken up near Le Sart. By this time the strength of the Battalion was very small, and with the remnants of the 8th Durham Light Infantry, a composite battalion was formed under Lieut.-Col. P. Kirkup, M.C. Eventually, all were withdrawn from the fighting, and moved to the grounds of La Motte Chateau, where they came under very heavy shell fire for a short time. For a few days longer they remained on the western edge of the Forest and provided working parties on new trenches in the forest itself on a line in front of the Rue des Morts. At the end of this time they were taken out to billets at Cohem, near Wittes, where they remained for about a week reorganising and cleaning. Here Lieut.-Col. F. Walton, M.C., returned and took over command of the Battalion from Major T.B. Heslop, who was subsequently awarded the D.S.O. for his services whilst in command. Other honours gained in the Lys battle were the Military Cross by Lieut. A.N. Brown, the bar to the Military Cross by C.S.M. T. Sordy, M.C., the D.C.M. by Sergt. P. Finn, and Military Medals by Sergts. Bell and Cooper.

Having now shared in two great battles within a month, a rest was confidently expected, and very soon orders were received to move by 'bus to Lapugnoy, near Bethune, to entrain for an unknown destination, though rumour suggested somewhere near Paris.


Third Phase.

After a twenty-four hours' journey, the Battalion detrained at Serzy, and marched to a hut camp at Arcis-le-Ponsart. Maps were scarce, but it was found that this village was somewhere east of Soissons, and that the nearest part of the line was the famous Chemin des Dames. The men of the Division were the first British troops to visit these parts, and the limited knowledge of the French language which they had found sufficient in Belgium and the North was found to be useless. Other Divisions were expected to come South, but for a short time the 50th occupied the unique position of being the only British troops in the Sixth French Army.

In the camp at Arcis-le-Ponsart were all the battalions of the 151st Brigade, and the ceremony of Brigade guard mounting was revived. This took place daily in the centre of the village with the massed buglers and bands. On the occasion of a visit of the French Army Commander to Divisional Headquarters, a guard was provided at very short notice by the Battalion, and was complimented on its smart appearance and bearing. It may be mentioned that the bugler of this guard carried the silver bugle presented to the Battalion in 1861 by the ladies of Coundon.

It was generally understood that the tour on this sector, which was one of the quietest in the line, was to be a period of rest and training prior to a return to the fighting further north. Accordingly, the days at Arcis were devoted to training, mostly in field work. The men whose training was not up to standard, including a certain number who had recently been transferred from the Inland Water Transport section of the Royal Engineers, were detached for separate instruction, and eventually went to form a Divisional School.

After about three weeks' training, during which an epidemic of influenza visited the camp, the Battalion marched to billets in Glennes, a small village near the Aisne. Here final preparations were made for the line, and after a few days it moved up to relieve a battalion of the 73rd French Infantry Regiment in the woods immediately east of the Craonne Plateau.

The relief was very interesting. Arriving in the woods in the dark, the men were led by French guides by bewildering tracks and trenches to the front line. When daylight came, the support companies found themselves amidst green trees, very different surroundings from those they had previously known as the forward area. To add to the general comfort there were practically no indications that the war was still on. The shelling consisted at the most of half-a-dozen explosions daily, and generally there was "nothing doing." The rations came up to Battalion Headquarters by train, and the carrying parties lost their terrors.

After four days the Battalion moved out to the support area, which consisted of billets in the deserted village of Chaudardes. Here concerts were organised, there was bathing in the Aisne Canal, the band played selections in the centre of the village, and it was even possible to do a certain amount of training when the enemy's observation balloons were not up.

The four days in support being finished, a return was made to the line, this time on the right sub-sector, with the 8th Durham Light Infantry on the left. The conditions were still good, and everything pointed to this being a rest sector for the enemy also.

Nothing unusual occurred till the evening of the 26th May, when a message was received to the effect that a prisoner had stated that after a three-hours' bombardment the enemy was going to attack at 4 a.m. on the 27th. Observers also reported that towards dusk the roads behind the enemy's line were black with troops. The situation appeared to be so improbable that it was difficult to regard it as serious. The necessary precautions were taken, however; reserves of ammunition were sent forward, surplus personnel were sent down to the transport lines, and everybody warned to be on the alert.

Promptly at 1 a.m. on the 27th the barrage came down, and it was such as had never been experienced by the Battalion before. The enemy flooded the whole area to a depth of about 3,000 yards with high explosive, shrapnel, and gas shells. Even the stores and transport, as was afterwards disclosed, were shelled out of Muscourt, which was many miles back, south of the Aisne.

Communication with the forward companies was maintained by telephone, and an occasional runner, and at 4.50 a.m. a message was received at Headquarters from the front line stating that the enemy had attacked in force and had overwhelmed the forward posts. An enemy tank was also reported to be tearing up the wire. The next information came from Capt. Lyon who, finding his Company (X) had been wiped out, reported at Battalion Headquarters that the enemy was advancing rapidly. The reserve company (Z), under Capt. R. Green, M.C., were in position close to Headquarters, and they reported the enemy on top of them, with machine guns behind their right flank and bombers behind their left.

It was then decided to move Headquarters further to the rear, and it was afterwards discovered that at this time parties of the enemy were actually well in rear of the position.

After moving down the communication trench for about 500 yards, Lieut.-Col. Walton, with the Adjutant and Signalling Officer, and Capt. Lyon, collected all the available men, about forty of the Battalion, and searched for the best place to make a stand. They were still under the barrage, and the smoke made matters very difficult. Presently the 5th Durham Light Infantry came up the trench to take up an allotted position, which they found to be already taken by the enemy. They moved off to the right of the main trench, however, and the forty men under Capt. Lyon joined them.

A message was then received by the Commanding Officer telling him to report at Brigade Headquarters. On arrival, however, the dug-outs were found to be unoccupied. Enemy machine guns were now firing from the rear, and it was realised that apart from about half-a-dozen orderlies who formed the remains of the Headquarters personnel, the Battalion had been practically annihilated.

In his search for the Brigadier, who, it afterwards transpired, had been killed, Lieut.-Col. Walton arrived at the bridge at Concevreux. Here he found a few men of the 8th Durham Light Infantry and the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers, with whom the bridge was held till the afternoon. Unfortunately, none of the Battalion joined this party from the front, and for the next two or three days the two Commanding Officers of the 6th and 8th Durham Light Infantry found themselves in command of various bodies of men of other battalions.

Meanwhile those of the Battalion who were at the transport lines when the battle started had been collected on the road from Muscourt to Romain under Major T.B. Heslop, D.S.O., and placed under the orders of the G.O.C. 74th Brigade. Whilst on the road they could see enemy troops and guns on the far side of the Aisne valley and later saw these guns being fired point blank at them. Various positions were taken up during the day, the party being in close contact with the enemy and suffering many casualties. On the 29th these details, which had rejoined the transport, were ordered to move from Villers Argon to Baslieux-sous-Chatillon, but before reaching the latter place, every available man was again collected to form part of a Company under Major Heslop, representing the remnants of the 151st Brigade in a Battalion to which each Brigade of the Division contributed one Company. After a night in Quisles Chateau this Battalion moved towards Ville-en-Tardenois to support the 74th Brigade. The enemy's position was uncertain and the 151st Brigade Company were ordered to act as advance guard and to seize the high ground north and east of Romigny. This was done, but the enemy attacked in force, with the result that the Company were driven to a position south of the village which they held till reinforcements arrived.

Eventually, the remnants of the Division, except the Composite Battalion, were assembled at Vert-la-Gravelle, south of the Marne, when a Composite Brigade was formed, consisting of a weak Battalion from each of the original Brigades. This Brigade, after about a week spent in reorganisation, moved up to Chaumuzy and the Bois de Courton, where it did good work in a counter-attack on the Bligny ridge. Meanwhile, the transport and stores moved back to Broyes, near Sezanne, where they were eventually joined by the members of the Composite Battalion. For actions during the whole of the operations, the Military Cross was awarded to Capt. A.B. Hare, Lieut. T. Rushworth, 2nd Lieut. J. Woodhead, and R.S.M. J. Taylor. The last named was wounded and was succeeded by C.S.M. T. Sordy, M.C. The Military Medal was awarded to Sergt. Malone, L.-Cpl. Ripley and Pte. Dinsley, and the French Croix de Guerre to Corpl. Nield.

At Broyes still another Composite Battalion was formed from the Brigade in case of emergency, and though orders were received to proceed into the line, they were cancelled.

Then came the news that owing to the military demands, the 50th Division was to be broken up. Nothing definite, however, could be ascertained, and early in June the remnants entrained at Sezanne for the Abbeville area. On detraining at Longpre they marched to billets at Caumont, where orders were received that the battalions were to be reduced to the strength of Training Cadres (10 officers and 50 other ranks). After a few days they marched to Warcheville, from where the surplus men (about 120) were sent to the Base. It may be mentioned that the total casualties in the Battalion during the months of March, April and May had been 60 officers and over 1,200 other ranks.

In a few more days the Battalion, now a Training Cadre, moved by 'bus to a camp just outside Dieppe, and there a month was spent awaiting further orders. The time was spent in the training of the N.C.O.'s who were to be instructors on special subjects, and in visits to the town. The band had been lent to the 50th Division, which had been filled up by new battalions from Salonica and was able to play selections in the camp, and on one occasion in the town.

At the end of the month's stay, about the middle of August, it was announced that the battalions were not to be disbanded, but retained for training purposes. A few days later the Cadres of the 5th, 6th and 8th Durham Light Infantry moved by train to Rouen, where they were to build a camp and start a new institution, that of instructing reinforcement officers at the Base in tactical schemes. The officers of the Cadres therefore began the latter work, whilst the N.C.O.'s and men worked, or superintended the work on the new camp. In this somewhat monotonous way two months dragged on, during which, in the temporary absence on sick leave of Lieut.-Col. Walton, Lieut.-Col. Montgomerie, M.C., of the Norfolk Regiment, was in command. The band still remained with the Battalion and after the Armistice was granted permission to play on the Joan of Arc statue, being the first British band to do so. They also had the unique experience of playing "Blaydon Races" in Rouen Cathedral.

About the middle of October came rumours of the splitting up of the Cadres, and on the 18th October Lieut.-Col. Walton was ordered to proceed to take command of the 18th Durham Light Infantry. He was succeeded by Lieut.-Col. A.L. MacMillan of the Seaforth Highlanders, who commanded, however, for only a few days, for on the 6th November the Battalion was demobilised, and within a few days the personnel had been scattered to various battalions all over France.

So within a few days of the Armistice, ended the career of the 6th Durham Light Infantry in France, after three and a half years of good work which had made for it, right up to the end, a reputation which bore not a single stain, and which on more than one occasion had caused it to be held up as an example of the efficiency of the Territorial Force to which it had the great honour to belong.

<eob>

The Truce Of God

By

Mary Roberts Rinehart



I


Now the day of the birth of our Lord dawned that year grey and dreary, and a Saturday. But, despite the weather, in the town at the foot of the hill there was rejoicing, as befitted so great a festival. The day before a fat steer had been driven to the public square and there dressed and trussed for the roasting. The light of morning falling on his carcass revealed around it great heaps of fruits and vegetables. For the year had been prosperous.

But the young overlord sulked in his castle at the cliff top, and bit his nails. From Thursday evening of each week to the morning of Monday, Mother Church had decreed peace, a Truce of God. Three full days out of each week his men-at-arms polished their weapons and grew fat. Three full days out of each week his grudge against his cousin, Philip of the Black Beard, must feed on itself.

His dark mood irritated the Bishop of Tours, who had come to speak of certain scandalous things which had come to his ears. Charles heard him through.

"She took refuge with him," he said violently, when the Bishop had finished. "She knew what hate there was between us, yet she took refuge with him."

"The question is," said the Bishop mildly, "why she should have been driven to refuge. A gentle lady, a faithful wife -- "

"Deus!" The young seigneur clapped a fist on the table. "You know well the reason. A barren woman!"

"She had borne you a daughter."

But Charles was far gone in rage and out of hand. The Bishop took his offended ears to bed, and left him to sit alone by the dying fire, with bitterness for company.

Came into the courtyard at midnight the Christmas singers from the town; the blacksmith rolling a great bass, the crockery-seller who sang falsetto, and a fool of the village who had slept overnight in a manger on the holy eve a year before and had brought from it, not wit, but a voice from Heaven. A miracle of miracles.

The men-at-arms in the courtyard stood back to give them space. They sang with eyes upturned, with full-throated vigour, albeit a bit warily, with an anxious glance now and then toward those windows beyond which the young lord sulked by the fire.

"The Light of Light Divine, True Brightness undefiled. He bears for us the shame of sin, A holy, spotless Child."

They sang to the frosty air.

When neither money nor burning fagot was flung from the window they watched, they took their departure, relieved if unrewarded.

In former years the lady of the Castle had thrown them alms. But times had changed. Now the gentle lady was gone, and the seigneur sulked in the hall.

With the dawn Charles the Fair took himself to bed. And to him, pattering barefoot along stone floors, came Clotilde, the child of his disappointment.

"Are you asleep?"

One arm under his head, he looked at her without answer.

"It is the anniversary of the birth of our Lord," she ventured. "Today He is born. I thought -- " She put out a small, very cold hand. But he turned his head away.

"Back to your bed," he said shortly. "Where is your nurse, to permit this?"

The child's face fell. Something she had expected, some miracle, perhaps, a softening of the lord her father, so that she might ask of him a Christmas boon.

The Bishop had said that Christmas miracles were often wrought, and she herself knew that this was true. Had not the Fool secured his voice, so that he who had been but lightly held became the village troubadour, and slept warm and full at night?

She had gone to the Bishop with this the night before.

"If I should lie in a manger all night," she said, standing with her feet well apart and looking up at him, "would I become a boy?"

The Bishop tugged at his beard. "A boy, little maid! Would you give up your blue eyes and your soft skin to be a roystering lad?"

"My father wishes for a son," she had replied and the cloud that was over the Castle shadowed the Bishop's eyes.

"It would not be well," he replied, "to tamper with the works of the Almighty. Pray rather for this miracle, that your father's heart be turned toward you and toward the lady, your mother."

So during much of the night she had asked this boon steadfastly. But clearly she had not been heard.

"Back to your bed!" said her father, and turned his face away.

So she went as far as the leather curtain which hung in the doorway and there she turned.

"Why do they sing?" she had asked the Bishop, of the blacksmith and the others, and he had replied into his beard, "To soften the hard of heart."

So she turned in the doorway and sang in her reedy little voice, much thinned by the cold, sang to soften her young father's heart.

"The Light of Light Divine, True Brightness undefined. He bears for us the shame of sin, A holy, spotless Child."

But the song failed. Perhaps it was the wrong hour, or perhaps it was because she had not slept in the manger and brought forth the gift of voice.

"Blood of the martyrs!" shouted her father, and raised himself on his elbow. "Are you mad? Get back to your bed. I shall have a word with someone for this."

Whether it had softened him or not it had stirred him, so she made her plea.

"It is His birthday. I want to see my mother."

Then she ducked under the curtain and ran as fast as she could back to where she belonged. Terror winged her feet. She had spoken a forbidden word.

All sleep was gone from Charles the Fair. He lay on his elbow in his bed and thought of things that he wished to forget: of the wife he had put away because in eight years she had borne him no son; of his great lands that would go to his cousin, Philip of the Black Beard, whom he hated; of girls in the plain who wooed him with soft eyes and whom he passed by; of a Jew who lay in a dungeon beneath the Castle because of usury and other things.

After a time he slept again, but lightly, for the sun came in through the deep, unshaded window and fell on his face and on the rushes that covered the floor. And in his sleep the grimness was gone, and the pride. And his mouth, which was sad, contended with the firmness of his chin.

Clotilde went back to her bed and tucked her feet under her to warm them. In the next room her nurse lay on a bed asleep, with her mouth open; outside in the stone corridor a page slept on a skin, with a corner over him against the draught.

She thought things over while she warmed her feet. It was clear that singing did not soften all hearts. Perhaps she did not sing very well. But the Bishop had said that after one had done a good act one might pray with hope. She decided to do a good act and then to pray to see her mother; she would pray also to become a boy so that her father might care for her. But the Bishop considered it a little late for such a prayer.

She made terms with the Almighty, sitting on her bed.

"I shall do a good act," she said, "on this the birthday of Thy Son, and after that I shall ask for the thing Thou knowest of."

After much thinking, she decided to free the Jew. And being, after all, her father's own child, she acted at once.

It was a matter of many cold stone steps and much fumbling with bars. But Guillem the gaoler had crept up to the hall and lay sleeping by the fire, with a dozen dogs about him. It was the time of the Truce of God, and vigilance was relaxed. Also Guillem was in love with a girl of the village and there was talk that the seigneur, in his loneliness, had seen that she was beautiful. So Guillem slept to forget, and the Jew lay awake because of rats and anxiety.

The Jew rose from the floor when Clotilde threw the grating open, and blinked at her with weary and gentle eyes.

"It is the birthday of our Lord," said Clotilde, "and I am doing a good deed so that I may see my mother again. But go quickly." Then she remembered something the Bishop had said to her, and eyed him thoughtfully as he stared at her.

"But you do not love our Lord!"

The Jew put out his foot quietly so that she could not close the grating again. But he smiled into her eyes.

"Your Lord was a Jew," he said.

This reassured her. It seemed to double the quality of mercy. She threw the door wide and the usurer went out cautiously, as if suspecting a trap. But patches of sunlight, barred with black, showed the way clear. He should have gone at once, but he waited to give her the blessing of his people. Even then, having started, he went back to her. She looked so small in that fearsome place.

"If there is something you wish, little maid, and I can secure it for you -- "

"I wish but two things," she said. "I wish to be a boy, only I fear it is too late for that. The Bishop thinks so. And I wish to see my mother."

And these being beyond his gift, and not contained in the pack he had fastened to his shoulders, he only shook his head and took his cautious way toward freedom.

Having tried song and a good deed, Clotilde went back again to her room, stepping over the page, who had curled himself up in a ball, like a puppy, and still slept. She crossed her hands on her breast and raised her eyes as she had been taught.

"Now, O Lord," she said, "I have tried song and I have tried a good deed. I wish to see my mother."

Perhaps it was merely coincidence that the level rays of the morning sun just then fell on the crucifix that hung on the wall, and that although during all the year it seemed to be but of wood and with closed eyes, now it flashed as with life and the eyes were open.

"He was one of Your people," she said to the crucifix, "and by now he is down the hill."



Chapter Two



II


Now it was the custom on the morning of the Holy day for the seigneur to ride his finest stallion to the top of the hill, where led a steep road down into the town. There he dismounted, surrounded by his people, guests and soldiers, smaller visiting nobility, the household of the Castle. And, the stage being set as it were, and the village waiting below, it was his pleasure to give his charger a great cut with the whip and send him galloping, unridden, down the hill. The horse was his who caught it.

Below waited the villagers, divided between terror and cupidity. Above waited the Castle folk. It was an amusing game for those who stood safely along the parapet and watched, one that convulsed them with merriment. Also, it improved the quality of those horses that grazed in the plain below.

This year it was a great grey that carried Charles out to the road that clung to the face of the cliff. Behind him on a donkey, reminder of the humble beast that had borne the Christ into Jerusalem, rode the Bishop. Saddled and bridled was the grey, with a fierce head and great shoulders, a strong beast for strong days.

The men-at-arms were drawn up in a double line, weapons at rest. From the place below rose a thin grey smoke where the fire kindled for the steer. But the crowd had deserted and now stood, eyes upraised to the Castle, and to the cliff road where waited boys and men ready for their desperate emprise, clad in such protection of leather as they could afford against the stallion's hoofs.

Two people only remained by the steer, an aged man, almost blind, who tended the fire, and the girl Joan, whom Guillem slept to forget.

"The seigneur has ridden out of the gates, father," she said. The colour mounted to her dark cheeks. She was tall and slender, unlike the peasant girls of the town, almost noble in her bearing; a rare flower that Charles, in his rage and disappointment, would pick for himself.

"And were you not undutiful," he mumbled, "you would be with him now, and looking down on this rabble."

She did not reply at once. Her eyes were fixed on the frowning castle, on the grim double line of men-at-arms, at the massive horse and its massive rider.

"I, too, should be up there," whined the old man. "Today, instead of delivering Christmas dues, I should be receiving them. But you -- !" He swung on her malevolently, "You must turn great ox-eyes toward Guillem, whose most courageous work is to levy tribute of a dungeon!"

She flushed.

"I am afraid, father. He is a hard man."

"He is gentle with women."

"Gentle!" Her eyes were still upraised. "He knows not the word. When he looks at me there is no liking in his eyes. I am -- frightened."

The overlord sat his great horse and surveyed the plain below. As far as he could see, and as far again in every direction, was his domain, paying him tithe of fat cattle and heaping granaries. As far as he could see and as far again was the domain that, lacking a man-child, would go to Philip, his cousin.

The Bishop, who rode his donkey without a saddle, slipped off and stood beside the little beast on the road. His finger absently traced the dark cross on its back.

"Idiots!" snarled the overlord out of his distemper, as he looked down into the faces of his faithful ones below. "Fools and sons of fools! Thy beast would suit them better, Bishop, than mine."

Then he flung himself insolently out of the saddle. There was little of Christmas in his heart, God knows; only hate and disappointment and thwarted pride.

"A great day, my lord," said the Bishop. "Peace over the land. The end of a plentiful year -- "

"Bah!"

"The end of a plentiful year," repeated the Bishop tranquilly, "this day of His birth, a day for thanksgiving and for -- good-will."

"Bah!" said the overlord again, and struck the grey a heavy blow. So massive was the beast, so terrific the pace at which it charged down the hill that the villagers scattered. He watched them with his lip curling.

"See," he said, "brave men and true! Watch, father, how they rally to the charge!" And when the creature was caught, and a swaying figure clung to the bridle:

"By the cross, the Fool has him! A fine heritage for my cousin Philip, a village with its bravest man a simpleton!"

The Fool held on swinging. His arms were very strong, and as is the way with fools and those that drown, many things went through his mind. The horse was his. He would go adventuring along the winter roads, adventuring and singing. The townspeople gathered about him with sheepish praise. From a dolt he had become a hero. Many have taken the same step in the same space of moments, the line being but a line and easy to cross.

The denouement suited the grim mood of the overlord. It pleased him to see the smug villagers stand by while the Fool mounted his steed. Side by side from the parapet he and the Bishop looked down into the town.

"The birthday of our Lord, Bishop," he said, "with fools on blooded horses and the courage of the townspeople in their stomachs."

"The birthday of our Lord," said the Bishop tranquilly, "with a lad mounted who has heretofore trudged afoot, and with the hungry fed in the market place."

Now it had been in the mind of the Bishop that the day would soften Charles' grim humour and that he might speak to him as man to man. But Charles was not softened.

So the Bishop gathered up his courage. His hand was still on the cross on the donkey's back.

"You are young, my son, and have been grievously disappointed. I, who am old, have seen many things, and this I have learned. Two things there are that, next to the love of God, must be greatest in a man's life -- not war nor slothful peace, nor pride, nor yet a will that would bend all things to its end."

The overlord scowled. He had found the girl Joan in the Market Square, and his eyes were on her.

"One," said the Bishop, "is the love of a woman. The other is -- a child."

The donkey stood meekly, with hanging head.

"A woman," repeated the Bishop. "You grow rough up here on your hillside. Only a few months since the lady your wife went away, and already order has forsaken you. The child, your daughter, runs like a wild thing, without control. Our Holy Church deplores these things."

"Will Holy Church grant me another wife?"

"Holy Church," replied the Bishop gravely, "would have you take back, my lord, the wife whom your hardness drove away."

The seigneur's gaze turned to the east, where lay the Castle of Philip, his cousin. Then he dropped brooding eyes to the Square below, where the girl Joan assisted her father by the fire, and moved like a mother of kings.

"You wish a woman for the castle, father," he said. "Then a woman we shall have. Holy Church may not give me another wife, but I shall take one. And I shall have a son."

*    *    *    *    *

The child Clotilde had watched it all from a window. Because she was very high the thing she saw most plainly was the cross on the donkey's back. Far out over the plain was a moving figure which might or might not have been the Jew. She chose to think it was.

"One of Your people," she said toward the crucifix. "I have done the good deed."

She was a little frightened, for all her high head.

Other Christmases she and the lady her mother had sat hand in hand, and listened to the roystering.

"They are drunk," Clotilde would say.

But her mother would stroke her hand and reply:

"They but rejoice that our Lord is born."

So the child Clotilde stood at her window and gazed to where the plain stretched as far as she could see and as far again. And there was her mother. She would go to her and bring her back, or perhaps failing that, she might be allowed to stay.

Here no one would miss her. The odour of cooking food filled the great house, loud laughter, the clatter of mug on board. Her old nurse was below, decorating a boar's head with berries and a crown.

Because it was the Truce of God and a festival, the gates stood open. She reached the foot of the hill safely. Stragglers going up and down the steep way regarded her without suspicion. So she went through the Square past the roasting steer, and by a twisting street into the open country.

When she stopped to rest it was to look back with wistful eyes toward the frowning castle on the cliff. For a divided allegiance was hers. Passionately as she loved her mother, her indomitable spirit was her father's heritage, his fierceness was her courage, and she loved him as the small may love the great.

The Fool found her at the edge of the river. She had forgotten that there was a river. He was on his great horse, and he rode up by the child and looked down at her.

"It was I who captured him," he boasted. "The others ran, but I caught him, so." He dismounted to illustrate.

"It is not because you were brave that you captured him."

"Then why?" He stood with his feet wide apart, looking down at her.

"It is because you have slept in a manger on a Holy Eve."

"Aye," he responded, "but that was a matter of courage, too. There were many strange noises. Also, in the middle of the night came Our Lady herself and said to me: 'Hereafter thou shalt sing with the voice of an angel.'"

"I should like to see Our Lady," said the child wistfully.

"Also," pursued the Fool, "She gave me power over great beasts. See! He fears me, while he loves me."

And indeed there seemed some curious kinship between the horse and the lad, perhaps because the barrier of keen human mind was not between them.

"Think you," said the little maid, "if I slept where you did She would appear to me? I would not ask much, only to be made a lad like you, and, perhaps, to sing."

"But I am a simpleton. Instead of wit I have but a voice and now -- a horse."

"A lad like you," she persisted, "so that my father would love me and my mother might come back again?"

"Better stay as you are," said the Fool. "Also, there will be no Holy Eve again for a long time. It comes but once a year. Also it is hard times for men who must either fight or work in the fields. I -- " He struck his chest. "I shall do neither. And I shall cut no more wood. I go adventuring."

Clotilde rose and drew her grey cloak around her.

"I am adventuring, too," she said. "Only I have no voice and no horse. May I go with you?"

The boy was doubtful. He had that innate love and tenderness that is given to his kind instead of other things. But a child!

"I will take you," he said at last, rather heavily. "But where, little lady?"

"To my mother at the castle of Black Philip." And when his face fell -- for Philip was not named The Black only for his beard -- 

"She loves singing. I will ask you to sing before her."

That decided him. He took her before him on the grey horse and they set off, two valiant adventurers, a troubadour and a lady, without food or sufficient clothing, but with high courage and a song.

And because it was the Truce of God the children went unharmed, encountering no greater adventure than hunger and cold and aching muscles. Robbers sulked in their fastnesses, and their horses pawed the ground. Murder, rapine and pillage slept that Christmas day, under the shelter of the cross.

The Fool, who ached for adventure, rather resented the peace.

"Wait until Monday," he said from behind her on the horse. "I shall show you great things."

But the little maid was cold by that time and beginning to be frightened. "Monday you may fight," she said. "Now I wish you would sing."

So he sang until his voice cracked in his throat. Because it was Christmas, and because it was freshest in his heart, he sang mostly what he and the blacksmith and the crockery-seller had sung in the castle yard:

"The Light of Light Divine, True Brightness undefiled, He bears for us the shame of sin, A holy, spotless Child."

They lay that night in a ruined barn with a roof of earth and stones. Clotilde eyed the manger wistfully, but the Holy Eve was past, and the day of miracles would not come for a year.

Toward morning, however, she roused the boy with a touch.

"She may have forgotten me," she said. "She has been gone since the spring. She may not love me now."

"She will love you. It is the way of a mother to keep on loving."

"I am still a girl."

"You are still her child."

But seeing that she trembled, he put his ragged cloak about her and talked to comfort her, although his muscles ached for sleep.

He told her a fable of the countryside, of that Abbot who, having duly served his God, died and appeared at the heavenly gates for admission. "A slave of the Lord," he replied, when asked his name. But he was refused. So he went away and laboured seven years again at good deeds and returned. "A servant of the Lord," he called himself, and again he was refused. Yet another seven years he laboured and came in all humility to the gate. "A child of the Lord," said the Abbot, who had gained both wisdom and humility. And the gates opened.



Chapter Three



III


All that day came peasants up the hill with their Christmas dues, of one fowl out of eight, of barley and wheat. The courtyard had assumed the appearance of a great warehouse. Those that were prosperous came a-riding, hissing geese and chickens and grain in bags across the saddle. The poorer trudged afoot.

Among the latter came the girl Joan of the Market Square. She brought no grain, but fowls only, and of these but two. She took the steep ascent like a thoroughbred, muscles working clean under glowing skin, her deep bosom rising evenly, treading like a queen among that clutter of peasants.

And when she was brought into the great hall her head went yet higher. It pleased the young seigneur to be gracious. But he eyed her much as he had eyed the great horse that morning before he cut it with the whip. She was but a means to an end. Such love and tenderness as were in him had gone out to the gentle wife he had put away from him, and had died -- of Clotilde.

So Charles appraised her and found her, although but a means, very beautiful. Only the Bishop turned away his head.

"Joan," said Charles, "do you know why I have sent for you?"

The girl looked down. But, although she quivered, it was not with fright.

"I do, sire."

Something of a sardonic smile played around the seigneur's mouth. The butterfly came too quietly to the net.

"We are but gloomy folk here, rough soldiers and few women. It has been in my mind -- " Here he saw the Bishop's averted head, and scowled. What had been in his mind he forgot. He said: "I would have you come willingly, or not at all."

At that she lifted her head and looked at him. "You know I will come," she said. "I can do nothing else, but I do not come willingly, my lord. You are asking too much."

The Bishop turned his head hopefully.

"Why?"

"You are a hard man, my lord."

If she meant to anger him, she failed. They were not soft days. A man hid such tenderness as he had under grimness, and prayed in the churches for phlegm.

"I am a fighting man. I have no gentle ways." Then a belated memory came to him. "I give no tenderness and ask none. But such kindness as you have, lavish on the child Clotilde. She is much alone."

With the mention of Clotilde's name came a vision: instead of this splendid peasant wench he seemed to see the graceful and drooping figure of the woman he had put away because she had not borne him a son. He closed his eyes, and the girl, taking it for dismissal, went away.

When he opened them there were only the fire and the dogs about it, and the Bishop, who was preparing to depart.

"I shall not stay, my lord," said the Bishop. "The thing is desecration. No good can come from such a bond. It is Christmas and the Truce of God, and yet you do this evil thing."

So the Bishop went, muffled in a cloak, and mantled with displeasure. And with him, now that Clotilde had fled, went all that was good and open to the sun, from the grey castle of Charles the Fair.

At evening Joan came again, still afoot, but now clad in her best. She came alone, and the men at the gates, instructed, let her in. She gazed around the courtyard with its burden of grain that had been crushed out of her people below, with its loitering soldiers and cackling fowls, and she shivered as the gates closed behind her.

She was a good girl, as the times went, and she knew well that she had been brought up the hill as the stallion that morning had been driven down. She remembered the cut of the whip, and in the twilight of the courtyard she stretched out her arms toward the little town below, where the old man, her father, lived in semi-darkness, and where on that Christmas evening the women were gathered in the churches to pray.

*    *    *    *    *

Having no seasonable merriment in himself, Charles surrounded himself that night with cheer. A band of wandering minstrels had arrived to sing, the great fire blazed, the dogs around it gnawed the bones of the Christmas feast. But when the troubadours would have sung of the Nativity, he bade them in a great voice to have done. So they sang of war, and, remembering his cousin Philip, his eyes blazed.

When Joan came he motioned her to a seat beside him, not on his right, but on his left, and there he let her sit without speech. But his mind was working busily. He would have a son and the King would legitimise him. Then let Philip go hang. These lands of his as far as the eye could reach and as far again would never go to him.

The minstrels sang of war, and of his own great deeds, but there was no one of them with so beautiful a voice as that of the Fool, who could sing only of peace. And the Fool was missing.

However, their songs soothed his hurt pride. This was he; these things he had done. If the Bishop had not turned sour and gone, he would have heard what they sang. He might have understood, too, the craving of a man's warrior soul for a warrior son, for one to hold what he had gathered at such cost. Back always to this burning hope of his!

Joan sat on his left hand, and went hot and cold, hot with shame and cold with fear.

So now, his own glory as a warrior commencing to pall on him, Charles would have more tribute, this time as lord of peace. He would celebrate this day of days, and at the same time throw a sop to Providence.

He would release the Jew.

The troubadours sang louder; fresh liquor was passed about. Charles waited for the Jew to be brought.

He remembered Clotilde then. She should see him do this noble thing. Since her mother had gone she had shrunk from him. Now let her see how magnanimous he could be. He, the seigneur, who held life and death in his hands, would this day give, not death, but life.

Being not displeased with himself, he turned at last toward Joan and put a hand over hers.

"You see," he said, "I am not so hard a man. By this Christian act shall I celebrate your arrival."

But the Jew did not come. The singers learned the truth, and sang with watchful eyes. The seigneur's anger was known to be mighty, and to strike close at hand.

Guillem, the gaoler, had been waiting for the summons.

News had come to him late in the afternoon that had made him indifferent to his fate. The girl Joan, whom he loved, had come up the hill at the overlord's summons. So, instead of raising an alarm, Guillem had waited sullenly. Death, which yesterday he would have blenched to behold, now beckoned him. When he was brought in, he stood with folded arms and asked no mercy.

"He is gone, my lord," said Guillem, and waited. He did not glance at the girl.

"Gone?" said Charles. Then he laughed, such laughter as turned the girl cold.

"Gone, earth-clod? How now? Perhaps you, too, wished to give a hostage to fortune, to forestall me in mercy?"

He turned to the girl beside him.

"You see," he said, "to what lengths this spirit of the Holy Day extends itself. Our friend here -- " Then he saw her face and knew the truth.

The smile set a little on his lips.

"Why, then," he said to the gaoler, "such mercy should have its reward." He turned to Joan. "What say you? Shall I station him at your door, sweet lady, as a guard of honour?"

Things went merrily after that, for Guillem drew a knife and made, not for the seigneur, but for Joan. The troubadours feared to stop singing without a signal, so they sang through white lips. The dogs gnawed at their bones and the seigneur sat and smiled, showing his teeth.

Guillem, finally unhanded, stood with folded arms and waited for death.

"It is the time of the Truce of God," said the seigneur softly, and, knowing that death would be a boon, sent him off unhurt.

*    *    *    *    *

The village, which had eaten full, slept early that night. Down the hill at nine o'clock came half a dozen men-at-arms on horseback and clattered through the streets. Word went about quickly. Great oaken doors were unbarred to the news:

"The child Clotilde is gone!" they cried through the streets. "Up and arm. The child Clotilde is gone."

Joan, deserted, sat alone in the great hall. For the seigneur was off, riding like a madman. Flying through the Market Square, he took the remains of the great fire at a leap. He had but one thought. The Jew had stolen the child; therefore, to find the Jew.

In the blackest of the night he found him, sitting by the road, bent over his staff. The eyes he raised to Charles were haggard and weary. Charles reined his horse back on his haunches, his men-at-arms behind him.

"What have you done with the child?"

"The child?"

"Out with it," cried Charles and flung himself from his horse. If the Jew were haggard, Charles was more so, hard bitten of terror, pallid to the lips.

"I have seen no child. That is -- " He hastened to correct himself, seeing Charles' face in the light of a torch. "I was released by a child, a girl. I have not seen her since."

He spoke with the simplicity of truth. In the light of the torches Charles' face went white.

"She released you?" he repeated slowly. "What did she say?"

"She said: 'It is the birthday of our Lord,'" repeated the Jew, slowly, out of his weary brain. "'And I am doing a good deed.'"

"Is that all?" The Jew hesitated.

"Also she said: 'But you do not love our Lord.'"

Charles swore under his breath. "And you?"

"I said but little. I -- "

"What did you say?"

"I said that her Lord was also a Jew." He was fearful of giving offence, so he hastened to add: "It was by way of comforting the child. Only that, my lord."

"She said nothing else?" The seigneur's voice was dangerously calm.

The Jew faltered. He knew the gossip of the town.

"She said -- she said she wished two things, my lord. To become a boy and -- to see her mother."

Then Charles lifted his face to where the stars were growing dim before the uprising of the dawn, and where, as far away as the eye could reach and as far again, lay the castle of his cousin Philip of the Black Beard. And the rage was gone out of his eyes. For suddenly he knew that, on that feast of mother and child, Clotilde had gone to her mother, as unerringly as an arrow to its mark.

And with the rage died all the passion and pride. In the eyes that had gazed at Joan over the parapet, and that now turned to the east, there was reflected the dawning of a new day.

*    *    *    *    *

The castle of Philip the Black lay in a plain. For as much as a mile in every direction the forest had been sacrificed against the loving advances of his cousin Charles. Also about the castle was a moat in which swam noisy geese and much litter.

When, shortly after dawn, the sentry at the drawbridge saw a great horse with a double burden crossing the open space he was but faintly interested. A belated peasant with his Christmas dues, perhaps. But when, on the lifting of the morning haze, he saw that the horse bore two children and one a girl, he called another man to look.

"Troubadours, by the sound," said the newcomer. For the Fool was singing to cheer his lack of breakfast. "Coming empty of belly, as come all troubadours."

But the sentry was dubious. Minstrels were a slothful lot, averse to the chill of early morning.

And when the pair came nearer and drew up beyond the moat, the soldiers were still at a loss. The Fool's wandering eyes and tender mouth bespoke him no troubadour, and the child rode with head high like a princess.

"I have come to see my mother," Clotilde called, and demanded admission, clearly.

Here were no warriors, but a Fool and a child. So they let down the bridge and admitted the pair. But they raised the bridge at once again against the loving advances of Philip's cousin Charles.

But once in the courtyard Clotilde's courage began to fail her. Would her mother want her? Prayer had been unavailing and she was still a girl. And, at first, it seemed as though her fears had been justified, although they took her into the castle kindly enough, and offered her food which she could not eat and plied her with questions which she could not answer.

"I want my mother," was the only thing they could get out of her. Her little body was taut as a bowstring, her lips tight. They offered her excuses; the lady mother slept; now she was rising and must be clothed. And then at last they told her, because of the hunted look in her eyes.

"She is ill," they said. "Wait but a little and you shall see her."

Deadly despair had Clotilde in its grasp with that announcement. These strange folk were gentle enough with her, but never before had her mother refused her the haven of her out-held arms. Besides, they lied. Their eyes were shifty. She could see in their faces that they kept something from her.

Philip, having confessed himself overnight, by candle-light, was at mass when the pair arrived. Three days one must rot of peace, and those three days, to be not entirely lost, he prayed for success against Charles, or for another thing that lay close to his heart. But not for both together, since that was not possible.

He knelt stiffly in his cold chapel and made his supplications, but he was not too engrossed to hear the drawbridge chains and to pick up his ears to the clatter of the grey horse.

So, having been communicated, he made short shift of what remained to be done, and got to his feet.

The Abbot, whose offices were finished, had also heard the drawbridge chains and let him go.

When Philip saw Clotilde he frowned and then smiled. He had sons, but no daughter, and he would have set her on his shoulder. But she drew away haughtily.

So Philip sat in a chair and watched her with a curious smile playing about his lips. Surely it were enough to make him smile, that he should play host to the wife and daughter of his cousin Charles.

Because of that, and of the thing that he had prayed for, and with a twinkle in his eyes, Black Philip alternately watched the child, and from a window the plain which was prepared against his cousin. And, as he had expected, at ten o'clock in the morning came Charles and six men-at-arms, riding like demons, and jerked up their horses at the edge of the moat.

Philip, still with the smile under his black beard, went out to greet them.

"Well met, cousin," he called; "you ride fast and early."

Charles eyed him with feverish eyes.

"Truce of God," he said, sulkily, from across the moat. And then: "We seek a runaway, the child Clotilde."

"I shall make inquiry," said Philip, veiling the twinkle under his heavy brow. "In such a season many come and go."

But in his eyes Charles read the truth, and breathed with freer breath.

They lowered the drawbridge again with a great creaking of windlass and chain, and Charles with his head up rode across. But his men-at-arms stood their horses squarely on the bridge so that it could not be raised, and Philip smiled into his beard.

Charles dismounted stiffly. He had been a night in the saddle and his horse staggered with fatigue. In Philip's courtyard, as in his own, were piled high the Christmas tithes.

"A good year," said Philip agreeably, and indicated the dues. "Peaceful times, eh, cousin?"

But Charles only turned to see that his men kept the drawbridge open, and followed him into the house. Once inside, however, he turned on Philip fiercely.

"I am not here of my own desire. It appears that both my wife and child find sanctuary with you."

"Tut," said Philip, good-naturedly, "it is the Christmas season, man, and a Sunday. We will not quarrel as to the why of your coming."

"Where is she?"

"Your wife or Clotilde?"

Now all through the early morning Charles had longed for one as for the other. But there was nothing of that in his voice.

"Clotilde," he said.

"I shall make inquiry if she has arrived," mumbled Philip into his beard, and went away.

So it came about that Charles was alone when he saw the child and caught her up in his hungry arms. As for Clotilde, her fear died at once in his embrace. When Philip returned he found them thus and coughed discreetly. So Charles released the child and put her on her feet.

"I have," said Philip, "another member of your family under my roof as to whom you have made no inquiry."

"I have secured that for which I came," said Charles haughtily.

But his eyes were on Philip and a question was in them. Philip, however, was not minded to play Charles' game, but his own, and that not too fast.

"In that event, cousin," he replied, "let the little maid eat and then take her away. And since it is a Sunday and the Truce of God, we can drink to the Christmas season. Even quarrelling dogs have intervals of peace."

So perforce, because the question was still in his heart if not in his eyes, Charles drank with his cousin and enemy Philip. But with his hand in that small hand of Clotilde's which was so like her mother's.

Philip's expansiveness extended itself to the men-at-arms who still sat woodenly on the drawbridge. He sent them hot liquor, for the day was cold, and at such intervals as Charles' questioning eyes were turned away, he rubbed his hands together furtively, as a man with a secret.

"A prosperous year," said Philip.

Charles grunted.

"We shall have snow before night," said Philip.

"Humph!" said Charles and glanced toward the sky, but made no move to go.

"The child is growing."

To this Charles made no reply whatever and Philip bleated on. "Her mother's body," he said, "but your eyes and hair, cousin."

Charles could stand no more. He pushed the child away and rose to his feet. Philip, to give him no tithe of advantage, rose too.

"Now," said Charles squarely, "where is my wife? Is she hiding from me?"

Then Philip's face must grow very grave and his mouth set in sad lines.

"She is ill, Charles. I would have told you sooner, but you lacked interest."

Charles swallowed to steady his voice.

"How -- ill?"

"A short and violent illness," said Philip. "All of last night the women have been with her, and this morning -- " He glanced toward the window. "I was right, as you see, cousin. It is snowing."

Charles clutched him by the arm and jerked him about. "What about this morning?" he roared.

"Snow on Christmas," mused Philip, "prophesies another prosperous year." Then having run his quarry to earth, he showed mercy.

"Would you like to see her?"

Charles swallowed again, this time his pride.

"I doubt if she cares to see me."

"Probably not," said Philip. "Still a few words -- she is a true woman, and kindly. Also it is a magnanimous season. But you must tread softly and speak fair. This is no time for a high hand."

Charles, perforce, must promise mildness. He made the concession with poor grace, but he made it. And in Philip's eyes grew a new admiration for this hulking cousin and enemy, who ate his pride for a woman. At the entrance to an upper room where hung a leather curtain, he stood aside.

"Softly," he said through his beard. "No harsh words. Send the child in first."

So Philip went ponderously away and left Charles to cool his heels and wait. As he stood there sheepishly he remembered many things with shame. Joan, and the violence of the last months, and the Bishop's averted head. For now he knew one thing, and knew it well. The lady of his heart lay in that quiet room beyond; and the devils that had fought in him were dead of a Christmas peace.

Little cries came to him, Clotilde's soft weeping, and another voice that thrilled him, filled with the wooing note that is in a mother's voice when she speaks to her child. But it was a feeble voice, and its weakness struck terror to his soul. What was this thing for which he had cast her away, now that he might lose her? His world shook under his feet. His cousin and enemy was, willy-nilly, become his friend. His world, which he had thought was his own domain, as far from his castle as the eye could reach and as far again, was in an upper room of Philip's house, and dying, perhaps.

But she was not dying. They admitted him in time to save his pride, for he was close to distraction. And, being admitted, he saw only the woman he had put away.

He went straight to his wife's bed and dropped on his knees beside it. Not for his life could he have spoken then. Inarticulate things were in his mind, remorse and the loneliness of the last months, and the shame of the girl Joan.

He caught her hand to him and covered it with kisses.

"I have tried to live without you," he said, "and death itself were better."

When she did not reply, but lay back, white to the lips, he rose and looked down at her.

"I can see," he said, "that my touch is bitterness. I have merited nothing better. So I shall go again, but this time, if it will comfort you, I shall give you the child Clotilde -- not that I love her the less, but that you deserve her the more."

Then she opened her eyes, and what he saw there brought him back to his knees with a cry.

"I want only your love, my lord, to make me happy," she said. "And now, see how the birthday of our Lord has brought us peace." She drew down the covering a trifle, close to his bent head, and showed the warm curve of her arm. "Unto us also is born a son, Charles."

"I have wanted a son," said Charles the Fair, "but more than a son have I wanted you, heart of my heart."

*    *    *    *    *

Outside in the courtyard the Fool had drawn a circle about him.

"I am adventuring," he said. "Yesterday I caught this horse when the others ran from him. Then I saved a lady and brought her to her destination. This being the Christmas season and a Sunday, I shall rest here for a day." He threw out his chest magnificently. "But tomorrow I continue on my way."

"Can you fight?" They baited him.

"I can sing," he replied. And he threw back his head with its wandering eyes and tender mouth and sang:

"The Light of Light Divine, True Brightness undefiled. He bears for us the shame of sin, A holy, spotless Child."

<eob>

The Guns Of Shiloh: A Story Of The Great Western Campaign

By

Joseph A. Altsheler



Chapter I. In Flight


Dick Mason, caught in the press of a beaten army, fell back slowly with his comrades toward a ford of Bull Run. The first great battle of the Civil War had been fought and lost. Lost, after it had been won! Young as he was Dick knew that fortune had been with the North until the very closing hour. He did not yet know how it had been done. He did not know how the Northern charges had broken in vain on the ranks of Stonewall Jackson's men. He did not know how the fresh Southern troops from the Valley of Virginia had hurled themselves so fiercely on the Union flank. But he did know that his army had been defeated and was retreating on the capital.

Cannon still thundered to right and left, and now and then showers of bursting shell sprayed over the heads of the tired and gloomy soldiers. Dick, thoughtful and scholarly, was in the depths of a bitterness and despair reached by few of those around him. The Union, the Republic, had appealed to him as the most glorious of experiments. He could not bear to see it broken up for any cause whatever. It had been founded with too much blood and suffering and labor to be dissolved in a day on a Virginia battlefield.

But the army that had almost grasped victory was retreating, and the camp followers, the spectators who had come out to see an easy triumph, and some of the raw recruits were running. A youth near Dick cried that the rebels fifty thousand strong with a hundred guns were hot upon their heels. A short, powerful man, with a voice like the roar of thunder, bade him hush or he would feel a rifle barrel across his back. Dick had noticed this man, a sergeant named Whitley, who had shown singular courage and coolness throughout the battle, and he crowded closer to him for companionship. The man observed the action and looked at him with blue eyes that twinkled out of a face almost black with the sun.

"Don't take it so hard, my boy," he said. "This battle's lost, but there are others that won't be. Most of the men were raw, but they did some mighty good fightin', while the regulars an' the cavalry are coverin' the retreat. Beauregard's army is not goin' to sweep us off the face of the earth."

His words brought cheer to Dick, but it lasted only a moment. He was to see many dark days, but this perhaps was the darkest of his life. His heart beat painfully and his face was a brown mask of mingled dust, sweat, and burned gunpowder. The thunder of the Southern cannon behind them filled him with humiliation. Every bone in him ached after such fierce exertion, and his eyes were dim with the flare of cannon and rifles and the rolling clouds of dust. He was scarcely conscious that the thick and powerful sergeant had moved up by his side and had put a helping hand under his arm.

"Here we are at the ford!" cried Whitley. "Into it, my lad! Ah, how good the water feels!"

Dick, despite those warning guns behind him, would have remained a while in Bull Run, luxuriating in the stream, but the crowd of his comrades was pressing hard upon him, and he only had time to thrust his face into the water and to pour it over his neck, arms, and shoulders. But he was refreshed greatly. Some of the heat went out of his body, and his eyes and head ached less.

The retreat continued across the rolling hills. Dick saw everywhere arms and supplies thrown away by the fringe of a beaten army, the men in the rear who saw and who spread the reports of panic and terror. But the regiments were forming again into a cohesive force, and behind them the regulars and cavalry in firm array still challenged pursuit. Heavy firing was heard again under the horizon and word came that the Southern cavalry had captured guns and wagons, but the main division maintained its slow retreat toward Washington.

Now the cool shadows were coming. The sun, which had shown as red as blood over the field that day, was sinking behind the hills. Its fiery rays ceased to burn the faces of the men. A soft healing breeze stirred the leaves and grass. The river of Bull Run and the field of Manassas were gone from sight, and the echo of the last cannon shot died solemnly on the Southern horizon. An hour later the brigade stopped in the wood, and the exhausted men threw themselves upon the ground. They were so tired that their bodies were in pain as if pricked with needles. The chagrin and disgrace of defeat were forgotten for the time in the overpowering desire for rest.

Dick had enlisted as a common soldier. There was no burden of maintaining order upon him, and he threw himself upon the ground by the side of his new friend, Sergeant Whitley. His breath came at first in gasps, but presently he felt better and sat up.

It was now full night, thrice blessed to them all, with the heat and dust gone and no enemy near. The young recruits had recovered their courage. The terrible scenes of the battle were hid from their eyes, and the cannon no longer menaced on the horizon. The sweet, soothing wind blew gently over the hills among which they lay, and the leaves rustled peacefully.

Fires were lighted, wagons with supplies arrived, and the men began to cook food, while the surgeons moved here and there, binding up the wounds of the hurt. The pleasant odors of coffee and frying meat arose. Sergeant Whitley stood up and by the moonlight and the fires scanned the country about them with discerning eye. Dick looked at him with renewed interest. He was a man of middle years, but with all the strength and elasticity of youth. Despite his thick coat of tan he was naturally fair, and Dick noticed that his hands were the largest that he had ever seen on any human being. They seemed to the boy to have in them the power to strangle a bear. But the man was singularly mild and gentle in his manner.

"We're about half way to Washington, I judge," he said, "an' I expect a lot of our camp followers and grass-green men are all the way there by now, tellin' Abe Lincoln an' everybody else that a hundred thousand rebels fell hard upon us on the plain of Manassas."

He laughed deep down in his throat and Dick again drew courage and cheerfulness from one who had such a great store of both.

"How did it happen? Our defeat, I mean," asked Dick. "I thought almost to the very last moment that we had the victory won."

"Their reserves came an' ours didn't. But the boys did well. Lots worse than this will happen to us, an' we'll live to overcome it. I've been through a heap of hardships in my life, Dick, but I always remember that somebody else has been through worse. Let's go down the hill. The boys have found a branch an' are washin' up."

By "branch" he meant a brook, and Dick went with him gladly. They found a fine, clear stream, several feet broad and a foot deep, flowing swiftly between the slopes, and probably emptying miles further on into Bull Run. Already it was lined by hundreds of soldiers, mostly boys, who were bathing freely in its cool waters. Dick and the sergeant joined them and with the sparkle of the current fresh life and vigor flowed into their veins.

An officer took command, and when they had bathed their faces, necks, and arms abundantly they were allowed to take off their shoes and socks and put their bruised and aching feet in the stream.

"It seems to me, sergeant, that this is pretty near to Heaven," said Dick as he sat on the bank and let the water swish around his ankles.

"It's mighty good. There's no denyin' it, but we'll move still a step nearer to Heaven, when we get our share of that beef an' coffee, which I now smell most appetizin'. Hard work gives a fellow a ragin' appetite, an' I reckon fightin' is the hardest of all work. When I was a lumberman in Wisconsin I thought nothin' could beat that, but I admit now that a big battle is more exhaustin'."

"You've worked in the timber then?"

"From the time I was twelve years old 'til three or four years ago. If I do say it myself, there wasn't a man in all Wisconsin, or Michigan either, who could swing an axe harder or longer than I could. I guess you've noticed these hands of mine."

He held them up, and they impressed Dick more than ever. They were great masses of bone and muscle fit for a giant.

"Paws, the boys used to call 'em," resumed Whitley with a pleased laugh. "I inherited big hands. Father had em an' mother had 'em, too. So mine were wonders when I was a boy, an' when you add to that years an' years with the axe, an' with liftin' an' rollin' big logs I've got what I reckon is the strongest pair of hands in the United States. I can pull a horseshoe apart any time. Mighty useful they are, too, as I'm likely to show you often."

The chance came very soon. A frightened horse, probably with the memory of the battle still lodged somewhere in his animal brain, broke his tether and came charging among the troops. Whitley made one leap, seized him by the bit in his mighty grasp and hurled him back on his haunches, where he held him until fear was gone from him.

"It was partly strength and partly sleight of hand, a trick that I learned in the cavalry," he said to Dick as they put on their shoes. "I got tired of lumberin' an' I wandered out west, where I served three years on horseback in the regular army, fightin' the Indians. Good fighters they are, too. Mighty hard to put your hand on 'em. Now they're there an' now they ain't. Now you see 'em before you, an' then they're behind you aimin' a tomahawk at your head. They taught us a big lot that I guess we can use in this war. Come on, Dick, I guess them banquet halls are spread, an' I know we're ready."

Not much order was preserved in the beaten brigade, which had become separated from the rest of the retreating army, but the spirits of all were rising and that, so Sergeant Whitley told Dick, was better just now than technical discipline. The Northern army had gone to Bull Run with ample supplies, and now they lacked for nothing. They ate long and well, and drank great quantities of coffee. Then they put out the fires and resumed the march toward Washington.

They stopped again an hour or two after midnight and slept until morning. Dick lay on the bare ground under the boughs of a great oak tree. It was a quarter of an hour before sleep came, because his nervous system had received a tremendous wrench that day. He closed his eyes and the battle passed again before them. He remembered, too, a lightning glimpse of a face, that of his cousin, Harry Kenton, seen but an instant and then gone. He tried to decide whether it was fancy or reality, and, while he was trying, he fell asleep and slept as one dead.

Dick was awakened early in the morning by Sergeant Whitley, who was now watching over him like an elder brother. The sun already rode high and there was a great stir and movement, as the brigade was forming for its continued retreat on the capital. The boy's body was at first stiff and sore, but the elasticity of youth returned fast, and after a brief breakfast he was fully restored.

Another hot day had dawned, but Dick reflected grimly that however hot it might be it could not be as hot as the day before had been. Scouts in the night had brought back reports that the Southern troops were on the northern side of Bull Run, but not in great force, and a second battle was no longer feared. The flight could be continued without interruption over the hot Virginia fields.

Much of Dick's depression returned as they advanced under the blazing sun, but Whitley, who seemed insensible to either fatigue or gloom, soon cheered him up again.

"They talk about the Southerners comin' on an' takin' Washington," he said, "but don't you believe it. They haven't got the forces, an' while they won the victory I guess they're about as tired as we are. Our boys talk about a hundred thousand rebels jumpin' on 'em, an' some felt as if they was a million, but they weren't any more than we was, maybe not as many, an' when they are all stove up themselves how can they attack Washington in its fortifications! Don't be so troubled, boy. The Union ain't smashed up yet. Just recollect whenever it's dark that light's bound to come later on. What do you say to that, Long Legs?"

He spoke to a very tall and very thin youth who marched about a half dozen feet away from them. The boy, who seemed to be about eighteen years of age, turned to them a face which was pale despite the Virginia sun. But it was the pallor of indoor life, not of fear, as the countenance was good and strong, long, narrow, the chin pointed, the nose large and bridged like that of an old Roman, the eyes full blue and slightly nearsighted. But there was a faint twinkle in those same nearsighted eyes as he replied in precise tones:

"According to all the experience of centuries and all the mathematical formulae that can be deduced therefrom night is bound to be followed by day. We have been whipped by the rebels, but it follows with arithmetical certainty that if we keep on fighting long enough we will whip them in time. Let x equal time and y equal opportunity. Then when x and y come together we shall have x plus y which will equal success. Does my logic seem cogent to you, Mr. Big Shoulders and Big Hands?"

Whitley stared at him in amazement and admiration.

"I haven't heard so many big words in a long time," he said, "an' then, too, you bring 'em out so nice an' smooth, marchin' in place as regular as a drilled troop."

"I've been drilled too," said the tall boy, smiling. "My name is George Warner, and I come from Vermont. I began teaching a district school when I was sixteen years old, and I would be teaching now, if it were not for the war. My specialty is mathematics. X equals the war, y equals me and x plus y equals me in the war."

"Your name is Warner and you are from Vermont," said Dick eagerly. "Why, there was a Warner who struck hard for independence at Bennington in the Revolution."

"That's my family," replied the youth proudly. "Seth Warner delivered a mighty blow that helped to form this Union, and although I don't know much except to teach school I'm going to put in a little one to help save it. X equalled the occasion, y equalled my willingness to meet it, and x plus y have brought me here."

Dick told who he and Whitley were, and he felt at once that he and this long and mathematical Vermont lad were going to be friends. Whitley also continued to look upon Warner with much favor.

"I respect anybody who can talk in mathematics as you do," he said. "Now with me I never know what x equals an' I never know what y equals, so if I was to get x an' y together they might land me about ten thousand miles from where I wanted to be. But a fellow can bend too much over books. That's what's the matter with them eyes of yours, which I notice always have to take two looks where I take only one."

"You are undoubtedly right," replied Warner. "My relatives told me that I needed some fresh air, and I am taking it, although the process is attended with certain risks from bullets, swords, bayonets, cannon balls, and shells. Still, I have made a very close mathematical calculation. At home there is the chance of disease as well as here. At home you may fall from a cliff, you may be drowned in a creek or river while bathing, a tree may fall on you, a horse may throw you and break your neck, or you may be caught in a winter storm and freeze to death. But even if none of these things happens to you, you will die some day anyhow. Now, my figures show me that the chance of death here in the war is only twenty-five per cent greater than it was at home, but physical activity and an open air continuously increase my life chances thirty-five per cent. So, I make a net life gain of ten per cent."

Whitley put his hand upon Warner's shoulder.

"Boy," he said, "you're wonderful. I can cheer up the lads by talkin' of the good things to come, but you can prove by arithmetic, algebra an' every other kind of mathematics that they're bound to come. You're goin' to be worth a lot wherever you are."

"Thanks for your encomiums. In any event we are gaining valuable experience. Back there on the field of Bull Run I was able to demonstrate by my own hearing and imagination that a hundred thousand rebels could fire a million bullets a minute; that every one of those million bullets filled with a mortal spite against me was seeking my own particular person."

Whitley gazed at him again with admiration.

"You've certainly got a wonderful fine big bag of words," he said, "an' whenever you need any you just reach in an' take out a few a foot long or so. But I reckon a lot of others felt the way you did, though they won't admit it now. Look, we're nearly to Washington now. See the dome of the Capitol over the trees there, an' I can catch glimpses of roofs too."

Dick and George also saw the capital, and cheered by the sight, they marched at a swifter gait. Soon they turned into the main road, where the bulk of the army had already passed and saw swarms of stragglers ahead of them. Journalists and public men met them, and Dick now learned how the truth about Bull Run had come to the capital. The news of defeat had been the more bitter, because already they had been rejoicing there over success. As late as five o'clock in the afternoon the telegraph had informed Washington of victory. Then, after a long wait, had come the bitter despatch telling of defeat, and flying fugitives arriving in the night had exaggerated it tenfold.

The division to which Dick, Warner, and Whitley belonged marched over the Long Bridge and camped near the capital where they would remain until sent on further service. Dick now saw that the capital was in no danger. Troops were pouring into it by every train from the north and west. All they needed was leadership and discipline. Bull Run had stung, but it did not daunt them and they asked to be led again against the enemy. They heard that Lincoln had received the news of the defeat with great calmness, and that he had spent most of a night in his office listening to the personal narratives of public men who had gone forth to see the battle, and who at its conclusion had left with great speed.

"Lots of people have laughed at Abe Lincoln an' have called him only a rail-splitter," said Whitley, "but I heard him two or three times, when he was campaignin' in Illinois, an' I tell you he's a man."

"He was born in my state," said Dick, "and I mean to be proud of him. He'll have support, too. Look how the country is standing by him!"

More than once in the succeeding days Dick Mason's heart thrilled at the mighty response that came to the defeat of Bull Run. The stream of recruits pouring into the capital never ceased. He now saw men, and many boys, too, like himself, from every state north of the Ohio River and from some south of it. Dan Whitley met old logging friends from Wisconsin whom he had not seen in years, and George Warner saw two pupils of his as old as himself.

Dick had inherited a sensitive temperament, one that responded quickly and truthfully to the events occurring about him, and he foresaw the beginning of a mighty struggle. Here in the capital, resolution was hardening into a fight to the finish, and he knew from his relatives when he left Kentucky that the South was equally determined. There was an apparent pause in hostilities, but he felt that the two sections were merely gathering their forces for a mightier conflict.

His comrades and he had little to do, and they had frequent leaves of absence. On one of them they saw a man of imposing appearance pass down Pennsylvania Avenue. He would have caught the attention of anybody, owing to his great height and splendid head crowned with snow-white hair. He was old, but he walked as if he were one who had achieved greatly, and was conscious of it.

"It's Old Fuss and Feathers his very self," said Whitley.

"General Scott. It can be no other," said Dick, who had divined at once the man's identity. His eyes followed the retreating figure with the greatest interest. This was the young hero of the War of 1812 and the great commander who had carried the brilliant campaign into the capital of Mexico. He had been the first commander-in-chief of the Northern army, and, foreseeing the great scale of the coming war, had prepared a wide and cautious plan. But the public had sneered at him and had demanded instant action, the defeat at Bull Run being the result.

Dick felt pity for the man who was forced to bear a blame not his own, and who was too old for another chance. But he knew that the present cloud would soon pass away, and that he would be remembered as the man of Chippewa and Chapultepec.

"McClellan is already here to take his place," said Whitley. "He's the young fellow who has been winning successes in the western part of Virginia, an' they say he has genius."

Only a day or two later they saw McClellan walking down the same avenue with the President. Dick had never beheld a more striking contrast. The President was elderly, of great height, his head surmounted by a high silk hat which made him look yet taller, while his face was long, melancholy, and wrinkled deeply. His collar had wilted with the heat and the tails of his long black coat flapped about his legs.

The general was clothed in a brilliant uniform. He was short and stocky and his head scarcely passed the President's shoulder. He was redolent of youth and self confidence. It showed in his quick, eager gestures and his emphatic manner. He attracted the two boys, but the sergeant shook his head somewhat solemnly.

"They say Scott was too old," he said, "and now they've gone to the other end of it. McClellan's too young to handle the great armies that are going into the field. I'm afraid he won't be a match for them old veterans like Johnston and Lee."

"Napoleon became famous all over the world when he was only twenty-six," said Warner.

"That's so," retorted Whitley, "but I never heard of any other Napoleon. The breed began and quit with him."

But the soldiers crowding the capital had full confidence in "Little Mac," as they had already begun to call him. Those off duty followed and cheered him and the President, until they entered the White House and disappeared within its doors. Dick and his friends were in the crowd that followed, although they did not join in the cheers, not because they lacked faith, but because all three were thoughtful. Dick had soon discovered that Whitley, despite his lack of education, was an exceedingly observant man, with a clear and reasoning mind.

"It was a pair worth seeing," said the sergeant, as they turned away, "but I looked a lot more at Old Abe than I did at 'Little Mac.' Did you ever think, boys, what it is to have a big war on your hands, with all sorts of men tellin' you all sorts of things an' tryin' to pull you in all sorts of directions?"

"I had not thought of it before, but I will think of it now," said Warner. "In any event, we are quite sure that the President has a great task before him. We hear that the South will soon have a quarter of a million troops in the field. Her position on the defensive is perhaps worth as many more men to her. Hence let x equal her troops, let y equal her defensive, and we have x plus y, which is equal to half a million men, the number we must have before we can meet the South on equal terms."

"An' to conquer her completely we'll need nigh on to a million." said the sergeant.

Shrewd and penetrating as was Sergeant Whitley he did not dream that before the giant struggle was over the South would have tripled her defensive quarter of a million and the North would almost have tripled her invading million.

A few days later their regiment marched out of the capital and joined the forces on the hills around Arlington, where they lay for many days, impatient but inactive. There was much movement in the west, and they heard of small battles in which victory and defeat were about equal. The boys had shown so much zeal and ability in learning soldierly duties that they were made orderlies by their colonel, John Newcomb, a taciturn Pennsylvanian, a rich miner who had raised a regiment partly at his own expense, and who showed a great zeal for the Union. He, too, was learning how to be a soldier and he was not above asking advice now and then of a certain Sergeant Whitley who had the judgment to give it in the manner befitting one of his lowly rank.

The summer days passed slowly on. The heat was intense. The Virginia hills and plains fairly shimmered under the burning rays of the sun. But still they delayed. Congress had shown the greatest courage, meeting on the very day that the news of Bull Run had come, and resolving to fight the war to a successful end, no matter what happened. But while McClellan was drilling and preparing, the public again began to call for action. "On to Richmond!" was the cry, but despite it the army did not yet move.

European newspapers came in, and almost without exception they sneered at the Northern troops, and predicted the early dissolution of the Union. Monarchy and privileged classes everywhere rejoiced at the disaster threatening the great republic, and now that it was safe to do so, did not hesitate to show their delight. Sensitive and proud of his country, Dick was cut to the quick, but Warner was more phlegmatic.

"Let 'em bark," he said. "They bark because they dislike us, and they dislike us because they fear us. We threatened Privilege when our Revolution succeeded and the Republic was established. The fact of our existence was the threat and the threat has increased with our years and growth. Europe is for the South, but the reason for it is one of the simplest problems in mathematics. Ten per cent of it is admiration for the Southern victory at Bull Run, and ninety per cent of it is hatred -- at least by their ruling classes -- of republican institutions, and a wish to see them fall here."

"I suspect you're right," said Dick, "and we'll have to try all the harder to keep them from being a failure. Look, there goes our balloon!"

Every day, usually late in the afternoon, a captive balloon rose from the Northern camp, and officers with powerful glasses inspected the Southern position, watching for an advance or a new movement of any kind.

"I'm going up in it some day," said Dick, confidently. "Colonel Newcomb has promised me that he will take me with him when his turn for the ascension comes."

The chance was a week in coming, a tremendously long time it seemed to Dick, but it came at last. He climbed into the basket with Colonel Newcomb, two generals, and the aeronauts and sat very quiet in a corner. He felt an extraordinary thrill when the ropes were allowed to slide and the balloon was slowly going almost straight upward. The sensation was somewhat similar to that which shook him when he went into battle at Bull Run, but pride came to his rescue and he soon forgot the physical tremor to watch the world that now rolled beneath them, a world that they seemed to have left, although the ropes always held.

Dick's gaze instinctively turned southward, where he knew the Confederate army lay. A vast and beautiful panorama spread in a semi-circle before him. The green of summer, the green that had been stained so fearfully at Bull Run, was gone. The grass was now brown from the great heats and the promise of autumn soon to come, but -- from the height at least -- it was a soft and mellow brown, and the dust was gone.

The hills rolled far away southward, and under the horizon's rim. Narrow ribbons of silver here and there were the numerous brooks and creeks that cut the country. Groves, still heavy and dark with foliage, hung on the hills, or filled some valley, like green in a bowl. Now and then, among clumps of trees, colonial houses with their pillared porticoes appeared.

It was a rare and beautiful scene, appealing with great force to Dick. There was nothing to tell of war save the Northern forces just beneath them, and he would not look down. But he did look back, and saw the broad band of the Potomac, and beyond it the white dome of the Capitol and the roof of Washington. But his gaze turned again to the South, where his absorbing interest lay, and once more he viewed the quiet country, rolling away until it touched the horizon rim. The afternoon was growing late, and great terraces of red and gold were heaping above one another in the sky until they reached the zenith.

"Try the glasses for a moment, Dick," said Colonel Newcomb, as he passed them to the boy.

Dick swept them across the South in a great semi-circle, and now new objects rose upon the surface of the earth. He saw distinctly the long chain of the Blue Ridge rising on the west, then blurring in the distance into a solid black rampart. In the south he saw a long curving line of rising blue plumes. It did not need Colonel Newcomb to tell him that these were the campfires of the army that they had met on the field of Bull Run, and that the Southern troops were now cooking their suppers.

No doubt his cousin Harry was there and perhaps others whom he knew. The fires seemed to Dick a defiance to the Union. Well, in view of their victory, the defiance was justified, and those fires might come nearer yet. Dick, catching the tone of older men who shared his views, had not believed at first that the rebellion would last long, but his opinion was changing fast, and the talk of wise Sergeant Whitley was helping much in that change.

While he yet looked through the glasses he saw a plume of white smoke coming swiftly towards the Southern fires. Then he remembered the two lines of railroad that met on the battlefield, giving it its other name, Manassas Junction, and he knew that the smoke came from an engine pulling cars loaded with supplies for their foes.

He whispered of the train as he handed the glasses back to Colonel Newcomb, and then the colonel and the generals alike made a long examination.

"Beauregard will certainly have an abundance of supplies," said one of the generals. "I hear that arms and provisions are coming by every train from the South, and meanwhile we are making no advance."

"We can't advance yet," said the other general emphatically. "McClellan is right in making elaborate preparations and long drills before moving upon the enemy. It was inexperience, and not want of courage, that beat us at Bull Run."

"The Southerners had the same inexperience."

"But they had the defensive. I hear that Tom Jackson saved them, and that they have given him the name Stonewall, because he stood so firm. I was at West Point with him. An odd, awkward fellow, but one of the hardest students I have ever known. The boys laughed at him when he first came, but they soon stopped. He had a funny way of studying, standing up with his book on a shelf, instead of sitting down at a desk. Said his brain moved better that way. I've heard that he walked part of the way from Virginia to reach West Point. I hear now, too, that he is very religious, and always intends to pray before going into battle."

"That's a bad sign -- for us," said the other general. "It's easy enough to sneer at praying men, but just you remember Cromwell. I'm a little shaky on my history, but I've an impression that when Cromwell, the Ironsides, old Praise-God-Barebones, and the rest knelt, said a few words to their God, sang a little and advanced with their pikes, they went wherever they intended to go and that Prince Rupert and all the Cavaliers could not stop them."

"It is so," said the other gravely. "A man who believes thoroughly in his God, who is not afraid to die, who, in fact, rather favors dying on the field, is an awful foe to meet in battle."

"We may have some of the same on our side," said Colonel Newcomb. "We have at least a great Puritan population from which to draw."

One of the generals gave the signal and the balloon was slowly pulled down. Dick, grateful for his experience, thanked Colonel Newcomb and rejoined his comrades.



Chapter II. The Mountain Lights


When Dick left the balloon it was nearly night. Hundreds of campfires lighted up the hills about him, but beyond their circle the darkness enclosed everything. He still felt the sensations of one who had been at a great height and who had seen afar. That rim of Southern campfires was yet in his mind, and he wondered why the Northern commander allowed them to remain week after week so near the capital. He was fully aware, because it was common talk, that the army of the Union had now reached great numbers, with a magnificent equipment, and, with four to one, should be able to drive the Southern force away. Yet McClellan delayed.

Dick obtained a short leave of absence, and walked to a campfire, where he knew he would find his friend, George Warner. Sergeant Whitley was there, too, showing some young recruits how to cook without waste, and the two gave the boy a welcome that was both inquisitive and hearty.

"You've been up in the balloon," said Warner. "It was a rare chance."

"Yes," replied Dick with a laugh, "I left the world, and it is the only way in which I wish to leave it for the next sixty or seventy years. It was a wonderful sight, George, and not the least wonderful thing in it was the campfires of the Southern army, burning down there towards Bull Run."

"Burnin' where they ought not to be," said Whitley -- no gulf was yet established between commissioned and non-commissioned officers in either army. "Little Mac may be a great organizer, as they say, but you can keep on organizin' an' organizin', until it's too late to do what you want to do."

"It's a sound principle that you lay down, Mr. Whitley," said Warner in his precise tones. "In fact, it may be reduced to a mathematical formula. Delay is always a minus quantity which may be represented by y. Achievement is represented by x, and, consequently, when you have achievement hampered by delay you have x minus y, which is an extremely doubtful quantity, often amounting to failure."

"I travel another road in my reckonin's," said Whitley, "I don't know anything about x and y, but I guess you an' me, George, come to the same place. It's been a full six weeks since Bull Run, an' we haven't done a thing."

Whitley, despite their difference in rank, could not yet keep from addressing the boys by their first names. But they took it as a matter of course, in view of the fact that he was so much older than they and vastly their superior in military knowledge.

"Dick," continued the sergeant, "what was it you was sayin' about a cousin of yours from the same town in Kentucky bein' out there in the Southern army?"

"He's certainly there," replied Dick, "if he wasn't killed in the battle, which I feel couldn't have happened to a fellow like Harry. We're from the same little town in Kentucky, Pendleton. He's descended straight from one of the greatest Indian fighters, borderers and heroes the country down there ever knew, Henry Ware, who afterwards became one of the early governors of the State. And I'm descended from Henry Ware's famous friend, Paul Cotter, who, in his time, was the greatest scholar in all the West. Henry Ware and Paul Cotter were like the old Greek friends, Damon and Pythias. Harry and I are proud to have their blood in our veins. Besides being cousins, there are other things to make Harry and me think a lot of each other. Oh, he's a grand fellow, even if he is on the wrong side!"

Dick's eyes sparkled with enthusiasm as he spoke of the cousin and comrade of his childhood.

"The chances of war bring about strange situations, or at least I have heard so," said Warner. "Now, Dick, if you were to meet your cousin face to face on the battlefield with a loaded gun in your hand what would you do?"

"I'd raise that gun, take deliberate aim at a square foot of air about thirty feet over his head and pull the trigger."

"But your duty to your country tells you to do otherwise. Before you is a foe trying to destroy the Union. You have come out armed to save that Union, consequently you must fire straight at him and not at the air, in order to reduce the number of our enemies."

"One enemy where there are so many would not count for anything in the total. Your arithmetic will show you that Harry's percentage in the Southern army is so small that it reaches the vanishing point. If I can borrow from you, George, x equals Harry's percentage, which is nothing, y equals the value of my hypothetical opportunity, which is nothing, then x plus y equals nothing, which represents the whole affair, which is nothing, that is, worth nothing to the Union. Hence I have no more obligation to shoot Harry if I meet him than he has to shoot me."

"Well spoken, Dick," said Sergeant Whitley. "Some people, I reckon, can take duty too hard. If you have one duty an' another an' bigger one comes along right to the same place you ought to 'tend to the bigger one. I'd never shoot anybody that was a heap to me just because he was one of three or four hundred thousand who was on the other side. I've never thought much of that old Roman father -- I forget his name -- who had his son executed just because he wasn't doin' exactly right. There was never a rule that oughtn't to have exceptions under extraordinary circumstances."

"If you can establish the principle of exceptions," replied the young Vermonter very gravely, "I will allow Dick to shoot in the air when he meets his cousin in the height of battle, but it is a difficult task to establish it, and if it fails Dick, according to all rules of logic and duty, must shoot straight at his cousin's heart."

The other two looked at Warner and saw his left eyelid droop slightly. A faint twinkle appeared in either eye and then they laughed.

"I reckon that Dick shoots high in the air," said the sergeant.

Dick, after a pleasant hour with his friends, went back to Colonel Newcomb's quarters, where he spent the entire evening writing despatches at dictation. He was hopeful that all this writing portended something, but more days passed, and despite the impatience of both army and public, there was no movement. Stories of confused and uncertain fighting still came out of the west, but between Washington and Bull Run there was perfect peace.

The summer passed. Autumn came and deepened. The air was crisp and sparkling. The leaves, turned into glowing reds and yellows and browns, began to fall from the trees. The advancing autumn contained the promise of winter soon to come. The leaves fell faster and sharp winds blew, bringing with them chill rains. Little Mac, or the Young Napoleon, as many of his friends loved to call him, continued his preparations, and despite all the urgings of President and Congress, would not move. His fatal defect now showed in all its destructiveness. To him the enemy always appeared threefold his natural size.

Reliable scouts brought back the news that the Southern troops at Manassas, a full two months after their victory there, numbered only forty thousand. The Northern commander issued statements that the enemy was before him with one hundred and fifty thousand soldiers. He demanded that his own forces should be raised to nearly a quarter of a million men and nearly five hundred cannon before he could move.

The veteran, Scott, full of triumphs and honors, but feeling himself out of place in his old age, went into retirement. McClellan, now in sole command, still lingered and delayed, while the South, making good use of precious months, gathered all her forces to meet him or whomsoever came against her.

Youth chafed most against the long waiting. It seemed to Dick and his mathematical Vermont friend that time was fairly wasting away under their feet, and the wise sergeant agreed with them.

The weather had grown so cold now that they built fires for warmth as well as cooking, and the two youths sat with Sergeant Whitley one cold evening in late October before a big blaze. Both were tanned deeply by wind, sun and rain, and they had grown uncommonly hardy, but the wind that night came out of the northwest, and it had such a sharp edge to it that they were glad to draw their blankets over their backs and shoulders.

Dick was re-reading a letter from his mother, a widow who lived on the outskirts of Pendleton. It had come that morning, and it was the only one that had reached him since his departure from Kentucky. But she had received another that he had written to her directly after the Battle of Bull Run.

She wrote of her gratitude because Providence had watched over him in that dreadful conflict, all the more dreadful because it was friend against friend, brother against brother. The state, she said, was all in confusion. Everybody suspected everybody else. The Southerners were full of victory, the Northerners were hopeful of victory yet to come. Colonel Kenton was with the Southern force under General Buckner, gathered at Bowling Green in that state, but his son, her nephew Harry, was still in the east with Beauregard. She had heard that the troops of the west and northwest were coming down the Ohio and Mississippi in great numbers, and people expected hard fighting to occur very soon in western and southern Kentucky. It was all very dreadful, and a madness seemed to have come over the land, but she hoped that Providence would continue to watch over her dear son.

Warner and the sergeant knew that the letter was from Dick's mother, but they had too much delicacy to ask him questions. The boy folded the sheets carefully and returned them to their place in the inside pocket of his coat. Then he looked for a while thoughtfully into the blaze and the great bed of coals that had formed beneath. As far as one could see to right and left like fires burned, but the night remained dark with promise of rain, and the chill wind out of the northwest increased in vigor. The words just read for the fifth time had sunk deep in his mind, and he was feeling the call of the west.

"My mother writes," he said to his comrades, "that the Confederate general, Buckner, whom I know, is gathering a large force around Bowling Green in the southern part of our state, and that fighting is sure to occur soon between that town and the Mississippi. An officer named Grant has come down from Illinois, and he is said to be pushing the Union troops forward with a lot of vigor. Sergeant, you are up on army affairs. Do you know this man Grant?"

Sergeant Whitley shook his head.

"Never heard of him," he replied. "Like as not he's one of the officers who resigned from the army after the Mexican War. There was so little to do then, and so little chance of promotion, that a lot of them quit to go into business. I suppose they'll all be coming back now."

"I want to go out there," said Dick. "It's my country, and the westerners at least are acting. But look at our army here! Bull Run was fought the middle of summer. Now it's nearly winter, and nothing has been done. We don't get out of sight of Washington. If I can get myself sent west I'm going."

"And I'm going with you," said Warner.

"Me, too," said the sergeant.

"I know that Colonel Newcomb's eyes are turning in that direction," continued Dick. "He's a war-horse, he is, and he'd like to get into the thick of it."

"You're his favorite aide," said the calculating young Vermonter. "Can't you sow those western seeds in his mind and keep on sowing them? The fact that you are from this western battle ground will give more weight to what you say. You do this, and I'll wager that within a week the Colonel will induce the President to send the whole regiment to the Mississippi."

"Can you reduce your prediction to a mathematical certainty?" asked Dick, a twinkle appearing in his eye.

"No, I can't do that," replied Warner, with an answering twinkle, "but you're the very fellow to influence Colonel Newcomb's mind. I'm a mathematician and I work with facts, but you have the glowing imagination that conduces to the creation of facts."

"Big words! Grand words!" said the sergeant.

"Never let Colonel Newcomb forget the west," continued Warner, not noticing the interruption. "Keep it before him all the time. Hint that there can be no success along the Mississippi without him and his regiment."

"I'll do what I can," promised Dick faithfully, and he did much. Colonel Newcomb had already formed a strong attachment for this zealous and valuable young aide, and he did not forget the words that Dick said on every convenient occasion about the west. He made urgent representations that he and his regiment be sent to the relief of the struggling Northern forces there, and he contrived also that these petitions should reach the President. One day the order came to go, but not to St. Louis, where Halleck, now in command, was. Instead they were to enter the mountains of West Virginia and Kentucky, and help the mountaineers who were loyal to the Union. If they accomplished that task with success, they were to proceed to the greater theatre in Western Kentucky and Tennessee. It was not all they wished, but they thought it far better than remaining at Washington, where it seemed that the army would remain indefinitely.

Colonel Newcomb, who was sitting in his tent bending over maps with his staff, summoned Dick.

"You are a Kentuckian, my lad," he said, "and I thought you might know something about this region into which we are going."

"Not much, sir," replied Dick. "My home is much further west in a country very different both in its own character and that of its people. But I have been in the mountains two or three times, and I may be of some help as a guide."

"I am sure you will do your best," said Colonel Newcomb. "By the way, that young Vermont friend of yours, Warner, is to be on my staff also, and it is very likely that you and he will go on many errands together."

"Can't we take Sergeant Whitley with us sometimes?" asked Dick boldly.

"So you can," replied the colonel, laughing a little. "I've noticed that man, and I've a faint suspicion that he knows more about war than any of us civilian officers."

"It's our task to learn as much as we can from these old regulars," said a Major Hertford, a man of much intelligence and good humor, who, previous to the war, had been a lawyer in a small town. Alan Hertford was about twenty-five and of fine manner and appearance.

"Well spoken, Major Hertford," said the thoughtful miner, Colonel Newcomb. "Now, Dick, you can go, and remember that we are to start for Washington early in the morning and take a train there for the north. It will be the duty of Lieutenant Warner and yourself, as well as others, to see that our men are ready to the last shoe for the journey."

Dick and Warner were so much elated that they worked all that night, and they did not hesitate to go to Sergeant Whitley for advice or instruction. At the first spear of dawn the regiment marched away in splendid order from Arlington to Washington, where the train that was to bear them to new fields and unknown fortunes was ready.

It was a long train of many coaches, as the regiment numbered seven hundred men, and it also carried with it four guns, mounted on trucks. The coaches were all of primitive pattern. The soldiers were to sleep on the seats, and their arms and supplies were heaped in the aisles. It was a cold, drizzling day of closing autumn, and the capital looked sodden and gloomy. Cameron, the Secretary of War, came to see them off and to make the customary prediction concerning their valor and victory to come. But he was a cold man, and he was repellent to Dick, used to more warmth of temperament.

Then, with a ringing of bells, a heave of the engine, a great puffing of smoke, and a mighty rattling of wheels, the train drew out of Washington and made its noisy way toward Baltimore. Dick and Warner were on the same seat. It was only forty miles to Baltimore, but their slow train would be perhaps three hours in arriving. So they had ample opportunity to see the country, which they examined with the curious eyes of youth. But there was little to see. The last leaves were falling from the trees under the early winter rain. Bare boughs and brown grass went past their windows and the fields were deserted. The landscape looked chill and sullen.

Warner was less depressed than Dick. He had an even temperament based solidly upon mathematical calculations. He knew that while it might be raining today, the chances were several to one against its raining tomorrow.

"I've good cause to remember Baltimore," he said. "I was with the New England troops when they had the fight there on the way down to the capital. Although we hold it, it's really a Southern city, Dick. Most all the border cities are Southern in sympathy, and they're swarming with people who will send to the Southern leaders news of every movement we make. I state, and moreover I assert it in the face of all the world, that the knowledge of our departure from Washington is already in Southern hands. By close mathematical calculation the chances are at least ninety-five per cent in favor of my statement."

"Very likely," said Dick, "and we'll have that sort of thing to face all the time when we invade the South. We've got to win this war, George, by hard fighting, and then more hard fighting, and then more and more of the same."

"Guess you're right. Arithmetic shows at least one hundred per cent of probability in favor of your suggestion."

Dick looked up and down the long coach packed with young troops. Besides the commissioned officers and the sergeants, there was not one in the coach who was twenty-five. Most of them were nineteen or twenty, and it was the same in the other coaches. After the first depression their spirits rose. The temper of youth showed strongly. They were eager to see Baltimore, but the train stopped there only a few minutes, and they were not allowed to leave the coaches.

Then the train turned towards the west. The drizzle of rain had now become a pour, and it drove so heavily that they could see but little outside. Food was served at noon and afterward many slept in the cramped seats. Dick, despite his stiff position, fell asleep too. By the middle of the afternoon everybody in their coach was slumbering soundly except Sergeant Whitley, who sat by the door leading to the next car.

All that afternoon and into the night the train rattled and moved into the west. The beautiful rolling country was left behind, and they were now among the mountains, whirling around precipices so sharply that often the sleeping boys were thrown from the seats of the coaches. But they were growing used to hardships. They merely climbed back again upon the seats, and were asleep once more in half a minute.

The rain still fell and the wind blew fiercely among the somber mountains. A second engine had been added to the train, and the speed of the train was slackened. The engineer in front stared at the slippery rails, but he could see only a few yards. The pitchy darkness closed in ahead, hiding everything, even the peaks and ridges. The heart of that engineer, and he was a brave man, as brave as any soldier on the battlefield, had sunk very low. Railroads were little past their infancy then and this was the first to cross the mountains. He was by no means certain of his track, and, moreover, the rocks and forest might shelter an ambush.

The Alleghanies and their outlying ridges and spurs are not lofty mountains, but to this day they are wild and almost inaccessible in many places. Nature has made them a formidable barrier, and in the great Civil War those who trod there had to look with all their eyes and listen with all their ears. The engineer was not alone in his anxiety this night. Colonel Newcomb rose from an uneasy doze and he went with Major Hertford into the engineer's cab. They were now going at the rate of not more than five or six miles an hour, the long train winding like a snake around the edges of precipices and feeling its way gingerly over the trestles that spanned the deep valleys. All trains made a great roar and rattle then, and the long ravines gave it back in a rumbling and menacing echo. Gusts of rain were swept now and then into the faces of the engineer, the firemen and the officers.

"Do you see anything ahead, Canby?" said Colonel Newcomb to the engineer.

"Nothing. That's the trouble, sir. If it were a clear night I shouldn't be worried. Then we wouldn't be likely to steam into danger with our eyes shut. This is a wild country. The mountaineers in the main are for us, but we are not far north of the Southern line, and if they know we are crossing they may undertake to raid in here."

"And they may know it," said the colonel. "Washington is full of Southern sympathizers. Stop the train, Canby, when we come to the first open and level space, and we'll do some scouting ahead."

The engineer felt great relief. He was devoutly glad that the colonel was going to take such a precaution. At that moment he, more than Colonel Newcomb, was responsible for the lives of the seven hundred human beings aboard the train, and his patriotism and sense of responsibility were both strong.

The train, with much jolting and clanging, stopped fifteen minutes later. Both Dick and Warner, awakened by the shock, sat up and rubbed their eyes. Then they left the train at once to join Colonel Newcomb, who might want them immediately. Wary Sergeant Whitley followed them in silence.

The boys found Colonel Newcomb and the remaining members of his staff standing near, and seeking anxiously to discover the nature of the country about them. The colonel nodded when they arrived, and gave them an approving glance. The two stood by, awaiting the colonel's orders, but they did not neglect to use their eyes.

Dick saw by the engineer's lantern that they were in a valley, and he learned from his words that this valley was about three miles long with a width of perhaps half a mile. A little mountain river rushed down its center, and the train would cross the stream about a mile further on. It was still raining and the cold wind whistled down from the mountains. Dick could see the somber ridges showing dimly through the loom of darkness and rain. He was instantly aware, too, of a tense and uneasy feeling among the officers. All of them carried glasses, but in the darkness they could not use them. Lights began to appear in the train and many heads were thrust out at the windows.

"Go through the coaches, Mr. Mason and Mr. Warner," said Colonel Newcomb, "and have every light put out immediately. Tell them, too, that my orders are for absolute silence."

Dick and the Vermonter did their work rapidly, receiving many curious inquiries, as they went from coach to coach, all of which they were honestly unable to answer. They knew no more than the other boys about the situation. But when they left the last coach and returned to the officers near the engine, the train was in total darkness, and no sound came from it. Colonel Newcomb again gave them an approving nod. Dick noticed that the fires in the engine were now well covered, and that no sparks came from the smoke-stack. Standing by it he could see the long shape of the train running back in the darkness, but it would have been invisible to any one a hundred yards away.

"You think we're thoroughly hidden now, Canby?" said the colonel.

"Yes, sir. Unless they've located us precisely on advance information. I don't see how they could find us among the mountains in all this darkness and rain."

"But they've had the advance information! Look there!" exclaimed Major Hertford, pointing toward the high ridge that lay on their right.

A beam of light had appeared on the loftiest spur, standing out at first like a red star in the darkness, then growing intensely brighter, and burning with a steady, vivid light. The effect was weird and powerful. The mountain beneath it was invisible, and it seemed to burn there like a real eye, wrathful and menacing. The older men, as well as the boys, were held as if by a spell. It was something monstrous and eastern, like the appearance of a genie out of the Arabian Nights.

The light, after remaining fixed for at least a minute, began to move slowly from side to side and then faster.

"A signal!" exclaimed Colonel Newcomb. "Beyond a doubt it is the Southerners. Whatever they're saying they're saying it to somebody. Look toward the south!"

"Ah, there they are answering!" exclaimed Major Hertford.

All had wheeled simultaneously, and on another high spur a mile to the south a second red light as vivid and intense as the first was flashing back and forth. It, too, the mountain below invisible, seemed to swing in the heavens. Dick, standing there in the darkness and rain, and knowing that imminent and mortal danger was on either side, felt a frightful chill creeping slowly down his spine. It is a terrible thing to feel through some superior sense that an invisible foe is approaching, and not be able to know by any kind of striving whence he came.

The lights flashed alternately, and presently both dropped from the sky, seeming to Dick to leave blacker spots on the darkness in their place. Then only the heavy night and the rain encompassed them.

"What do you think it is?" asked Colonel Newcomb of Major Hertford.

"Southern troops beyond a doubt. It is equally certain that they were warned in some manner from Washington of our departure."

"I think so, too. It is probable that they saw the light and have been signalling their knowledge to each other. It seems likely to me that they will wait at the far end of the valley to cut us off. What force do you think it is?"

"Perhaps a cavalry detachment that has ridden hurriedly to intercept us. I would say at a guess that it is Turner Ashby and his men. A skillful and dangerous foe, as you know."

Already the fame of this daring Confederate horseman was spreading over Virginia and Maryland.

"If we are right in our guess," said Major Hertford, "they will dismount, lead their horses along the mountain side, and shut down the trap upon us. Doubtless they are in superior force, and know the country much better than we do. If they get ahead of us and have a little time to do it in they will certainly tear up the tracks."

"I think you are right in all respects," said Colonel Newcomb. "But it is obvious that we must not give them time to destroy the road ahead of us. As for the rest, I wonder."

He pulled uneasily at his short beard, and then he caught sight of Sergeant Whitley standing silently, arms folded, by the side of the engine. Newcomb, the miner colonel, was a man of big and open mind. A successful business man, he had the qualities which made him a good general by the time the war was in its third year. He knew Whitley and he knew, too, that he was an old army regular, bristling with experience and shrewdness.

"Sergeant Whitley," he said, "in this emergency what would you do, if you were in my place?"

The sergeant saluted respectfully.

"If I were in your place, sir, which I never will be," he replied, "I would have all the troops leave the train. Then I would have the engineers take the train forward slowly, while the troops marched on either side of it, but at a sufficient distance to be hidden in the darkness. Then, sir, our men could not be caught in a wreck, but with their feet on solid earth they would be ready, if need be, for a fight, which is our business."

"Well spoken, Sergeant Whitley," said Colonel Newcomb, while the other officers also nodded approval. "Your plan is excellent and we will adopt it. Get the troops out of the train quickly but in silence and do you, Canby, be ready with the engine."

Dick and Warner with the older officers turned to the task. The young soldiers were out of the train in two minutes and were forming in lines on either side, arms ready. There were many whisperings among these boys, but none loud enough to be heard twenty yards away. All felt intense relief when they left the train and stood upon the solid, though decidedly damp earth.

But the cold rain sweeping upon their faces was a tonic, both mental and physical, after the close heat of the train. They did not know why they had disembarked, but they surmised with good reason that an attack was threatened and they were eager to meet it.

Dick and Warner were near the head of the line on the right of the tracks, and Sergeant Whitley was with them. The train began to puff heavily, and in spite of every precaution some sparks flew from the smoke-stack. Dick knew that it was bound to rumble and rattle when it started, but he was surprised at the enormous amount of noise it made, when the wheels really began to turn. It seemed to him that in the silence of the night it could be heard three or four miles. Then he realized that it was merely his own excitement and extreme tension of both mind and body. Canby was taking the train forward so gently that its sounds were drowned two hundred yards away in the swirl of wind and rain.

The men marched, each line keeping abreast of the train, but fifty yards or more to one side. The young troops were forbidden to speak and their footsteps made no noise in the wet grass and low bushes. Dick and Warner kept their eyes on the mountains, turning them alternately from north to south. Nothing appeared on either ridge, and no sound came to tell of an enemy near.

Dick began to believe that they would pass through the valley and out of the trap without a combat. But while a train may go two or three miles in a few minutes it takes troops marching in the darkness over uncertain ground a long time to cover the same distance. They marched a full half hour and then Dick suppressed a cry. The light, burning as intensely red as before, appeared again on the mountain to the right, but further toward the west, seeming to have moved parallel to the Northern troops. As Dick looked it began to flash swiftly from side to side and that chill and weird feeling again ran down his spine. He looked toward the south and there was the second signal, red and intense, replying to the first.

Dick heard a deep "Ah!" run along the line of young troops, and he knew now that they understood as much as he or any of the officers did. He now knew, too, that they would not pass out of the valley without a combat. The Southern forces, beyond a doubt, would try to shut them in at the western mouth of the valley, and a battle in the night and rain was sure to follow.

The train continued to move slowly forward. Had Colonel Newcomb dared he would have ordered Canby to increase his speed in order that he might reach the western mouth of the valley before the Southern force had a chance to tear up the rails, but there was no use for the train without the troops and they were already marching as fast as they could.

The gorge was now not more than a quarter of a mile away. Dick was able to discern it, because the darkness there was not quite so dark as that which lay against the mountains on either side. He was hopeful that they might yet reach it before the Southern force could close down upon them, but before they went many yards further he heard the beat of horses' feet both to right and left and knew that the enemy was at hand.

"Take the train on through the pass, Canby!" shouted Colonel Newcomb. "We'll cover its retreat, and join you later -- if we can."

The train began to rattle and roar, and its speed increased. Showers of sparks shot from the funnels of the two engines, and gleamed for an instant in the darkness. The beat of horses' feet grew to thunder. Colonel Newcomb with great presence of mind drew the two parallel lines of his men close together, and ordered them to lie down on either side of the railroad track and face outward with cocked rifles. Dick, the Vermonter, and Sergeant Whitley lay close together, and the three faced the north.

"See the torches!" said Whitley.

Dick saw eight or ten torches wavering and flickering at a height of seven or eight feet above the ground, and he knew that they were carried by horsemen, but he could not see either men or horses beneath. Then the rapid beat of hoofs ceased abruptly at a distance that Dick thought must be about two hundred yards.

"Lie flat!" cried Whitley. "They're about to fire!"



Chapter III. The Telegraph Station


The darkness to the north was suddenly split apart by a solid sheet of flame. Dick by the light saw many men on horseback and others on foot, bridle rein over arm. It was well for the seven hundred boys that they had pressed themselves against the solid earth. A sheet of bullets swept toward them. Most passed over their heads, but many struck upon bones and flesh, and cries of pain rose from the lines of men lying along the railroad track.

The seven hundred pulled trigger and fired at the flash. They fired so well that Dick could hear Southern horses neighing with pain, and struggling in the darkness. He felt sure that many men, too, had been hit. At least no charge came. The seven hundred shouted with exultation and, leaping to their feet, prepared to fire a second volley. But the swift command of their officers quickly put them down again.

"Don't forget the other Confederate column to the south of us," whispered Whitley. "They did not fire at first for fear their bullets would pass over our heads and strike their own comrades. For the same reason they must have dropped back a little in order to avoid the fire of their friends. Their volley will come from an angle about midway between our left and rear."

Just as he spoke the last words the rifles flashed at the surmised angle and again the bullets beat among the young troops or swept over their heads. A soldier was killed only a few feet from Dick. The boy picked up his rifle and ammunition and began to fire whenever he saw the flash of an opposing weapon. But the fire of both Confederate columns ceased in a minute or two, and not a shot nor the sound of a single order came out of the darkness. But Dick with his ear to the soft earth, could hear the crush of hoofs in the mud, and with a peculiar ability to discern whence sound came he knew that the force on the left and rear was crossing the railroad track in order to join their comrades on the north. He whispered his knowledge to Whitley, who whispered back:

"It's the natural thing for them to do. They could not afford to fight on in the darkness with two separate forces. The two columns would soon be firing into each other."

Colonel Newcomb now gave an order for the men to rise and follow the railroad track, but also to fire at the flash of the rifles whenever a volley was poured upon them. He must not only beat off the Southern attack, but also continue the journey to those points in the west where they were needed so sorely. Some of his men had been killed, and he was compelled to leave their bodies where they had fallen. Others were wounded, but without exception they were helped along by their comrades.

Warner also had secured a rifle, with which he fired occasionally, but he and Dick, despite the darkness, kept near to Colonel Newcomb in order that they might deliver any orders that he should choose to give. Sergeant Whitley was close to them. Dick presently heard the rush of water.

"What is that?" he exclaimed.

"It's the little river that runs down the valley," replied Warner. "There's a slope here and it comes like a torrent. A bridge or rather trestle is only a little further, and we've got to walk the ties, if we reach the other side. They'll make their heaviest rush there, I suppose, as beyond a doubt they are thoroughly acquainted with the ground."

The Northern troops left the track which here ran along an embankment several feet high, and took shelter on its southern side. They now had an advantage for a while, as they fired from a breastwork upon their foes, who were in the open. But the darkness, lit only by the flashes of the rifles, kept the fire of both sides from being very destructive, the bullets being sent mainly at random.

Dick dimly saw the trestle work ahead of them, and the roaring of the little river increased. He did not know how deep the water was, but he was sure that it could not be above his waist as it was a small stream. An idea occurred to him and he promptly communicated it to Colonel Newcomb.

"Suppose, sir," he said, "that we ford the river just below the trestle. It will deceive them and we'll be half way across before they suspect the change."

"A good plan, Mr. Mason," said Colonel Newcomb. "We'll try it."

Word was quickly passed along the line that they should turn to the left as they approached the trestle, march swiftly down the slope, and dash into the stream. As fast as they reached the other side of the ford the men should form upon the bank there, and with their rifles cover the passage of their comrades.

The skeleton work of the trestle now rose more clearly into view. The rain had almost ceased and faint rays of moonlight showed through the rifts where the clouds had broken apart. The boys distinctly heard the gurgling rush of waters, and they also saw the clear, bluish surface of the mountain stream. The same quickening of light disclosed the Southern force on their right flank and rear, only four or five hundred yards away. Dick's hasty glance backward lingered for a moment on a powerful man on a white horse just in advance of the Southern column. He saw this man raise his hand and then command the men to fire. He and twenty others under the impulse of excitement shouted to the regiment to drop down, and the Northern lads did so.

Most of the volley passed over their heads. Rising they sent back a return discharge, and then the head of the columns rushed into the stream. Dick felt swift water whirling about him and tugging at his body, but it rose no higher than his waist, although foam and spray were dashed into his face. He heard all around him the splashing of his comrades, and their murmurs of satisfaction. They realized now that they were not only able to retreat before a much superior force, but this same stream, when crossed, would form a barrier behind which they could fight two to one.

The Confederate leader, whoever he might be, and Dick had no doubt that he was the redoubtable Turner Ashby, also appreciated the full facts and he drove his whole force straight at the regiment. It was well for the young troops that part of them were already across, and, under the skillful leadership of Colonel Newcomb, Major Hertford, and three or four old, regular army sergeants, of whom the best was Whitley, were already forming in line of battle.

"Kneel," shouted the colonel, "and fire over the heads of your comrades at the enemy!"

The light was still growing brighter. The rain came only in slight flurries. The clouds were trooping off toward the northeast, and the moon was out. Dick clearly saw the black mass of the Southern horsemen wheeling down upon them. At least three hundred of the regiment were now upon the bank, and, with fairly steady aim, they poured a heavy volley into the massed ranks of their foe. Dick saw horses fall while others dashed away riderless. But the Southern line wavered only for a moment and then came on again with many shouts. There were also dismounted men on either flank who knelt and maintained a heavy fire upon the defenders.

The lads in blue were suffering many wounds, but a line of trees and underbrush on the western shore helped them. Lying there partly protected they loaded and pulled trigger as fast as they could, while the rest of their comrades emerged dripping from the stream to join them. The Confederates, brave as they were, had no choice but to give ground against such strong defense, and the miner colonel, despite his reserve and his middle years, gave vent to his exultation.

"We can hold this line forever!" he exclaimed to his aides. "It's one thing to charge us in the open, but it's quite another to get at us across a deep and rushing stream. Major Hertford, take part of the men to the other side of the railroad track and drive back any attempt at a crossing there. Lieutenant Mason, you and Lieutenant Warner go ahead and see what has become of the train. You can get back here in plenty time for more fighting."

Dick and Warner hurried forward, following the line of the railroad. Their blood was up and they did not like to leave the defense of the river, but orders must be obeyed. As they ran down the railroad track a man came forward swinging a lantern, and they saw the tall gaunt figure of Canby, the chief engineer. Behind him the train stretched away in the darkness.

"I guess that our men have forded the river and are holding the bank," said Canby. "Do they need the train crew back there to help?"

He spoke with husky eagerness. Dick knew that he was longing to be in the middle of the fight, but that his duty kept him with the train.

"No," he replied. "The river bank, and the road along its shore give us a great position for defense, and I know we can hold it. Colonel Newcomb did not say so, but perhaps you'd better bring the train back nearer us. It's not our object to stay in this valley and fight, but to go into the west. Is all clear ahead?"

"No enemy is there. Some of the brakemen have gone on a mile or two and they say the track hasn't been touched. You tell Colonel Newcomb that I'm bringing the train right down to the battle line."

Dick and Warner returned quickly to Colonel Newcomb, who appreciated Canby's courage and presence of mind. As the train approached the four cannon were unloaded from the trucks, and swept the further shore with shell and shrapnel. After a scattered fire the Southern force withdrew some distance, where it halted, apparently undecided. The clouds rolled up again, the feeble moon disappeared, and the river sank into the dark.

"May I make a suggestion, Colonel Newcomb?" said Major Hertford.

"Certainly."

"The enemy will probably seek an undefended ford much higher up, cross under cover of the new darkness and attack us in heavy force on the flank. Suppose we get aboard the train at once, cannon and all, and leave them far behind."

"Excellent. If the darkness covers their movements it also covers ours. Load the train as fast as possible and see that no wounded are left behind."

He gave rapid orders to all his officers and aides, and in fifteen minutes the troops were aboard the train again, the cannon were lifted upon the trucks, Canby and his assistants had all steam up, and the train with its usual rattle and roar resumed its flight into the west.

Dick and Warner were in the first coach near Colonel Newcomb, ready for any commands that he might give. Both had come through the defense of the ford without injury, although a bullet had gone through Dick's coat without touching the skin. Sergeant Whitley, too, was unharmed, but the regiment had suffered. More than twenty dead were left in the valley for the enemy to bury.

Despite all the commands and efforts of the officers there was much excited talk in the train. Boys were binding up wounds of other boys and were condoling with them. But on the whole they were exultant. Youth did not realize the loss of those who had been with them so little. Scattered exclamations came to Dick:

"We beat 'em off that time, an' we can do it again."

"Lucky though we had that little river before us. Guess they'd have rode us right down with their horses if it hadn't been for the stream an' its banks."

"Ouch, don't draw that bandage so tight on my arm. It ain't nothin' but a flesh wound."

"I hate a battle in the dark. Give me the good sunshine, where you can see what's goin' on. My God, that you Bill! I'm tremendous glad to see you! I thought you was lyin' still, back there in the grass!"

Dick said nothing. He was in a seat next to the window, and his face was pressed against the rain-marked pane. The rifle that he had picked up and used so well was still clutched, grimed with smoke, in his hands. The train had not yet got up speed. He caught glimpses of the river behind which they had fought, and which had served them so well as a barrier. In fact, he knew that it had saved them. But they had beaten off the enemy! The pulses in his temples still throbbed from exertion and excitement, but his heart beat exultantly. The bitterness of Bull Run was deep and it had lasted long, but here they were the victors.

The speed of the train increased and Dick knew that they were safe from further attack. They were still running among mountains, clad heavily in forest, but a meeting with a second Southern force was beyond probability. The first had made a quick raid on information supplied by spies in Washington, but it had failed and the way was now clear.

Ample food was served somewhat late to the whole regiment, the last wounds were bound up, and Dick, having put aside the rifle, fell asleep at last. His head lay against the window and he slept heavily all through the night. Warner in the next seat slept in the same way. But the wise old sergeant just across the aisle remained awake much longer. He was summing up and he concluded that the seven hundred lads had done well. They were raw, but they were being whipped into shape.

He smiled a little grimly as the unspoken words, "whipped into shape," rose to his lips. The veteran of many an Indian battle foresaw something vastly greater than anything that had occurred on the plains. "Whipped into shape!" Why, in the mighty war that was gathering along a front of two thousand miles no soldier could escape being whipped into shape, or being whipped out of it.

But the sergeant's own eyes closed after a while, and he, too, slept the sleep of utter mental and physical exhaustion. The train rumbled on, the faithful Canby in the first engine aware of his great responsibility and equal to it. Not a wink of sleep for him that night. The darkness had lightened somewhat more. The black of the skies had turned to a dusky blue, and the bolder stars were out. He could always see the shining rails three or four hundred yards ahead, and he sent his train steadily forward at full speed, winding among the gorges and rattling over the trestles. The silent mountains gave back every sound in dying echoes, but Canby paid no heed to them. His eyes were always on the track ahead, and he, too, was exultant. He had brought the regiment through, and while it was on the train his responsibility was not inferior to that of Colonel Newcomb.

When Dick awoke, bright light was pouring in at the car windows, but the car was cold and his body was stiff and sore. His military overcoat had been thrown over him in the night and Warner had been covered in the same way. They did not know that Sergeant Whitley had done that thoughtful act.

Dick stretched himself and drew deep breaths. Warm youth soon sent the blood flowing in a full tide through his veins, and the stiffness and soreness departed. He saw through the window that they were still running among the mountains, but they did not seem to be so high here as they were at the river by which they had fought in the night. He knew from his geography and his calculation of time that they must be far into that part of Virginia which is now West Virginia.

There was no rain now, at least where the train was running, but the sun had risen on a cold world. Far up on the higher peaks he saw a fine white mist which he believed to be falling snow. Obviously it was winter here and putting on the big military coat he drew it tightly about him. Others in the coach were waking up and some of them, grown feverish with their wounds, were moving restlessly on their seats, where they lay protected by the blankets of their fellows.

Dick now and then saw a cabin nestling in the lee of a hill, with the blue smoke rising from its chimney into the clear, wintry air, and small and poor as they were they gave him a singular sense of peace and comfort. His mind felt for a few moments a strong reaction from war and its terrors, but the impulse and the strong purpose that bore him on soon came back.

The train rushed through a pass and entered a sheltered valley a mile or two wide and eight or ten miles long. A large creek ran through it, and the train stopped at a village on its banks. The whole population of the village and all the farmers of the valley were there to meet them. It was a Union valley and by some system of mountain telegraphy, although there were no telegraph wires, news of the battle at the ford had preceded the train.

"Come, lads," said Colonel Newcomb to his staff. "Out with you! We're among friends here!"

Dick and Warner were glad enough to leave the train. The air, cold as it was, was like the breath of heaven on their faces, and the cheers of the people were like the trump of fame in their ears. Pretty girls with their faces in red hoods or red comforters were there with food and smoking coffee. Medicines for the wounded, as much as the village could supply, had been brought to the train, and places were already made for those hurt too badly to go on with the expedition.

The whole cheerful scene, with its life and movement, the sight of new faces and the sound of many voices, had a wonderful effect upon young Dick Mason. He had a marvellously sensitive temperament, a direct inheritance from his famous border ancestor, Paul Cotter. Things were always vivid to him. Either they glowed with color, or they were hueless and dead. This morning the long strain of the night and its battle was relaxed completely. The grass in the valley was brown with frost, and the trees were shorn of their leaves by the winter winds, but to Dick it was the finest village that he had ever seen, and these were the friendliest people in the world.

He drank a cup of hot coffee handed to him by the stalwart wife of a farmer, and then, when she insisted, drank another.

"You're young to be fightin'," she said sympathetically.

"We all are," said Dick with a glance at the regiment, "but however we may fight you'll never find anybody attacking a breakfast with more valor and spirit than we do."

She looked at the long line of lads, drinking coffee and eating ham, bacon, eggs, and hot biscuits, and smiled.

"I reckon you tell the truth, young feller," she said, "but it's good to see 'em go at it."

She passed on to help others, and Dick, summoned by Colonel Newcomb, went into a little railroad and telegraph station. The telegraph wires had been cut behind them, but ten miles across the mountains the spur of another railroad touched a valley. The second railroad looped toward the north, and it was absolutely sure that it was beyond the reach of Southern raiders. Colonel Newcomb wished to send a message to the Secretary of War and the President, telling of the night's events and his triumphant passage through the ordeal. These circumstances might make them wish to change his orders, and at any rate the commander of the regiment wished to be sure of what he was doing.

"You're a Kentuckian and a good horseman," said Colonel Newcomb to Dick. "The villagers have sent me a trusty man, one Bill Petty, as a guide. Take Sergeant Whitley and you three go to the station. I've already written my dispatches, and I put them in your care. Have them sent at once, and if necessary wait four hours for an answer. If it comes, ride back as fast as you can. The horses are ready and I rely upon you."

"Thank you, sir, I'll do my best," said Dick, who deeply appreciated the colonel's confidence. He wasted no time in words, but went at once to Sergeant Whitley, who was ready in five minutes. Warner, who heard of the mission, was disappointed because he was not going too. But he was philosophical.

"I've made a close calculation," he said, "and I have demonstrated to my own satisfaction that our opportunities are sixty per cent energy and ability, twenty per cent manners, and twenty per cent chance. In this case chance, which made the Colonel better acquainted with you than with me, was in your favor. We won't discuss the other eighty per cent, because this twenty is enough. Besides it looks pretty cold on the mountains, and its fine here in the village. But luck with you, Dick."

He gave his comrade's hand a strong grasp and walked away toward the little square of the village, where the troops were encamped for the present. Dick sprang upon a horse which Bill Petty was holding for him. Whitley was already up, and the three rode swiftly toward a blue line which marked a cleft between two ridges. Dick first observed their guide. Bill Petty was a short but very stout man, clad in a suit of home-made blue jeans, the trousers of which were thrust into high boots with red tops. A heavy shawl of dark red was wrapped around his shoulders, and beneath his broad-brimmed hat a red woolen comforter covered his ears, cheeks, and chin. His thick hair and a thick beard clothing his entire face were a flaming red. The whole effect of the man was somewhat startling, but when he saw Dick looking at him in curiosity his mouth opened wide in a grin of extreme good nature.

"I guess you think I'm right red," he said. "Well, I am, an' as you see I always dress to suit my complexion. Guess I'll warm up the road some on a winter day like this."

"Would you mind my callin' you Red Blaze?" asked Sergeant Whitley gravely.

"Not-a-tall! Not-a-tall! I'd like it. I guess it's sorter pictorial an' 'maginative like them knights of old who had fancy names 'cordin' to their qualities. People 'round here are pretty plain, an' they've never called me nothin' but Bill. Red Blaze she is."

"An' Blaze for short. Well, then, Blaze, what kind of a road is that we're goin' to ride on?"

"Depends on the kind of weather in which you ask the question. As it's the fust edge of winter here in the mountains, though it ain't quite come in the lowlands, an' as it's rained a lot in the last week, I reckon you'll find it bad. Mebbe our hosses will go down in the road to thar knees, but I guess they won't sink up to thar bodies. They may stumble an' throw us, but as we'll hit in soft mud it ain't likely to hurt us. It may rain hard, 'cause I see clouds heapin' up thar in the west. An' if it rains the cold may then freeze a skim of ice over the road, on which we could slip an' break our necks, hosses an' all. Then thar are some cliffs close to the road. If we was to slip on that thar skim of ice which we've reckoned might come, then mebbe we'd go over one of them cliffs and drop down a hundred feet or so right swift. If it was soft mud down below we might not get hurt mortal. But it ain't soft mud. We'd hit right in the middle of sharp, hard rocks. An' if a gang of rebel sharpshooters has wandered up here they may see us an' chase us 'way off into the mountains, where we'd break our necks fallin' off the ridges or freeze to death or starve to death."

Whitley stared at him.

"Blaze," he exclaimed, "what kind of a man are you anyway?"

"Me? I'm the happiest man in the valley. When people are low down they come an' talk to me to get cheered up. I always lay the worst before you first an' then shove it out of the way. None of them things that I was conjurin' up is goin' to happen. I was just tellin' you of the things you was goin' to escape, and now you'll feel good, knowin' what dangers you have passed before they happened."

Dick laughed. He liked this intensely red man with his round face and twinkling eyes. He saw, too, that the mountaineer was a fine horseman, and as he carried a long slender-barreled rifle over his shoulder, while a double-barreled pistol was thrust in his belt, it was likely that he would prove a formidable enemy to any who sought to stop him.

"Perhaps your way is wise," said the boy. "You begin with the bad and end with the good. What is the name of this place to which we are going?"

"Hubbard. There was a pioneer who fit the Injuns in here in early times. I never heard that he got much, 'cept a town named after him. But Hubbard is a right peart little place, with a bank, two stores, three churches, an' nigh on to two hundred people. Are you wrapped up well, Mr. Mason, 'cause it's goin' to be cold on the mountains?"

Dick wore heavy boots, and a long, heavy military coat which fell below his knees and which also had a high collar protecting his ears. He was provided also with heavy buckskin gloves. The sergeant was clad similarly.

"I think I'm clothed against any amount of cold," he replied.

"Well, you need to be," said Petty, "'cause the pass through which we're goin' is at least fifteen hundred feet above Townsville -- that's our village -- an' I reckon it's just 'bout as high over Hubbard. Them fifteen hundred feet make a pow'ful difference in climate, as you'll soon find out. It's not only colder thar, but the winds are always blowin' hard through the pass. Jest look back at Townsville. Ain't she fine an' neat down thar in the valley, beside that clear creek which higher up in the mountains is full of the juiciest an' sweetest trout that man ever stuck a tooth into."

Dick saw that Petty was talkative, but he did not mind. In fact, both he and Whitley liked the man's joyous and unbroken run of chatter. He turned in his saddle and looked back, following the stout man's pointing finger. Townsville, though but a little mountain town built mainly of logs, was indeed a jewel, softened and with a silver sheen thrown over it by the mountain air which was misty that morning. He dimly saw the long black line of the train standing on the track, and here and there warm rings of smoke rose from the chimneys and floated up into the heavens, where they were lost.

He thought he could detect little figures moving beside the train and he knew that they must be those of his comrades. He felt for a moment a sense of loneliness. He had not known these lads long, but the battle had bound them firmly together. They had been comrades in danger and that made them comrades as long as they lived.

"Greatest town in the world," said Petty, waving toward it a huge hand, encased in a thick yarn glove. "I've traveled from it as much as fifty miles in every direction, north, south, east, an' west, an' I ain't never seed its match. I reckon I'm somethin' of a traveler, but every time I come back to Townsville, I think all the more of it, seein' how much better it is than anything else."

Dick glanced at the mountaineer, and saw that there could be no doubt of his sincerity.

"You're a lucky man, Mr. Petty," he said, "to live in the finest place in the world."

"Yes, if I don't get drug off to the war. I'm not hankerin' for fightin' an' I don't know much what the war's about though I'm for the Union, fust to last, an' that's the way most of the people 'bout here feel. Turn your heads ag'in, friends, an' take another look at Townsville."

Dick and Whitley glanced back and saw only the blank gray wall of the mountain. Petty laughed. He was the finest laugher that Dick had ever heard. The laugh did not merely come from the mouth, it was also exuded, pouring out through every pore. It was rolling, unctuous, and so strong that Petty not only shook with it, but his horse seemed to shake also. It was mellow, too, with an organ note that comes of a mighty lung and throat, and of pure air breathed all the year around.

"Thought I'd git the joke on you," he said, when he stopped laughing. "The road's been slantin' into the mountains, without you knowin' it, and Townsville is cut off by the cliffs. You'll find it gettin' wilder now 'till we start down the slope on the other side. Lucky our hosses are strong, 'cause the mud is deeper than I thought it would be."

It was not really a road that they were following, merely a path, and the going was painful. Under Petty's instructions they stopped their mounts now and then for a rest, and a mile further on they began to feel a rising wind.

"It's the wind that I told you of," said Petty. "It's sucked through six or seven miles of pass, an' it will blow straight in our faces all the way. As we'll be goin' up for a long distance you'll find it growin' colder, too. But you've got to remember that after you pass them cold winds an' go down the slope you'll strike another warm little valley, the one in which Hubbard is layin' so neat an' so snug."

Dick had already noticed the increasing coldness and so had the sergeant. Whitley, from his long experience on the plains, had the keenest kind of an eye for climatic changes. He noticed with some apprehension that the higher peaks were clothed in thick, cold fog, but he said nothing to the brave boy whom he had grown to love like a son. But both he and Dick drew their heavy coats closer and were thankful for the buckskin gloves, without which their hands would have stiffened on the reins.

Now they rode in silence with their heads bent well forward, because the wind was becoming fiercer and fiercer. Over the peaks the fogs were growing thicker and darker and after a while the sharp edge of the wind was wet with rain. It stung their faces, and they drew their hat brims lower and their coat collars higher to protect themselves from such a cutting blast.

"Told you we might have trouble," called Petty, cheerfully, "but if you ride right on through trouble you'll leave trouble behind. Nor this ain't nothin' either to what we kin expect before we git to the top of the pass. Cur'us what a pow'ful lot human bein's kin stand when they make up their minds to it."

"Are the horses well shod?" asked Whitley.

"Best shod in the world, 'cause I done it myself. That's my trade, blacksmith, an' I'm a good one if I do say it. I heard before we started that you had been a soldier in the west. I s'pose that you had to look mighty close to your hosses then. A man couldn't afford to be ridin' a hoss made lame by bad shoein' when ten thousand yellin' Sioux or Blackfeet was after him."

"No, you couldn't," replied the sergeant. "Out there you had to watch every detail. That's one of the things that fightin' Indians taught. You had to be watchin' all the time an' I reckon the trainin' will be of value in this war. Are we mighty near to the top of the pass, Mr. Petty?"

"Got two or three miles yet. The slope is steeper on the other side. We rise a lot more before we hit the top."

The wind grew stronger with every rod they ascended, and the horses began to pant with their severe exertions. At Petty's suggestion the three riders dismounted and walked for a while, leading their horses. The rain turned to a fine hail and stung their faces. Had it not been for his two good comrades Dick would have found his situation inexpressibly lonely and dreary. The heavy fog now enveloped all the peaks and ridges and filled every valley and chasm. He could see only fifteen or twenty yards ahead along the muddy path, and the fine hail which gave every promise of becoming a storm of sleet stung continually. The wind confined in the narrow gorge also uttered a hideous shrieking and moaning.

"Tests your nerve!" shouted Petty to Dick. "There are hard things besides battles to stand, an' this is goin' to be one of the hard ones, but if you go through it all right you kin go through any number of the same kind all right, too. Likely the sleet will be so thick that it will make a sheet of slippery ice for us comin' back. Now, hosses that ain't got calks on thar shoes are pretty shore to slip an' fall, breakin' a leg or two, an' mebbe breakin' the necks of thar riders."

Dick looked at him with some amazement. Despite his announcement of dire disaster the man's eyes twinkled merrily and the round, red outline of his bushy head in the scarlet comforter made a cheerful blaze.

"It's jest as I told you," said Petty, meeting the boy's look. "Without calks on thar shoes our hosses are pretty shore to slip on the ice and break theirselves up, or fall down a cliff an' break themselves up more."

"Then why in thunder, Blaze," exclaimed Whitley, "did we start without calks on the shoes of our horses?"

Red Blaze broke into a deep mellow laugh, starting from the bottom of his diaphragm, swelling as it passed through his chest, swelling again as it passed through throat and mouth, and bursting upon the open air in a mighty diapason that rose cheerfully above the shrieking and moaning of the wind.

"We didn't start without em," he replied. "The twelve feet of these three hosses have on 'em the finest calked shoes in all these mountains. I put 'em on myself, beginnin' the job this mornin' before you was awake, your colonel, on the advice of the people of Townsville who know me as one of its leadin' an' trusted citizens, havin' selected me as the guide of this trip. I was jest tellin' you what would happen to you if I didn't justify the confidence of the people of Townsville."

"I allow, Red Blaze," said the sergeant with confidence, "that you ain't no fool, an' that you're lookin' out for our best interests. Lead on."

Red Blaze's mellow and pleased laugh rose once more above the whistling of the wind.

"You kin ride ag'in now, boys," he said. "The hosses are pretty well rested."

They resumed the saddle gladly and now mounted toward the crest of the pass. The sleet turned to snow, which was a relief to their faces, and Dick, with the constant beating of wind and snow, began to feel a certain physical exhilaration. He realized the truth of Red Blaze's assertion that if you stiffen your back and push your way through troubles you leave troubles behind.

They rode now in silence for quite a while, and then Red Blaze suddenly announced:

"We're at the top, boys."



Chapter IV. The Fight In The Pass


The three halted their horses and stood for a minute or two on the very crest of the pass. The fierce wind out of the northwest blew directly in their faces and both riders and horses alike were covered with snow. But Dick felt a wonderful thrill as he gazed upon the vast white wilderness. East and west, north and south he saw the driving snow and the lofty peaks and ridges showing through it, white themselves. The towns below and the cabins that snuggled in the coves were completely hidden. They could see no sign of human life on slope or in valley.

"Looks as wild as the Rockies," said the sergeant tersely.

"But you won't find any Injuns here to ambush you," said Red Blaze, "though I don't make any guarantee against bushwhackers and guerillas, who'll change sides as often as two or three times a day, if it will suit their convenience. They could hide in the woods along the road an' pick us off as easy as I'd shoot a squirrel out of a tree. They'd like to have our arms an' our big coats. I tell you what, friends, a mighty civil war like ours gives a tremenjeous opportunity to bad men. They're all comin' to the top. Every rascal in the mountains an' in the lowlands, too, I guess, is out lookin' for plunder an' wuss."

"You're right, Red Blaze," said the sergeant with emphasis, "an' it won't be stopped until the generals on both sides begin to hang an' shoot the plunderers an' murderers."

"But they can't ketch 'em all," said Red Blaze. "A Yankee general with a hundred thousand men will be out lookin' for what? Not for a gang of robbers, not by a jugful. He'll be lookin' for a rebel general with another hundred thousand men, an' the rebel general with a hundred thousand men will be lookin' for that Yankee general with his hundred thousand. So there you are, an' while they're lookin' for each other an' then fightin' each other to a standstill, the robbers will be plunderin' an' murderin'. But don't you worry about bein' ambushed. I was jest tellin' you what might happen, but wouldn't happen. We kin go down hill fast now, and we'll soon be in Hubbard, which is the other side of all that fallin' snow."

The road down the mountain was also better than the one by which they had ascended, and as the horses with their calked shoes were swift of foot they made rapid progress. As they descended, the wind lowered fast and there was much less snow. Red Blaze said it was probably not snowing in the valley at all.

"See that shinin' in the sun," he said. "That's the tin coverin' on the steeple of the new church in Hubbard. The sun strikes squar'ly on it, an' now I know I'm right 'bout it not snowin' down thar. Wait 'til we turn 'roun' this big rock. Yes, thar's Hubbard, layin' out in the valley without a drop of snow on her. It looks good, don't it, friends, with the smoke comin' out of the chimneys. That little red house over thar is the railroad an' telegraph station, an' we'll go straight for it, 'cause we ain't got no time to waste."

They emerged into the valley and rode rapidly for the station. Farmers on the outskirts and villagers looked wonderingly at them, but they did not pause to answer questions. They galloped their tired mounts straight for the little red building, which was the station. Dick sprang first from his horse, and leaving it to stand at the door, ran inside. A telegraph instrument was clicking mournfully in the corner. A hot stove was in another corner, and sitting near it was a lad of about Dick's age, clad in mountain jeans, and lounging in an old cane-bottomed chair. But Dick's quick glance saw that the boy was bright of face and keen of eye. He promptly drew out his papers and said:

"I'm an aide from the Northern regiment of Colonel Newcomb at Townsville. Here are duplicate dispatches, one set for the President of the United States and the other for the Secretary of War. They tell of a successful fight that we had last night with Southern troops, presumably the cavalrymen of Turner Ashby. I wish you to send them at once."

"He's speakin' the exact truth, Jim," said Red Blaze, who had come in behind Dick, "an' I've brought him an' the sergeant here over the mountains to tell about it."

The boy sprang to his instrument. But he stopped a moment to ask one question.

"Did you really beat 'em off?" he asked as he looked up with shining eye.

"We certainly did," replied Dick.

"I'll send it faster than I ever sent anything before," said the boy. "To think of me, Jim Johnson, sending a dispatch to Abraham Lincoln, telling of a victory!"

"I reckon you're right, Jim, it's your chance," said Red Blaze.

Jim bent over the instrument which now began to click steadily and fast.

"You're to wait for answers," said Dick.

The boy nodded, but his shining eyes remained bent over the instrument. Dick went to the door, brushed off the snow, came back and sat down by the stove. Sergeant Whitley, who had tied the horses to hitching posts, came in, pulled up an empty box and sat down by him. Red Blaze slipped away unnoticed. But he came back very soon, and men and women came with him, bringing food and smoking coffee. There was enough for twenty.

Red Blaze had spread among the villagers, every one of whom he knew, the news that the Union arms had won a victory. Nor had it suffered anything in the telling. Colonel Newcomb's regiment, by the most desperate feats of gallantry, had beaten off at least ten thousand Southerners, and the boy and the man in uniform, who were resting by the fire in the station, had been the greatest two heroes of a battle waged for a whole night.

Curious eyes gazed at Dick and the sergeant as they sat there by the stove. Dick himself, warm, relaxed, and the needs of his body satisfied, felt like going to sleep. But he watched the boy operator, who presently finished his two dispatches and then lifted his head for the first time.

"They've gone straight into Washington," he said. "We ought to get an answer soon."

"We'll wait here for it," said Dick.

The three messengers were now thoroughly warmed at the stove, they had eaten heartily of the best the village could furnish, and a great feeling of comfort pervaded them. While they were waiting for the reply that they hoped would come from Washington, Dick Mason and Sergeant Whitley went outside. No snow was falling in the valley, but off on the mountain crest they still saw the white veil, blown by the wind.

Red Blaze joined them and was everywhere their guide and herald. He ascribed to them such deeds of skill and valor that they were compelled to call him the best romancer they had met in a long time.

"I suppose that if Mr. Warner were here," said the sergeant, "he would reduce these statements to mathematics, ten per cent fact an' ninety per cent fancy."

"Just about that," said Dick.

Red Blaze came to them presently, bristling with news.

"A farmer from a hollow further to the west," he said, "has just come in, an' he says that a band of guerillas is ridin' through the hills. 'Bout twenty of them, he said, led by a big dark fellow, his face covered with black beard. They've been liftin' hosses an' takin' other things, but they're strangers in these parts. Tom Sykes, who was held up by them an' robbed of his hoss, says that the rest of 'em called their leader Skelly. Tom seemed to think that mebbe they came from somewhere in the Kentucky mountains. They called themselves a scoutin' party of the Southern army."

Dick started violently.

"Why, I know this man Skelly," he said. "He lives in the mountains to the eastward of my home in Kentucky. He organized a band at the beginning of the war, but over there he said he was fightin' for the North."

"He'll be fightin' for his own hand," said the sergeant sternly. "But he can't play double all the time. That sort of thing will bring a man to the end of a rope, with clear air under his feet."

"I'm glad you've told me this," said Red Blaze. "Skelly might have come ridin' in here, claimin' that he an' his men was Northern troops, an' then when we wasn't suspectin' might have held up the whole town. I'll warn 'em. Thar ain't a house here that hasn't got two or three rifles an' shotguns in it, an' with the farmers from the valley joinin' in Hubbard could wipe out the whole gang."

"Tell them to be on guard all the time, Red Blaze," said Whitley with strong emphasis. "In war you've got to watch, watch, watch. Always know what the other fellow is doin', if you can."

"Let's go back to the station," said Dick. "Maybe we'll have an answer soon."

They found the young operator hanging over his instrument, his eyes still shining. He had been in that position ever since they left him, and Dick knew that his eagerness to get an answer from Washington kept him there, mind and body waiting for the tick of the key.

Dick, the sergeant, and Red Blaze sat down by the stove again, and rested there quietly for a quarter of an hour. Red Blaze was thinking that it would be another cold ride back over the pass. The sergeant, although he was not sleepy, closed his eyes and saw again the vast rolling plains, the herds of buffalo spreading to the horizon, and the bands of Sioux and Cheyennes galloping down, their great war bonnets making splashes of color against the thin blue sky. Dick was thinking of Pendleton, the peaceful little town in Kentucky that was his home, and of his cousin, Harry Kenton. He did not know now where Harry was, and he did not even know whether he was dead or alive.

Dick sighed a little, and just at that moment the telegraph key began to click.

"The answer is coming!" exclaimed the young operator excitedly and then he bent closer over the key to take it. The three chairs straightened up, and they, too, bent toward the key. The boy wrote rapidly, but the clicking did not go on long. When it ceased he straightened up with his finished message in his hand. His face was flushed and his eyes still shining. He folded the paper and handed it to Dick.

"It's for you, Mr. Mason," he said.

Dick unfolded it and read aloud:


"Colonel John D. Newcomb:

"Congratulations on your success and fine management of your troops. Victory worth much to us. Read dispatch to regiment and continue westward to original destination.

A. Lincoln."


Dick's face glowed, and the sergeant's teeth came together with a little click of satisfaction.

"When I saw that it was to be read to the regiment I thought it no harm to read it to the rest of you," said Dick, as he refolded the precious dispatch and put it in his safest pocket. "Now, sergeant, I think we ought to be off at full speed."

"Not a minute to waste," said Sergeant Whitley.

Their horses had been fed and were rested well. The three bade farewell to the young operator, then to almost all of Hubbard and proceeded in a trot for the pass. They did not speak until they were on the first slope, and then the sergeant, looking up at the heights, asked:

"Shall we have snow again on our return, Red Blaze? I hope not. It's important for us to get back to Townsville without any waste of time."

"I hate to bring bad news," replied Red Blaze, "but we'll shore have more snow. See them clouds, sailin' up an' always sailin' up from the southwest, an' see that white mist 'roun' the highest peaks. That's snow, an' it'll hit the pass just as it did when we was comin' over. But we've got this in favor of ourselves an' our hosses now: The wind is on our backs."

They rode hard now. Dick had received the precious message from the President, and it would be a proud moment for him when he put it in the hands of the colonel. He did not wish that moment to be delayed. Several times he patted the pocket in which the paper lay.

As they ascended, the wind increased in strength, but being on their backs now it seemed to help them along. They were soon high up on the slopes and then they naturally turned for a parting look at Hubbard in its valley, a twin to that of Townsville. It looked from afar neat and given up to peace, but Dick knew that it had been stirred deeply by the visit of his comrades and himself.

"It seems," he said, "that the war would pass by these little mountain nests."

"But it don't," said Red Blaze. "War, I guess, is like a mad an' kickin' mule, hoofs lashin' out everywhar, an' you can't tell what they're goin' to hit. Boys, we're makin' good time. That wind on our backs fairly lifts us up the mountain side."

Petty had all the easy familiarity of the backwoods. He treated the boy and man who rode with him as comrades of at least a year's standing, and they felt in return that he was one of them, a man to be trusted. They retained all the buoyancy which the receipt of the dispatch had given them, and Dick, his heart beating high, scarcely felt the wind and cold.

"In another quarter of an hour we'll be at the top," said Petty. Then he added after a moment's pause: "If I'm not mistook, we'll have company. See that path, leadin' out of the west, an' runnin' along the slope. It comes into the main road, two or three hundred yards further on, an' I think I can see the top of a horseman's head ridin' in it. What do you say, sergeant?"

"I say that you are right, Red Blaze. I plainly see the head of a big man, wearing a fur cap, an' there are others behind him, ridin' in single file. What's your opinion, Mr. Mason?"

"The same as yours and Red Blaze's. I, too, can see the big man with the fur cap on his head and at least a dozen following behind. Do you think it likely, Red Blaze, that they'll reach the main road before we pass the mouth of the path?"

A sudden thought had leaped up in Dick's mind and it set his pulses to beating hard. He remembered some earlier words of Red Blaze's.

"We'll go by before they reach the main road," replied Red Blaze, "unless they make their hosses travel a lot faster than they're travelin' now."

"Then suppose we whip up a little," said Dick.

Both Red Blaze and the sergeant gave him searching glances.

"Do you mean -- " began Whitley.

"Yes, I mean it. I know it. The man in front wearing the fur cap is Bill Skelly. He and his men made an attack upon the home of my uncle, Colonel Kenton, who is a Southern leader in Kentucky. He and his band were Northerners there, but they will be Southerners here, if it suits their purpose."

"An' it will shorely suit their purpose to be Southerners now," said Red Blaze. "We three are ridin' mighty good hoss flesh. Me an' the sergeant have good rifles an' pistols, you have good pistols, an' we all have good, big overcoats. This is a lonely mountain side with war flyin' all about us. Easy's the place an' easy's the deed. That is if we'd let 'em, which we ain't goin' to do."

"Not by a long shot," said Sergeant Whitley, resting his rifle across the pommel of his saddle. "They've got to follow straight behind. The ground is too rough for them to ride around an' flank us."

Dick said nothing, but his gauntleted hand moved down to the butt of one of his pistols. His heart throbbed, but he preserved the appearance of coolness. He was fast becoming inured to danger. Owing to the slope they could not increase the speed of their horses greatly, but they were beyond the mouth of the path before they were seen by Skelly and his band. Then the big mountaineer uttered a great shout and began to wave his hand at them.

"The road curves here a little among the rocks," said the sergeant, who unconsciously took command. "Suppose we stop, sheltered by the curve, and ask them what they want."

"The very thing to do," said Dick.

"Sass 'em, sergeant! Sass 'em!" said Red Blaze.

They drew their horses back partially in the shadow of the rocky curve, but the sergeant was a little further forward than the others. Dick saw Skelly and a score of men emerge into the road and come rapidly toward them. They were a wild-looking crew, mounted on tough mountain ponies, all of them carrying loot, and all armed heavily.

The sergeant threw up his rifle, and with a steady hand aimed straight at Skelly's heart.

"Halt!" he cried sharply, "and tell me who you are!"

The whole crew seemed to reel back except Skelly, who, though stopping his horse, remained in the center of the road.

"What do you mean?" he cried. "We're peaceful travelers. What business is it of yours who we are?"

"Judgin' by your looks you're not peaceful travelers at all. Besides these ain't peaceful times an' we take the right to demand who you are. If you come on another foot, I shoot."

The sergeant's tones were sharp with resolve.

"Your name!" he continued.

"Ramsdell, David Ramsdell," replied the leader of the band.

"That's a lie," said Sergeant Whitley. "Your name is Bill Skelly, an' you're a mountaineer from Eastern Kentucky, claimin' to belong first to one side and then to the other as suits you."

"Who says so?" exclaimed Skelly defiantly.

The sergeant beckoned Dick, who rode forward a little.

"I do," said the boy in a loud, clear voice. "My name is Dick Mason, and I live at Pendleton in Kentucky. I saw you more than once before the war, and I know that you tried to burn down the house of Colonel Kenton there, and kill him and his friends. I'm on the other side, but I'm not for such things as that."

Skelly distinctly saw Dick sitting on his horse in the pass, and he knew him well. Rage tore at his heart. Although on "the other side" this boy, too, was a lowlander and in a way a member of that vile Kenton brood. He hated him, too, because he belonged to those who had more of prosperity and education than himself. But Skelly was a man of resource and not a coward.

"You're right," he cried, "I'm Bill Skelly, an' we want your horses an' arms. We need 'em in our business. Now, just hop down an' deliver. We're twenty to three."

"You come forward at your own risk!" cried the sergeant, and Skelly, despite the numbers at his back, wavered. He saw that the man who held the rifle aimed at his heart had nerves of steel, and he did not dare advance knowing that he would be shot at once from the saddle. A victory won by Skelly's men with Skelly dead was no victory at all to Skelly.

The guerilla reined back his horse, and his men retreated with him. But the three knew well that it was no withdrawal. The mountaineers rode among some scrub that grew between the road and the cliff; and Whitley exclaimed to his two comrades:

"Come boys, we must ride for it! It's our business to get back with the dispatches to Colonel Newcomb as soon as possible, an' not let ourselves be delayed by this gang."

"That is certainly true," said Dick. "Lead on, Mr. Petty, and we'll cross the mountain as fast as we can."

Red Blaze started at once in a gallop, and Dick and the sergeant followed swiftly after. But Sergeant Whitley held his cocked rifle in hand and he cast many backward glances. A great shout came from Skelly and his band when they saw the three take to flight, and the sergeant's face grew grimmer as the sound reached his ears.

"Keep right in the middle of the road, boys," he said. "We can't afford to have our horses slip. I'll hang back just a little and send in a bullet if they come too near. This rifle of mine carries pretty far, farther, I expect, than any of theirs."

"I'm somethin' on the shoot myself," said Red Blaze. "I love peace, but it hurts my feelin's if anybody shoots at me. Them fellers are likely to do it, an' me havin' a rifle in my hands I won't be able to stop the temptation to fire back."

As he spoke the raiders fired. There was a crackling of rifles, little curls of blue smoke rose in the pass, and bullets struck on the frozen earth, while two made the snow fly from bushes by the side of the road. The sergeant raised his own rifle, longer of barrel than the average army weapon, and pulled the trigger. He had aimed at Skelly, but the leader swerved, and a man behind him rolled off his horse. The others, although slowing their speed a little, in order to be out of the range of that deadly rifle, continued to come.

The pursuit at first seemed futile to Dick, because they would soon descend into Townsville's valley, and the raiders could not follow them into the midst of an entire regiment. But presently he saw their plan. The pass now widened out with a few hundred yards of level space on either side of the road thickly covered with forest. The branches of the trees were bare, but the undergrowth was so dense that horsemen could be hidden in it. Bands of the raiders darted into the woods both to right and left, and he knew that advancing on a straight line one or the other of the parties expected to catch the fugitives who must follow the curves of the road.

The advantage of the pursuit was soon shown as a shot from the right whistled by them. Red Blaze, quick as lightning, fired at the flash of the rifle.

"I don't know whether I hit him or not," he said, judicially, "but the chances are pow'ful good that I did. Still it looks as if they meant to hang on an' likely we kin soon expect shots from the other side, too. Then if they know the country as well as they 'pear to do they'll have us clamped in a vise."

As he spoke his eyes twinkled cheerfully out of his flaming countenance.

"You certainly seem to take it easy," said Dick.

"I take it easy, 'cause the jaws of that vise ain't goin' to clamp down. Bein' somewhat interested in a run for your life you haven't noticed how dark it's gettin' up here on the heights an' how hard it's snowin'. It's comin' down a lot thicker than it was when we crossed the first time."

It was true. Dick noticed now that the snow was pouring down, and that all the peaks and ridges were lost in the white whirlwind.

"I told you that I had been a traveler," said Red Blaze. "I've been as far as fifty miles from Townsville, and I know all the country in every direction, twenty miles from it, inch by inch. Inside five minutes the snowstorm will be on us full blast, an' we won't be able to see more'n twenty yards away. An' that crowd that's follerin' won't be able to see either. An' me knowin' the ground inch by inch I'll take you straight back to your regiment while they'll get lost in the storm."

There was room now in the road for the three to ride abreast, and they kept close together. They heard once a shout behind them and saw the flash of a firearm in the white hurricane, but no bullet struck them, and they kept steadily on their course, Red Blaze directing with the sure instinct that comes of long use and habit.

Heavier and heavier grew the snow. There was but little wind now, and it came straight down. It seemed to Dick that the whole earth was blotted out by the white fall. He and the sergeant resigned themselves completely to the guidance of Red Blaze, who never veered an inch from the right path.

"If I didn't know the way my hoss would," he said. "I'd just give him his head an' he'd take us straight to his warm stable in Townsville, an' the two bundles of oats that I mean to give him. I reckon it was pretty smart of me, wasn't it, to order a snowstorm an' have it come just when it was needed."

Again the cheerful eyes twinkled in the flaming face.

"You're certainly a winner," said Dick, "and you win for us all."

The snow was now so deep in the pass that they could not proceed at great speed, but they did the best they could, and, as Red Blaze said, their best, although it might be somewhat slow, was certainly better than that of Skelly and his men. Dick believed in fact that the raiders had been compelled to abandon the pursuit.

When they reached a lower level, where the snow was far less dense, they stopped and listened. The sergeant's ears had been trained to uncommon keenness by his life on the plains, and he could hear nothing but the sigh of the falling snow. Nor could Petty, who had fine ears himself.

They descended still further, and made another stop. It was snowing here also, but it was merely an ordinary fall, and they could get a long view back up the pass. They saw nothing there but earth and trees covered with snow. Looking in the other direction they saw the sunshine gleaming for a moment on a roof in Townsville.

"We're all safe now," said Red Blaze, "an' we'll be with the soldiers in another half hour. But just you two remember that mebbe the next time I couldn't call up a snowstorm to cover us an' save our lives."

"Once is enough," said Dick, "and, Mr. Petty, Sergeant Whitley and I want to thank you."

Mittened hands met buckskinned ones in the strong grasp of friendship, and now, as they rode on, the whole village emerged into sight. There was the long train standing on the track, the smoke rising in spires from the neat houses, and then the figures of human beings.

The fall of snow was light in the valley and as soon as they reached the levels the three proceeded at a gallop. Dick saw Colonel Newcomb standing by the train, and springing from his horse he handed him the dispatch. The colonel opened it, and as he read Dick saw the glow appear upon his face.

"Fire up!" he said to Canby, the engineer, who stood near. "We start at once!"

The troops who were ready and waiting were hurried into the coaches, and the engine whistled for departure.



Chapter V. The Singer Of The Hills


As the engine whistled for the last time Dick sprang upon a car-step, one hand holding to the rail while with the other he returned the powerful grip of Red Blaze, who with his own unconfined hand grasped the bridles of the three horses, which had served them so well. Petty had received a reward thrust upon him by Colonel Newcomb, but Dick knew that the mountaineer's chief recompense was the success achieved in the perilous task chosen for him.

"Good-bye, Mr. Mason," said Red Blaze, "I'm proud to have knowed you an' the sergeant, an' to have been your comrade in a work for the Union."

"Without you we should have failed."

"It jest happened that I knowed the way. It seems to me that there's a heap, a tremenjeous heap, in knowin' the way. It gives you an awful advantage. Now you an' your regiment are goin' down thar in them Kentucky mountains. They're mighty wild, winter's here an' the marchin' will be about as bad as it could be. Them's mostly Pennsylvania men with you, an' they don't know a thing 'bout that thar region. Like as not you'll be walkin' right straight into an ambush, an' that'll be the end of you an' them Pennsylvanians."

"You're a cheerful prophet, Red Blaze."

"I meant if you didn't take care of yourselves an' keep a good lookout, which I know, of course, that you're goin' to do. I was jest statin' the other side of the proposition, tellin' what would happen to keerless people, but Colonel Newcomb an' Major Hertford ain't keerless people. Good-bye, Mr. Mason. Mebbe I'll see you ag'in before this war is over."

"Good-bye, Red Blaze. I truly hope so."

The train was moving now and with a last powerful grasp of a friendly hand Dick went into the coach. It was the first in the train. Colonel Newcomb and Major Hertford sat near the head of it, and Warner was just sitting down not far behind them. Dick took the other half of the seat with the young Vermonter, who said, speaking in a whimsical tone:

"You fill me with envy, Dick. Why wasn't it my luck to go with you, Sergeant Whitley, and the man they call Red Blaze on that errand and help bring back with you the message of President Lincoln? But I heard what our red friend said to you at the car-step. There's a powerful lot in knowing the way, knowing where you're going, and what's along every inch of the road. My arithmetic tells me that it is often fifty per cent of marching and fighting."

"I think you are right," said Dick.

A little later he was sound asleep in his seat, and at the command of Colonel Newcomb he was not disturbed. His had been a task, taxing to the utmost both body and mind, and, despite his youth and strength, it would take nature some time to replace what had been worn away.

He slept on while the boys in the train talked and laughed. Stern discipline was not yet enforced in either army, nor did Colonel Newcomb consider it necessary here. These lads, so lately from the schools and farms, had won a victory and they had received the thanks of the President. They had a right to talk about it among themselves and a little vocal enthusiasm now might build up courage and spirit for a greater crisis later.

The colonel, moreover, gave glances of approval and sympathy to his gallant young aide, who in the seat next to the window with his head against the wall slept so soundly. All the afternoon Dick slept on, his breathing regular and steady. The train rattled and rumbled through the high mountains, and on the upper levels the snow was falling fast.

Darkness came, and supper was served to the troops, but at the colonel's command Dick was not awakened. Nature had not yet finished her task of repairing. There was worn tissue still to be replaced, and the nerves had not yet recovered their full steadiness.

So Dick slept on, while the night deepened and the snow continued to drive against the window panes. Nor did he awake until morning, when the train stopped at a tiny station in the hills. There was no snow here, but the sun, just rising, threw no heat, and icicles were hanging from every cliff. Dispatches were waiting for Colonel Newcomb, and after breakfast he announced to his staff:

"I have orders from Washington to divide my regiment. The Southern forces are operating at three points in Kentucky. They are gathering at Columbus on the Mississippi, at Bowling Green in the south, and here in the mountains there is a strong division under an officer named Zollicoffer. Scattered forces of our men, the principal one led by a Virginian named Thomas, are endeavoring to deal with Zollicoffer. The Secretary of War regrets the division of the regiment, but he thinks it necessary, as all our detached forces must be strengthened. I go on with the main body of the regiment to join Grant, near the mouth of the Ohio. You, Major Hertford, will take three companies and march south in search of Thomas, but be careful that you are not snapped up by the rebels on the way. And if you can get volunteers and join Thomas with your force increased threefold, so much the better."

"I shall try my best, sir," said Major Hertford, "and thank you for this honor."

Dick and Warner stood by without a word, but Dick cast an appealing look at Colonel Newcomb.

"Yes, I know," said the Colonel, who caught the glance. "This is your state, and you wish to go with Major Hertford. You are to do so. So is your friend, Lieutenant Warner, and, Major Hertford, I also lend to you Sergeant Whitley, who is a man of much experience and who has already proved himself to be of great value."

The three saluted and were grateful. They longed for action, which they believed would come more quickly with Major Hertford's column. A little later, when military form permitted it, the two boys thanked Colonel Newcomb in words.

"Maybe you won't thank me a few days from now," said the colonel a little grimly, "but I am hopeful that our plans here in Eastern Kentucky will prove successful, and that before long you will be able to join the great forces in the western part of the state. You are both good boys and now, good-bye."

The preparations for the mountain column, as Dick and Warner soon called it, had been completed. They were on foot, but they were well armed, well clothed, and they had supplies loaded in several wagons, purchased hastily in the village. A dozen of the strong mountaineers volunteered to be drivers and guides, and the major was glad to have them. Later, several horses were secured for the officers, but, meanwhile, the train was ready to depart.

Colonel Newcomb waved them farewell, the faithful and valiant Canby opened the throttle, and the train steamed away. The men in the little column, although eager for their new task, watched its departure with a certain sadness at parting with their comrades. The train became smaller and smaller, then it was only a spiral of smoke, and that, too, soon died on the clear western horizon.

"And now to find Thomas!" said Major Hertford, who retained Dick and Warner on his staff, practically its only members, in fact. "It looks odd to hunt through the mountains for a general and his army, but we've got it to do, and we'll do it."

The horses for the officers were obtained at the suggestion of Sergeant Whitley, and the little column turned southward through the wintry forest. Dick and Warner were riding strong mountain ponies, but at times, and in order to show that they considered themselves no better than the others, they dismounted and walked over the frozen ground. The greatest tasks were with the wagons containing the ammunition and supplies. The mountain roads were little more than trails, sometimes half blocked with ice or snow and then again deep in mud. The winter was severe. Storms of rain, hail, sleet and snow poured upon them, but, fortunately, they were marching through continuous forests, and the skilled mountaineers, under any circumstances, knew how to build fires, by the side of which they could dry themselves, and sleep warmly at night.

They also heard much gossip as they advanced to meet General Thomas, who had been sent from Louisville to command the Northern troops in the Kentucky mountains. Thomas was a Virginian, a member of the old regular army, a valiant, able, and cautious man, who chose to abide by the Union. Many other Virginians, some destined to be as famous as he, and a few more so, wondered why he had not gone with his seceding state, and criticised him much, but Thomas, chary of speech, hung to his belief, and proved it by action.

Dick learned, too, that the Southern force operating against Thomas, while actively led by Zollicoffer, was under the nominal command of one of his own Kentucky Crittendens. Here he saw again how terribly his beloved state was divided, like other border states. General Crittenden's father was a member of the Federal Congress at Washington, and one of his brothers was a general also, but on the other side. But he was to see such cases over and over again, and he was to see them to a still greater and a wholesale degree, when the First Maryland regiment of the North and the First Maryland regiment of the South, recruited from the same district, should meet face to face upon the terrible field of Antietam.

But Antietam was far in the future, and Dick's mind turned from the cases of brother against brother to the problems of the icy wilderness through which they were moving, in a more or less uncertain manner. Sometimes they were sent on false trails, but their loyal mountaineers brought them back again. They also found volunteers, and Major Hertford's little force swelled from three hundred to six hundred. In the main, the mountaineers were sympathetic, partly through devotion to the Union, and partly through jealousy of the more prosperous lowlanders.

One day Major Hertford sent Dick, Warner, and Sergeant Whitley, ahead to scout. He had recognized the ability of the two lads, and also their great friendship for Sergeant Whitley. It seemed fitting to him that the three should be nearly always together, and he watched them with confidence, as they rode ahead on the icy mountain trail and then disappeared from sight.

Dick and his friends had learned, at mountain cabins which they had passed, that the country opened out further on into a fine little valley, and when they reached the crest of a hill somewhat higher than the others, they verified the truth of the statement. Before them lay the coziest nook they had yet seen in the mountains, and in the center of it rose a warm curl of smoke from the chimney of a house, much superior to that of the average mountaineer. The meadows and corn lands on either side of a noble creek were enclosed in good fences. Everything was trim and neat.

The three rode down the slope toward the house, but halfway to the bottom they reined in their ponies and listened. Some one was singing. On the thin wintry air a deep mellow voice rose and they distinctly heard the words:

Soft o'er the fountain, ling'ring falls the southern moon, Far o'er the mountain breaks the day too soon. In thy dark eyes' splendor, where the warm light loves to dwell, Weary looks yet tender, speak their fond farewell. 'Nita, Juanita! Ask thy soul if we should part, 'Nita, Juanita! Lean thou on my heart.

It was a wonderful voice that they heard, deep, full, and mellow, all the more wonderful because they heard it there in those lone mountains. The ridges took up the echo, and gave it back in tones softened but exquisitely haunting.

The three paused and looked at one another. They could not see the singer. He was hidden from them by the dips and swells of the valley, but they felt that here was no common man. No common mind, or at least no common heart, could infuse such feeling into music. As they listened the remainder of the pathetic old air rose and swelled through the ridges:

When in thy dreaming, moons like these shall shine again, And daylight beaming prove thy dreams are vain, Wilt thou not, relenting, for thy absent lover sigh? In thy heart consenting to a prayer gone by! 'Nita, Juanita! Let me linger by thy side! 'Nita, Juanita! Be thou my own fair bride.

"I'm curious to see that singer," said Warner. "I heard grand opera once in Boston, just before I started to the war, but I never heard anything that sounds finer than this. Maybe time and place help to the extent of fifty per cent, but, at any rate, the effect is just the same."

"Come on," said Dick, "and we'll soon find our singer, whoever he is."

The three rode at a rapid pace until they reached the valley. There they drew rein, as they saw near them a tall man, apparently about forty years of age, mending a fence, helped by a boy of heavy build and powerful arms. The man glanced up, saw the blue uniforms worn by the three horsemen, and went peacefully on with his fence-mending. He also continued to sing, throwing his soul into the song, and both work and song proceeded as if no one was near.

He lifted the rails into place with mighty arms, but never ceased to sing. The boy who helped him seemed almost his equal in strength, but he neither sang nor spoke. Yet he smiled most of the time, showing rows of exceedingly strong, white teeth.

"They seem to me to be of rather superior type," said Dick. "Maybe we can get useful information from them."

"I judge that the singer will talk about almost everything except what we want to know," said the shrewd and experienced sergeant, "but we can certainly do no harm by speaking to him. Of course they have seen us. No doubt they saw us before we saw them."

The three rode forward, saluted politely and the fence-menders, stopping their work, saluted in the same polite fashion. Then they stood expectant.

"We belong to a detachment which is marching southward to join the Union army under General Thomas," said Dick. "Perhaps you could tell us the best road."

"I might an' ag'in I mightn't, stranger. If you don't talk much you never have much to take back. If I knew where that army is it would be easy for me to tell you, but if I didn't know I couldn't. Now, the question is, do I know or don't I know? Do you think you can decide it for me stranger?"

It was impossible for Dick or the sergeant to take offense. The man's gaze was perfectly frank and open and his eyes twinkled as he spoke. The boy with him smiled widely, showing both rows of his powerful white teeth.

"We can't decide it until we know you better," said Dick in a light tone.

"I'm willin' to tell you who I am. My name is Sam Jarvis, an' this lunkhead here is my nephew, Ike Simmons, the son of my sister, who keeps my house. Now I want to tell you, young stranger, that since this war began and the Yankees and the Johnnies have taken a notion to shoot up one another, people who would never have thought of doin' it before, have come wanderin' into these mountains. But you can get a hint about 'em sometimes. Young man, do you want me to tell you your name?"

"Tell me my name!" responded Dick in astonishment. "Of course you can't do it! You never saw or heard of me before."

"Mebbe no," replied Jarvis, with calm confidence, "but all the same your name is Dick Mason, and you come from a town in Kentucky called Pendleton. You've been serving with the Yanks in the East, an' you've a cousin, named Harry Kenton, who's been servin' there also, but with the Johnnies. Now, am I a good guesser or am I just a plum' ignorant fool?"

Dick stared at him in deepening amazement.

"You do more than guess," he replied. "You know. Everything that you said is true."

"Tell me this," said Jarvis. "Was that cousin of yours, Harry Kenton, killed in the big battle at Bull Run? I've been tremenjeously anxious about him ever since I heard of that terrible fight."

"He was not. I have not seen him since, but I have definite news now that he passed safely through the battle."

Sam Jarvis and his nephew Ike breathed deep sighs of relief.

"I'm mighty glad to hear it," said Jarvis, "I shorely liked that boy, Harry, an' I think I'll like you about as well. It don't matter to me that you're on different sides, bein' as I ain't on any side at all myself, nor is this lunkhead, Ike, my nephew."

"How on earth did you know me?"

"'Light, an' come into the house an' I'll tell you. You an' your pardners look cold an' hungry. There ain't danger of anybody taking your hosses, 'cause you can hitch 'em right at the front door. Besides, I've got an old grandmother in the house, who'd like mighty well to see you, Mr. Mason."

Dick concluded that it was useless to ask any more questions just yet, and he, Warner and the sergeant, dismounting and leading their horses, walked toward the house with Jarvis and Ike. Jarvis, who seemed singularly cheerful, lifted up his voice and sang:

Thou wilt come no more, gentle Annie, Like a flower, thy spirit did depart, Thou art gone, alas! like the many That have bloomed in the summer of my heart. Shall we never more behold thee? Never hear thy winning voice again? When the spring time comes, gentle Annie? When the wild flowers are scattered o'er the plain?

It seemed to Dick that the man sang spontaneously, and the deep, mellow voice always came back in faint and dying echoes that moved him in a singular manner. All at once the war with its passions and carnage floated away. Here was a little valley fenced in from the battle-world in which he had been living. He breathed deeply and as the eyes of Jarvis caught his a sympathetic glance passed between them.

"Yes," said Jarvis, as if he understood completely, "the war goes around us. There is nothing to fight about here. But come into the house. This is my sister, the mother of that lunkhead, Ike, and here is my grandmother."

He paused before the bent figure of an old, old woman, sitting in a rocking chair beside the chimney, beside which a fire glowed and blazed. Her chin rested on one hand, and she was staring into the coals.

"Grandmother," said Jarvis very gently, "the great-grandson of the great Henry Ware that you used to know was here last spring, and now the great-grandson of his friend, Paul Cotter, has come, too."

The withered form straightened and she stood up. Fire came into the old, old eyes that regarded Dick so intently.

"Aye," she said, "you speak the truth, grandson. It is Paul Cotter's own face. A gentle man he was, but brave, and the greatest scholar. I should have known that when Henry Ware's great-grandson came Paul Cotter's, too, would come soon. I am proud for this house to have sheltered you both."

She put both her hands on his shoulders, and stood up very straight, her face close to his. She was a tall woman, above the average height of man, and her eyes were on a level with Dick's.

"It is true," she said, "it is he over again. The eyes are his, and the mouth and the nose are the same. This house is yours while you choose to remain, and my grandchildren and my great-grandson will do for you whatever you wish."

Dick noticed that her grammar and intonation were perfect. Many of the Virginians and Marylanders who emigrated to Kentucky in that far-off border time were people of cultivation and refinement.

After these words of welcome she turned from him, sat down in her chair and gazed steadily into the coals. Everything about her seemed to float away. Doubtless her thoughts ran on those dim early days, when the Indians lurked in the canebrake and only the great borderers stood between the settlers and sure death.

Dick began to gather from the old woman's words a dim idea of what had occurred. Harry Kenton must have passed there, and as they went into the next room where food and coffee were placed before them, Jarvis explained.

"Your cousin, Harry Kenton, came through here last spring on his way to Virginia," he said. "He came with me an' this lunkhead, Ike, all the way from Frankfort and mostly up the Kentucky River. Grandmother was dreaming and she took him at first for Henry Ware, his very self. She saluted him and called him the great governor. It was a wonderful thing to see, and it made me feel just a little bit creepy for a second or two. Mebbe you an' your cousin, Harry Kenton, are Henry Ware an' Paul Cotter, their very selves come back to earth. It looks curious that both of you should wander to this little place hid deep in the mountains. But it's happened all the same. I s'pose you've just been moved 'round that way by the Supreme Power that's bigger than all of us, an' that shifts us about to suit plans made long ago. But how I'm runnin' on! Fall to, friends -- I can't call you strangers, an' eat an' drink. The winter air on the mountains is powerful nippin' an' your blood needs warmin' often."

The boys and the sergeant obeyed him literally and with energy. Jarvis sat by approvingly, taking an occasional bite or drink with them. Meanwhile they gathered valuable information from him. A Northern commander named Garfield had defeated the Southern forces under Humphrey Marshall in a smart little battle at a place called Middle Creek. Dick knew this Humphrey Marshall well. He lived at Louisville and was a great friend of his uncle, Colonel Kenton. He had been a brilliant and daring cavalry officer in the Mexican War, doing great deeds at Buena Vista, but now he was elderly and so enormously stout that he lacked efficiency.

Jarvis added that after their defeat at Middle Creek the Southerners had gathered their forces on or near the Cumberland River about Mill Spring and that they had ten thousand men. Thomas with a strong Northern force, coming all the way from the central part of the state, was already deep in the mountains, preparing to meet him.

"Remember," said Jarvis, "that I ain't takin' no sides in this war myself. If people come along an' ask me to tell what I know I tell it to 'em, be they Yank or Reb. Now, I wish good luck to you, Mr. Mason, an' I wish the same to your cousin, Mr. Kenton."

Dick, Warner and the sergeant finished the refreshments and rose for the return journey. They thanked Jarvis, and when they saw that he would take no pay, they did not insist, knowing that it would offend him. Dick said good-bye to the ancient woman and once again she rose, put her hands on his shoulders and looked into his eyes.

"Paul Cotter was a good man," she said, "and you who have his blood in your veins are good, too. I can see it in something that lies back in your eyes."

She said not another word, but sat down in the chair and stared once more into the coals, dreaming of the far day when the great borderers saved her and others like her from the savages, and thinking little of the mighty war that raged at the base of her hills.

The boys and the sergeant rode fast on the return trail. They knew that Major Hertford would push forward at all speed to join Thomas, whom they could now locate without much difficulty. Jarvis and Ike had resumed their fence-mending, but when the trees hid the valley from them a mighty, rolling song came to the ears of Dick, Warner and the sergeant:

They bore him away when the day had fled, And the storm was rolling high, And they laid him down in his lonely bed By the light of an angry sky. The lightning flashed, and the wild sea lashed The shore with its foaming wave, And the thunder passed on the rushing blast As it howled o'er the rover's grave.

"That man's no fool," said Dick.

"No, he ain't," said the sergeant, with decision, "nor is that nephew Ike of his that he calls a lunkhead. Did you notice, Mr. Mason, that the boy never spoke a word while we was there? Them that don't say anything never have anything to take back."

They rode hard now, and soon reached Major Hertford with their news. On the third day thereafter they entered a strong Union camp, commanded by a man named Garfield, the young officer who had won the victory at Middle Creek.



Chapter VI. Mill Spring


Garfield's camp was on a little group of hills in a very strong position, and his men, flushed with victory, were eager for another encounter with the enemy. They had plenty of good tents to fend them from the winter weather which had often been bitter. Throughout the camp burned large fires for which they had an almost unbroken wilderness to furnish fuel. The whole aspect of the place was pleasing to the men who had marched far and hard.

Major Hertford and his aides, Richard Mason and George Warner, were received in Colonel Garfield's tent. A slim young man, writing dispatches at a rude little pine table, rose to receive them. He did not seem to Dick to be more than thirty, and he had the thin, scholarly face of a student. His manner was attractive, he shook hands warmly with all three of them and said:

"Reinforcements are most welcome indeed. My own work here seems to be largely done, but you will reach General Thomas in another day, and he needs you. Take my chair, Major Hertford. To you two lads I can offer only stumps."

The tent had been pitched over a spot where three stumps had been smoothed off carefully until they made acceptable seats. One end of the tent was entirely open, facing a glowing fire of oak logs. Dick and Warner sat down on the stumps and spread out their hands to the blaze. Beyond the flames they saw the wintry forest and mountains, seemingly as wild as they were when the first white man came.

The usual coffee and food were brought, and while they ate and drank Major Hertford answered the numerous and pertinent questions of Colonel Garfield. He listened attentively to the account of the fight in the mountains, and to all the news that they could tell him of Washington.

"We have been cut off in these mountains," he said. "I know very little of what is going on, but what you say only confirms my own opinion. The war is rapidly spreading over a much greater area, and I believe that its scope will far exceed any of our earlier calculations."

A grave and rather sad expression occupied for a moment the mobile face. He interested Dick greatly. He seemed to him scholar and thinker as well as soldier. He and Warner long afterward attended the inauguration of this man as President of the United States.

After a brief rest, and good wishes from Garfield, Major Hertford and his command soon reached the main camp under Thomas. Here they were received by a man very different in appearance and manner from Garfield.

General George H. Thomas, who was to receive the famous title, "The Rock of Chickamauga," was then in middle years. Heavily built and bearded, he was chary of words. He merely nodded approval when Major Hertford told of their march.

"I will assign your troops to a brigade," he said, "and I don't think you'll have long to wait. We're expecting a battle in a few days with Crittenden and Zollicoffer."

"Not much to say," remarked Dick to Warner, as they went away.

"That's true," said Warner, thoughtfully, "but didn't you get an impression of strength from his very silence? I should say that in his make-up he is five per cent talk, twenty-five per cent patience and seventy per cent action; total, one hundred per cent."

The region in which they lay was west of the higher mountains, which they had now crossed, but it was very rough and hilly. Not far from them was a little town called Somerset, which Dick had visited once, and near by, too, was the deep and swift Cumberland River, with much floating ice at its edges. When the two lads lay by a campfire that night Sergeant Whitley came to them with the news of the situation, which he had picked up in his usual deft and quiet way.

"The Southern army is on the banks of the Cumberland," he said. "It has not been able to get its provisions by land through Cumberland Gap. Instead they have been brought by boats on the river. As I hear it, Crittenden and Zollicoffer are afraid that our general will advance to the river an' cut off these supplies. So they mean to attack us as soon as they can. If I may venture to say so, Mr. Mason, I'd advise that you and Lieutenant Warner get as good a rest as you can, and as soon as you can."

They ate a hearty supper and being told by Major Hertford that they would not be wanted until the next day, they rolled themselves in heavy blankets, and, pointing their feet toward a good fire, slept on the ground. The night was very cold, because it was now the middle of January, but the blankets and fire kept them warm.

Dick did not fall to sleep for some time, because he knew that he was going into battle again in a few days. He was on the soil of his native state now. He had already seen many Kentuckians in the army of Thomas and he knew that they would be numerous, too, in that of Crittenden and Zollicoffer. To some extent it would be a battle of brother against brother. He was glad that Harry Kenton was in the east. He did not wish in the height of battle to see his own cousin again on the opposite side.

But when he did fall asleep his slumber was sound and restful, and he was ready and eager the next morning, when the sergeant, Warner, and he were detached for duty in a scouting party.

"The general has asked that you be sent owing to your experience in the mountains," said Major Hertford, "and I have agreed gladly. I hope that you're as glad as I am."

"We are, sir," said the two boys together. The sergeant stood quietly by and smiled.

The detachment numbered a hundred men, all young, strong, and well mounted. They were commanded by a young captain, John Markham, in whom Dick recognized a distant relative. In those days nearly all Kentuckians were more or less akin. The kinship was sufficient for Markham to keep the two boys on either side of him with Sergeant Whitley just behind. Markham lived in Frankfort and he had marched with Thomas from the cantonments at Lebanon to their present camp.

"John," said Dick, addressing him familiarly and in right of kinship, "you've been for months in our own county. You've surely heard something from Pendleton?"

He could not disguise the anxiety in his voice, and the young captain regarded him with sympathy.

"I had news from there about a month ago, Dick," he replied. "Your mother was well then, as I have no doubt she is now. The place was not troubled by guerillas who are hanging on the fringe of the armies here in Eastern, or in Southern and Western Kentucky. The war for the present at least has passed around Pendleton. Colonel Kenton was at Bowling Green with Albert Sidney Johnston, and his son, Harry, your cousin, is still in the East."

It was a rapid and condensed statement, but it was very satisfying to Dick who now rode on for a long time in silence. The road was as bad as a road could be. Snow and ice were mixed with the deep mud which pulled hard at the hoofs of their horses. The country was rough, sterile, and inhabited but thinly. They rode many miles without meeting a single human being. About the third hour they saw a man and a boy on a hillside several hundred yards away, but when Captain Markham and a chosen few galloped towards them they disappeared so deftly among the woods that not a trace of them could be found.

"People in this region are certainly bashful," said Captain Markham with a vexed laugh. "We meant them no harm, but they wouldn't stay to see us."

"But they don't know that," said Dick with the familiarity of kinship, even though distant. "I fancy that the people hereabouts wish both Northerners and Southerners would go away."

Two miles further on they came to a large, double cabin standing back a little distance from the road. Smoke was rising from the chimney, and Captain Markham felt sure that they could obtain information from its inmates. Dick, at his direction, beat on the door with the butt of a small riding whip. There was no response. He beat again rapidly and heavily, and no answer coming he pushed in the door.

A fire was burning on the hearth, but the house was abandoned. Nor had the owners been gone long. Besides the fire to prove it, clothing was hanging on hooks in the wall, and there was food in the cupboard. Captain Markham sighed.

"Again they're afraid of us," he said. "I've no doubt the signal has been passed ahead of us, and that we'll not get within speaking distance of a single native. Curious, too, because this region in the main is for the North."

"Perhaps somebody has been robbing and plundering in our name," said Dick. "Skelly and his raiders have been through these parts."

"That's so," said Markham, thoughtfully. "I'm afraid those guerillas who claim to be our allies are going to do us a great deal of harm. Well, we'll turn back into the road, if you can call this stream of icy mud a road, and go on."

Another mile and they caught the gleam of water among the wintry boughs. Dick knew that it was the Cumberland which was now a Southern artery, bringing stores and arms for the army of Crittenden and Zollicoffer. Even here, hundreds of miles from its mouth, it was a stream of great depth, easily navigable, and far down its current they saw faintly the smoke of two steamers.

"They bear supplies for the Southern army," said Captain Markham. "We can cut off the passage of boats on this river and for that reason, so General Thomas concludes, the Southern army is going to attack us. What do you think of his reasoning, sergeant?"

"Beggin' your pardon, sir, for passin' an opinion upon my general," replied Sergeant Whitley, "but I think his reasons are good. Here it is the dead of winter, with more mud in the roads than I ever saw before anywhere, but there's bound to be a battle right away. Men will fight, sir, to keep from losin' their grub."

A man rode forward from the ranks, saluted and asked leave to speak. He was a native of the next county and knew that region well. Two miles east of them and running parallel with the road over which they had come was another and much wider road, the one that they called the big road.

"Which means, I suppose, that it contains more mud than this one," said Captain Markham.

"True, sir," replied the man, "but if the rebel army is advancing it is likely to be on that road."

"That is certainly sound logic. At least we'll go there and see. Can you lead us through these woods to it?"

"I can take you straight across," replied the man whose name was Carpenter. "But on the way we'll have to ford a creek which is likely to be pretty deep at this time of the year."

"Show the way," said Captain Markham briskly.

They plunged into the deep woods, and Carpenter guided them well. The creek, of which he had told, was running bankful of icy water, but their horses swam it and they kept straight ahead until Carpenter, who was a little in advance, held up a warning hand.

Captain Markham ordered his whole troop to stop and keep as quiet as possible. Then he, Dick, Warner, Sergeant Whitley and Carpenter rode slowly forward. Before they had gone many yards Dick heard the heavy clank of metal, the cracking of whips, the swearing of men, and the sound of horses' feet splashing in the mud. He knew by the amount and variety of the noises that a great force was passing.

They advanced a little further and reined into a clump of bushes which despite their lack of leaves were dense enough to shelter them from observation. As the bushes grew on a hillock they had a downward and good look into the road, which was fairly packed with men in the gray of the Confederate army, some on horseback, but mostly afoot, their cannon, ammunition and supply wagons sinking almost to the hub in the mud. As far as Dick could see the gray columns extended.

"There must be six or seven thousand men here," he said to Captain Markham.

"Undoubtedly," replied Markham, "this is the main Confederate army advancing to attack ours, but the badness of the roads operates against the offense. We shall reach General Thomas with the word that they are coming long before they are there."

They watched the marching army for a half hour longer in order to be sure of everything, and then turning they rode as fast as they could toward Thomas, elated at their success. They swam the creek again, but at another point. Carpenter told them that the Southern army would cross it on a bridge, and Markham lamented that he could not turn and destroy this bridge, but such an attempt would have been folly.

They finally turned into the main road along which the Southern army was coming, although they were now miles ahead of it, and, covered from head to foot with the red mud of the hills, they urged on their worn horses toward the camp of Thomas.

"I haven't had much experience in fighting, but I should imagine that complete preparation had a great deal to do with success," said Captain Markham.

"I'd put it at sixty per cent," said Warner.

"I should say," added Dick, "that the road makes at least eighty per cent of our difficulty in getting back to Thomas."

In fact, the road was so bad that they were compelled after a while to ride into the woods and let their ponies rest. Here they were fired upon by Confederate skirmishers from a hill two or three hundred yards away. Their numbers were small, however, and Captain Markham's force charging them drove them off without loss.

Then they resumed their weary journey, but the rest had not fully restored the horses and they were compelled at times to walk by the side of the road, leading their mounts. Sergeant Whitley, with his age and experience, was most useful now in restraining the impatient young men. Although of but humble rank he kept them from exhausting either themselves or their horses.

"It will be long after dark before we can reach camp," said Captain Markham, sighing deeply. "Confound such roads. Why not call them morasses and have done with it!"

"No, we can't make it much before midnight," said Dick, "but, after all, that will be early enough. If I judge him right, even midnight won't catch General Thomas asleep."

"You've judged him right," said Markham. "I've been with 'Pap' Thomas some time -- we call him 'Pap' because he takes such good care of us -- and I think he is going to be one of the biggest generals in this war. Always silent, and sometimes slow about making up his mind he strikes like a sledge-hammer when he does strike."

"He'll certainly have the opportunity to give blow for blow," said Dick, as he remembered that marching army behind them. "How far do you think it is yet to the general's camp?"

"Not more than a half dozen miles, but it will be dark in a few minutes, and at the rate we're going it will take us two full hours more to get there."

The wintry days were short and the sun slid down the gray, cold sky, leaving forest and hills in darkness. But the little band toiled patiently on, while the night deepened and darkened, and a chill wind whistled down from the ridges. The officers were silent now, but they looked eagerly for the first glimpse of the campfires of Thomas. At last they saw the little pink dots in the darkness, and then they pushed forward with new zeal, urging their weary horses into a run.

When Captain Markham, Dick and Warner galloped into camp, ahead of the others, a thickset strong figure walked forward to meet them. They leaped from their horses and saluted.

"Well?" said General Thomas.

"The enemy is advancing upon us in full force, sir," replied Captain Markham.

"You scouted thoroughly?"

"We saw their whole army upon the road."

"When do you think they could reach us?"

"About dawn, sir."

"Very good. We shall be ready. You and your men have done well. Now, find food and rest. You will be awakened in time for the battle."

Dick walked away with his friends. Troopers took their horses and cared for them. The boy glanced back at the thickset, powerful figure, standing by one of the fires and looking gravely into the coals. More than ever the man with the strong, patient look inspired confidence in him. He was sure now that they would win on the morrow. Markham and Warner felt the same confidence.

"There's a lot in having a good general," said Warner, who had also glanced back at the strong figure. "Do you remember, Dick, what it was that Napoleon said about generals?"

"A general is everything, an army nothing or something like that."

"Yes, that was it. Of course, he didn't mean it just exactly as he said it. A general can't be one hundred per cent and an army none. It was a figure of speech so to say, but I imagine that a general is about forty per cent. If we had had such leadership at Bull Run we'd have won."

Dick and Warner, worn out by their long ride, soon slept but there was movement all around them during the late hours of the night. Thomas with his cautious, measuring mind was rectifying his lines in the wintry darkness. He occupied a crossing of the roads, and he posted a strong battery of artillery to cover the Southern approach. Around him were men from Kentucky, the mountains of Tennessee, Ohio, Indiana, and Minnesota. The Minnesota troops were sun-tanned men who had come more than a thousand miles from an Indian-infested border to defend the Union.

All through the night Thomas worked. He directed men with spades to throw up more intrenchments. He saw that the guns of the battery were placed exactly right. He ordered that food should be ready for all very early in the morning, and then, when nothing more remained to be done, save to wait for the decree of battle, he sat before his tent wrapped in a heavy military overcoat, silent and watchful. Scouts had brought in additional news that the Southern army was still marching steadily along the muddy roads, and that Captain Markham's calculation of its arrival about dawn would undoubtedly prove correct.

Dick awoke while it was yet dark, and throwing off the heavy blankets stood up.

Although the dawn had not come, the night was now fairly light and Dick could see a long distance over the camp which stretched to left and right along a great front. Near him was the battery with most of the men sleeping beside their guns, and not far away was the tent. Although he could not see the general, he knew instinctively that he was not asleep.

It was cold and singularly still, considering the presence of so many thousands of men. He did not hear the sound of human voices and there was no stamp of horses' feet. They, too, were weary and resting. Then Dick was conscious of a tall, thin figure beside him. Warner had awakened, too.

"Dick," he said, "it can't be more than an hour till dawn."

"Just about that I should say."

"And the scene, that is as far as we can see it, is most peaceful."

Dick made no answer, but stood a long time listening. Then he said:

"My ears are pretty good, George, and sound will carry very far in this silence just before the dawn. I thought I heard a faint sound like the clank of a cannon."

"I think I hear it, too," said Warner, "and here is the dawn closer at hand than we thought. Look at those cold rays over there, behind that hill in the east. They are the vanguard of the sun."

"So they are. And this is the vanguard of the Southern army!"

He spoke the last words quickly and with excitement.

In front of them down the road they heard the crackle of a dozen rifle shots. The Southern advance undoubtedly had come into contact with the Union sentinels and skirmishers. After the first shots there was a moment's breathless silence, and then came a scattered and rapid fire, as if at least a hundred rifles were at work.

Dick's pulse began to beat hard, and he strained his eyes through the darkness, but he could not yet see the enemy. He saw instead little jets of fire like red dots appearing on the horizon, and then the sound of the rifles came again. Warner was with him and both stood by the side of Major Hertford, ready to receive and deliver his orders. Dick now heard besides the firing in front the confused murmur and moving of the Union army.

Few of these troops had been in battle before -- the same could be said of the soldiers on the other side -- and this attack in the half-light troubled them. They wished to see the men who were going to shoot at them, in order that they might have a fair target in return. Fighting in the night was scarcely fair. One never knew what to do. But Thomas, the future "Rock of Chickamauga," was already showing himself a tower of strength. He reassured his nervous troops, he borrowed Dick and Warner and sent them along the line with messages from himself that they had nothing to do but stand firm and the victory was theirs.

Meanwhile the line of red dots in front was lengthening. It stretched farther to left and right than Dick could see, and was rapidly coming nearer. Already the sentinels and skirmishers were waging a sharp conflict, and the shouts of the combatants increased in volume. Then the cold sun swung clear of the earth, and its wintry beams lighted up both forest and open. The whole Southern army appeared, advancing in masses, and Dick, who was now with Major Hertford again, saw the pale rays falling on rifles and bayonets, and the faces of his own countrymen as they marched upon the Union camp.

"There's danger for our army! Lots of it!" said Warner, as he watched the steady advance of the Southern brigades.

Dick remembered Bull Run, but his thoughts ran back to the iron general who commanded now.

"Thomas will save us," he said.

The skirmishers on both sides were driven in. Their scattered fire ceased, but a moment later the whole front of the Southern army burst into flame. It seemed to Dick that one vast sheet of light like a sword blade suddenly shot forward, and then a storm of lead, bearing many messengers of death, beat upon the Northern army, shattering its front lines and carrying confusion among its young troops. But the officers and a few old regulars like Sergeant Whitley steadied them and they returned the fire.

Major Hertford, Dick and Warner were all on foot, and their own little band, already tried in battle, yielded not an inch. They formed a core of resistance around which others rallied and Thomas himself was passing along the line, giving heart to the lads fresh from the farms.

But the Southern army fired again, and shouting the long fierce rebel yell, charged with all its strength. Dick saw before him a vast cloud of smoke, through which fire flashed and bullets whistled. He heard men around him uttering short cries of pain, and he saw others fall, mostly sinking forward on their faces. But those who stood, held fast and loaded and fired until the barrels of their rifles burned to the touch.

Dick felt many tremors at first, but soon the passion of battle seized him. He carried no rifle, but holding his officer's small sword in his hand he ran up and down the line crying to the men to stand firm, that they would surely beat back the enemy. That film of fire and smoke was yet before his eyes, but he saw through it the faces of his countrymen still coming on. He heard to his right the thudding of the great guns that Thomas had planted on a low hill, but the rifle fire was like the beat of hail, a crackling and hissing that never ceased.

The farm lads, their rifles loaded afresh, fired anew at the enemy, almost in their faces, and the Southern line here reeled back against so firm and deadly a front.

But an alarming report ran down the line that their left was driven back, and it was true. The valiant Zollicoffer leading his brigade in person, had rushed upon this portion of the Northern army which was standing upon another low hill and struck it with great violence. It was wavering and would give way soon. But Thomas, showing the singular calm that always marked him in battle, noticed the weak spot. The general was then near Major Hertford. He quickly wrote a dispatch and beckoned to Dick:

"Here," he said, "jump on the horse that the sergeant is holding for me, and bring up our reserve, the brigade under General Carter. They are to meet the attack there on the hill, where our troops are wavering!"

Dick, aflame with excitement, leaped into the saddle, and while the roar of battle was still in his ears reached the brigade of Carter, already marching toward the thick of the conflict. One entire regiment, composed wholly of Kentuckians, was detached to help the Indiana troops who were being driven fiercely by Zollicoffer.

Dick rode at the head of the Kentuckians, but a bullet struck his horse in the chest. The boy felt the animal shiver beneath him, and he leaped clear just in time, the horse falling heavily and lying quite still. But Dick alighted on his feet, and still brandishing his sword, and shouting at the top of his voice, ran on.

In an instant they reached the Indiana troops, who turned with them, and the combined forces hurled themselves upon the enemy. The Southerners, refusing to yield the ground they had gained, received them, and there began a confused and terrible combat, shoulder to shoulder and hand to hand. Elsewhere the battle continued, but here it raged the fiercest. Both commanders knew that they were to win or lose upon this hill, and they poured in fresh troops who swelled the area of conflict and deepened its intensity.

Dick saw Warner by his side, but he did not know how he had come there, and just beyond him the thick and powerful figure of Sergeant Whitley showed through the hot haze of smoke. The back of Warner's hand had been grazed by a bullet. He had not noticed it himself, but the slow drip, drip of the blood held Dick for a moment with a sort of hideous fascination. Then he broke his gaze violently away and turned it upon the enemy, who were pouring upon them in all their massed strength.

Thomas had sent the Kentuckians to the aid of the Indiana men just in time. The hill was a vast bank of smoke and fire, filled with whistling bullets and shouts of men fighting face to face. Some one reeled and fell against Dick, and for a moment, he was in horror lest it should be Warner, but a glance showed him that it was a stranger. Then he rushed on again, filled with a mad excitement, waving his small sword, and shouting to the men to charge.

From right to left the roar of battle came to his ears, but on the hill where he stood the struggle was at its height. The lines of Federals and Confederates, face to face at first, now became mixed, but neither side gained. In the fiery struggle a Union officer, Fry, saw Zollicoffer only a few feet away. Snatching out his pistol he shot him dead. The Southerners seeing the fall of the general who was so popular among them hesitated and then gave back. Thomas, watching everything with keen and steady gaze, hurled an Ohio regiment from the right flank upon the Southern center, causing it to give way yet further under the shock.

"We win! We win!" shouted Dick in his ardor, as he saw the Southern line yielding. But the victory was not yet achieved. Crittenden, who was really Zollicoffer's superior in the command, displayed the most heroic courage throughout the battle. He brought up fresh troops to help his weakened center. He reformed his lines and was about to restore the battle, but Thomas, silent and ever watchful, now rushed in a brigade of Tennessee mountaineers, and as they struck with all their weight, the new line of the South was compelled to give way. Success seen and felt filled the veins of the soldiers with fresh fire. Dick and the men about him saw the whole Southern line crumble up before them. The triumphant Union army rushed forward shouting, and the Confederates were forced to give way at all points.

Dick and Warner, with the watchful sergeant near, were in the very front of the advance. The two young aides carried away by success and the fire of battle, waved their swords continually and rushed at the enemy's lines.

Dick's face was covered with smoke, his lips were burnt, and his throat was raw from so much shouting. But he was conscious only of great elation. "This is not another Bull Run!" he cried to Warner, and Warner cried back: "Not by a long shot!"

Thomas, still cool, watchful, and able to judge of results amid all the thunder and confusion of battle, hurried every man into the attack. He was showing upon this, his first independent field, all the great qualities he was destined later to manifest so brilliantly in some of the greatest battles of modern times.

The Southern lines were smashed completely by those heavy and continuous blows. Driven hard on every side they now retreated rapidly, and their triumphant enemies seized prisoners and cannon.

The whole Confederate army continued its swift retreat until it reached its intrenchments, where the officers rallied the men and turned to face their enemy. But the cautious Thomas stopped. He had no intention of losing his victory by an attack upon an intrenched foe, and drew off for the present. His army encamped out of range and began to attend to the wounded and bury the dead.

Dick, feeling the reaction after so much exertion and excitement, sat down on a fallen tree trunk and drew long, panting breaths. He saw Warner near and remembered the blood that had been dripping from his hand.

"Do you know that you are wounded, George?" he said. "Look at the back of your hand."

Warner glanced at it and noticed the red stripe. It had ceased to bleed.

"Now, that's curious," he said. "I never felt it. My blood and brain were both so hot that the flick of a bullet created no sensation. I have figured it out, Dick, and I have concluded that seventy per cent of our bravery in battle is excitement, leaving twenty per cent to will and ten per cent to chance."

"I suppose your calculation is close enough."

"It's not close merely. It's exact."

Both sprang to their feet and saluted as Major Hertford approached. He had escaped without harm and he saw with pleasure that the lads were alive and well, except for Warner's slight wound.

"You can rest now, boys," he said, "I won't need you for some time. But I can tell you that I don't think General Thomas means to quit. He will follow up his victory."

But Dick and Warner had been sure of that already. The army, flushed with triumph, was eager to be led on, even to make a night attack on the intrenchments of the enemy, but Thomas held them, knowing that another brigade of Northern troops was marching to his aid. The brigade came, but it was now dark and he would not risk a night attack. But some of the guns were brought up and they sent a dozen heavy cannon shot into the intrenchments of the enemy. There was no reply and neither of the boys, although they strained ears, could hear anything in the defeated camp.

"I shouldn't be surprised if we found them gone in the morning," said Major Hertford to Dick. "But I think our general is right in not making any attack upon their works. What do you say to that, Sergeant Whitley? You've had a lot of experience."

Sergeant Whitley was standing beside them, also trying to pierce the darkness with trained eyes, although he could not see the Confederate intrenchments.

"If a sergeant may offer an opinion I agree with you fully, sir," he said. "A night attack is always risky, an' most of all, sir, when troops are new like ours, although they're as brave as anybody. More'n likely if we was to rush on 'em our troops would be shootin' into one another in the darkness."

"Good logic," said Major Hertford, "and as it is quite certain that they are not in any condition to come out and attack us we'll stand by and wait till morning. So the general orders."

They walked back toward the place where the victorious troops were lighting the fires, out of the range of the cannon in the Confederate intrenchments. They were exultant, but they were not boasting unduly. Night, cold and dark, had shut down upon them and was taking the heat out of their blood. Hundreds of men were at work building fires, and Dick and Warner, with the permission of Major Hertford, joined them.

Both boys felt that the work would be a relief. Wood was to be had in abundance. The forest stretched on all sides of them in almost unbroken miles, and the earth was littered with dead wood fallen a year or years before. They merely kept away from the side on which the Confederate intrenchments lay, and brought in the wood in great quantities. A row of lights a half mile long sprang up, giving forth heat and warmth. Then arose the cheerful sound of tin and iron dishes and cups rattling against one another. A quarter of an hour later they were eating a victorious supper, and a little later most of them slept.

But in the night the Confederate troops abandoned their camp, leaving in it ten cannon and fifteen hundred wagons and crossed the river in boats, which they destroyed when they reached the other side. Then, their defeat being so severe, and they but volunteers, they scattered in the mountains to seek food and shelter for the remainder of the winter.

This army of the South ceased to exist.



Chapter VII. The Messenger


Victory, overwhelming and complete, had been won, but General Thomas could not follow into the deep mountains where his army might be cut off. So he remained where he was for a little while and on the second day he sent for Dick.

The general was seated alone in a tent, an open end of which faced a fire, as it was now extremely cold. General Thomas had shown no undue elation over his victory. He was as silent as ever, and now, as always, he made upon Dick the impression of strength and indomitable courage.

"Sit down," he said, waving his hand toward a camp stool.

Dick, after saluting, sat down in silence.

"I hear," said the general, "that you behaved very well in the battle, and that you are a lad of courage and intelligence. Courage is common, intelligence, real intelligence, is rare. You were at Bull Run also, so I hear."

"I was, and the army fought well there too, but late in the day it was seized with a sudden panic."

"Something that may happen at any time to raw troops. But we'll pass to the question in hand. The campaign here in the mountains is ended for this winter, but great matters are afoot further west. A courier arrived last night stating that General Grant and Commodore Foote were preparing to advance by water from Cairo, Illinois, and attempt the reduction of the Confederate forts on the Cumberland and Tennessee. General Buell, one of your own Kentuckians, is advancing southward with a strong Union force, and in a few days his outposts will be on Green River. It will be of great advantage to Buell to know that the Confederate army in the eastern part of the state is destroyed. He can advance with freedom and, on the other hand, the Southern leader, Albert Sidney Johnston, will be compelled to throw a portion of his force to the eastward to protect his flank which has been uncovered by our victory at Mill Spring. Do you understand?"

"I do, sir."

"Then you are to carry dispatches of the utmost importance from me to General Buell. After you reach his camp -- if you reach it -- you will, of course, be subject to his orders. I have learned that you know the country well between here and Green River. Because of that, and because of your intelligence, real intelligence, I mean, you are chosen for this task. You are to change to citizen's clothes at once, and a horse of great power and endurance has been selected for you. But you must use all your faculties all the time. I warn you that the journey is full of danger."

"I can carry it out," replied Dick with quiet confidence, "and I thank you for choosing me."

"I believe you will succeed," said the general, who liked his tone. "Return here in an hour with all your preparations made, and I will give you the dispatches."

Warner was filled with envy that his comrade was to go on a secret mission of great importance, but he generously wished him a full measure of success.

"Remember," he said, "that on an errand like yours, presence of mind counts for at least fifty per cent. Have a quick tongue. Always be ready with a tale that looks true."

"An' remember, too," said Sergeant Whitley, "that however tight a place you get into you can get into one tighter. Think of that and it will encourage you to pull right out of the hole."

The two wrung his hand and Major Hertford also gave him his warmest wishes. The horse chosen for him was a bay of tremendous power, and Dick knew that he would serve him well. He carried double blankets strapped to the saddle, pistols in holsters with another in his belt, an abundance of ammunition, and food for several days in his saddle bags. Then he returned to General Thomas, who handed him a thin strip of tissue paper.

"It is written in indelible ink," he said, "and it contains a statement of our forces and their positions here in the eastern part of the state. It also tells General Buell what reinforcements he can expect. If you are in imminent danger of capture destroy the paper, but to provide for such a chance, in case you escape afterward, I will read the dispatches to you."

He read them over several times and then questioned Dick. But the boy's memory was good. In fact, every word of the dispatches was burnt into his brain, and nothing could make him forget them.

"And now, my lad," said General Thomas, giving him his hand, "you may help us greatly. I would not send a boy upon such an errand, but the demands of war are terrible and must be obeyed."

The strong grasp of the general's hand imparted fresh enthusiasm to Dick, and for the present he did not have the slightest doubt that he would get safely through. He wore a strong suit of home-made brown jeans, a black felt cap with ear-flaps, and high boots. The dispatch was pinned into a small inside pocket of his vest.

He rode quickly out of camp, giving the sentinels the pass word, and the head of the horse was pointed west slightly by north. The ground was now frozen and he did not have the mud to hold him back.

The horse evidently had been longing for action. Such thews and sinews as his needed exercise. He stretched out his long neck, neighed joyously, and broke of his own accord into an easy canter. It was a lonely road, and Dick was glad that it was so. The fewer people he met the better it was in every way for him.

He shared the vigor and spirit of his horse. His breath turned to smoke, but the cold whipped his blood into a quicker torrent. He hummed snatches of the songs that he had heard Samuel Jarvis sing, and went on mile after mile through the high hills toward the low hills of Kentucky.

Dick did not pass many people. The ancient name of his state -- the Dark and Bloody Ground -- came back to him. He knew that war in one of its worst forms existed in this wild sweep of hills. Here the guerillas rode, choosing their sides as suited them best, and robbing as paid them most. Nor did these rough men hesitate at murder. So he rode most of the time with his hand on the butt of the pistol at his belt, and whenever he went through woods, which was most of the time, he kept a wary watch to right and to left.

The first person whom he passed was a boy riding on a sack of grain to mill. Dick greeted him cheerfully and the boy with the fearlessness of youth replied in the same manner.

"Any news your way?" asked Dick.

"Nothin' at all," replied the boy, his eyes enlarging with excitement, "but from the way you are comin' we heard tell there was a great battle, hundreds of thousands of men on each side an' that the Yankees won. Is it so, Mister?"

"It is true," replied Dick. "A dozen people have told me of it, but the armies were not quite so large as you heard. It is true also that the Yankees won."

"I'll tell that at the mill. It will be big news to them. An' which way be you goin', Mister?" said the boy with all the frankness of the hills.

"I'm on my way to the middle part of the state. I've been looking after some land that my people own in the mountains. Looks like a lonesome road, this. Will I reach any house soon?"

"Thar's Ben Trimble's three miles further on, but take my advice an' don't stop thar. Ben says he ain't goin' to be troubled in these war times by visitors, an' he's likely to meet you at the door with his double-barreled shotgun."

"I won't knock on Ben's door, so he needn't take down his double-barreled shotgun. What's next beyond Ben's house?"

"A half mile further on you come to Hungry Creek. It ain't much in the middle of summer, but right now it's full of cold water, 'nough of it to come right up to your hoss's body. You go through it keerful."

"Thank you for your good advice," said Dick. "I'll follow it, too. Good-bye."

He waved his gauntleted hand and rode on. A hundred yards further and he glanced back. The boy had stopped on the crest of a hill, and was looking at him. But Dick knew that it was only the natural curiosity of the hills and he renewed his journey without apprehension.

At the appointed time he saw the stout log cabin of Ben Trimble by the roadside with the warm smoke rising from the chimney, but true to his word he gave Ben and his shotgun no trouble, and continued straight ahead over the frozen road until he came to the banks of Hungry Creek. Here, too, the words of the boy came true. The water was both deep and cold, and Dick looked at it doubtfully.

He urged his great horse into the stream at last, and it appeared that the creek had risen somewhat since the boy had last seen it. In the middle the horse was compelled to swim, but it was no task for such a powerful animal, and Dick, holding his feet high, came dry to the shore that he sought.

The road led on through high hills, covered with oak and beech and cedar and pine, all the deciduous trees bare of leaves, their boughs rustling dryly whenever the wind blew. He saw the smoke of three cabins nestling in snug coves, but it was a full three hours before he met anybody else in the road. Then he saw two men riding toward him, but he could not tell much about them as they were wrapped in heavy gray shawls, and wore broad brimmed felt hats, pulled well down over their foreheads.

Dick knew that he could not exercise too much caution in this debatable land, and his right hand dropped cautiously to the butt of his pistol in such a manner that it was concealed by his heavy overcoat. His left hand rested lightly on the reins as he rode forward at an even pace. But he did not fail to take careful note of the two men who were now examining him in a manner that he did not like.

Dick saw that the strangers openly carried pistols in their belts, which was not of overwhelming significance in such times in such a region, but they did not have the look of mountaineers riding on peaceful business, and he reined his horse to the very edge of the road that he might pass them.

He noted with rising apprehension that they checked the pace of their horses as they approached, and that they reined to either side of the road to compel him to go between them. But he pulled his own horse out still further, and as they could not pass on both sides of him without an overt act of hostility they drew together again in the middle of the road.

"Mornin' stranger," they said together, when they were a few yards away.

"Good morning," said Dick, riding straight on, without checking his speed. But one of the men drew his horse across the road and said:

"What's your hurry? It ain't friendly to ride by without passin' the time o' day."

Now at close range, Dick liked their looks less than ever. They might be members of that very band of Skelly's which had already made so much trouble for both sides, and he summoned all his faculties in order to meet them at any game that they might try to play.

"I've been on land business in the mountains," he said, "and I'm anxious to get back to my home. Besides the day is very cold, and the two facts deprive me of the pleasure of a long conversation with you, gentlemen. Good-day."

"Wait just a little," said the spokesman, who still kept his horse reined across the road. "These be war times an' it's important to know what a fellow is. Be you for the Union or are you with the Secesh?"

Dick was quite sure that whatever he answered they would immediately claim to be on the opposite side. Then would follow robbery and perhaps murder.

"Which is your side?" he asked.

"But we put the question first," the fellow replied.

Dick no longer had any doubts. The second man was drawing his horse up by the side of him, as if to seize him, while the first continued to bar the way. He was alarmed, deeply alarmed, but he lost neither his courage nor his presence of mind. Luckily he had already summoned every faculty for instant action, and now he acted. He uttered a sudden shout, and raked the side of his horse with both spurs.

His horse was not only large and powerful but of a most high spirit. When he heard that shout and felt the burning slash of the spurs he made a blind but mighty leap forward. The horse of the first stranger, smitten by so great a weight, fell in the road and his rider went down with him. The enraged horse then leaped clear of both and darted forward at headlong speed.

As his horse sprang Dick threw himself flat upon his neck, and the bullet that the second man fired whistled over his head. By impulse he drew his own pistol and fired back. He saw the man's pistol arm fall as if broken, and he heard a loud cry. That was a lucky shot indeed, and rising a little in his saddle he shouted again and again to the great horse that served him so well.

The gallant animal responded in full. He stretched out his long neck and the road flew fast behind him. Sparks flashed from the stones where the shod hoofs struck, and Dick exulting felt the cold air rush past. Another shot was fired at long range, but the bullet did not strike anywhere near.

Dick took only a single backward glance. He saw the two men on their horses, but drooping as if weak from hurts, and he knew that for the present at least he was safe from any hurt from them. But he allowed his horse his head for a long time, and then he gradually slowed him down. No human being was in sight now and he spoke to the noble animal soothingly.

"Good old boy," he said; "the strongest, the swiftest, the bravest, and the truest. I was sorry to make those red stripes on your sides, but it had to be done. Only quickness saved us."

The horse neighed. He was still quivering from excitement and exertion. So was Dick for that matter. The men might have been robbers merely -- they were at least that bad -- but they might have deprived him also of his precious dispatch. He was proud of the confidence put in him by General Thomas, and he meant to deserve it. It was this sense of responsibility and pride that had attuned his faculties to so high a pitch and that had made his action so swift, sudden and decisive.

But he steadied himself presently. The victory, for victory it certainly was, increased his strength and confidence. He stopped soon at a brook -- they seemed to occur every mile -- and bathed with cold water the red streaks his spurs had made on either side of his horse. Again he spoke soothing words and regretted the necessity that had caused him to make such wounds, slight though they were.

He also bathed his own face and hands and, as it was now about noon, ate of the cold ham and bread that he carried in his knapsack, meanwhile keeping constant watch on the road over which he had come. But he did not believe that the men would pursue, and he saw no sign of them. Mounting again he rode forward.

The remainder of the afternoon went by without interruption. He passed three or four people, but they were obviously natives of that region, and they asked him only innocent questions. The wintry day was short, and the twilight was soon at hand. He was riding over one of the bare ridges, when first he noticed how late the day had grown. All the sky was gray and chill and the cold sun was setting behind the western mountains. A breeze sprang up, rustling among the leafless branches, and Dick shivered in the saddle. A new necessity was pressed suddenly upon him. He must find shelter for the night. Even with his warm double blankets he could not sleep in the forest on such a night. Besides the horse would need food.

He rode on briskly for a full hour, anxiously watching both sides of the road for a cabin or cabin smoke. By that time night had come fully, though fortunately it was clear but very cold. He saw then on the right a faint coil of smoke rising against the dusky sky and he rode straight for it.

The smoke came from a strong double cabin, standing about four hundred yards from the road, and the sight of the heavy log walls made Dick all the more anxious to get inside them. The cold had grown bitter and even his horse shivered.

As he approached two yellow curs rushed forth and began to bark furiously, snapping at the horse's heels, the usual mountain welcome. But when a kick from the horse grazed the ear of one of them they kept at a respectful distance.

"Hello! Hello!" called Dick loudly.

This also was the usual mountain notification that a guest had come, and the heavy board door of the house opened inward. A man, elderly, but dark and strong, with the high cheek bones of an Indian stood in the door, the light of a fire blazing in the fireplace on the opposite side of the wall throwing him in relief. His hair was coal black, long and coarse, increasing his resemblance to an Indian.

Dick rode close to the door, and, without hesitation, asked for a night's shelter and food. This was his inalienable right in the hills or mountains of his state, and he would be a strange man indeed who would refuse it.

The man sharply bade the dogs be silent and they retreated behind the house, their tails drooping. Then he said to Dick in a tone that was not without hospitality:

"'Light, stranger, an' we'll put up your horse. Mandy will have supper ready by the time we finish the job."

Dick sprang down gladly, but staggered a little at first from the stiffness of his legs.

"You've rid far, stranger," said the man, who Dick knew at once had a keen eye and a keen brain, "an' you're young, too."

"But not younger than many who have gone to the war," replied Dick. "In fact, you see many who are not older than fifteen or sixteen."

He had spoken hastily and incautiously and he realized it at once. The man's keen gaze was turned upon him again.

"You've seen the armies, then?" he said. "Mebbe you're a sojer yourself?"

"I've been in the mountains, looking after some land that belongs to my family," said Dick. "My name is Mason, Richard Mason, and I live near Pendleton, which is something like a hundred miles from here."

He deemed it best to give his right name, as it would have no significance there.

"You must have seen armies," persisted the man, "or you wouldn't hev knowed 'bout so many boys of fifteen or sixteen bein' in them."

"I saw both the Federal and Confederate armies in Eastern Kentucky. My business took me near them, but I was always glad to get away from them, too."

"I heard tell today that there was a big battle."

"You heard right. It was fought near a little place called Mill Spring, and resulted in a complete victory for the Northern forces under General Thomas."

"That was what I heard. It will be good news to some, an' bad news to others. 'Pears to me, Mr. Mason, that you can't fight a battle that will suit everybody."

"I never heard of one that did."

"An' never will, I reckon. Mighty good hoss that you're ridin'. I never seed one with better shoulders. My name's Leffingwell, Seth Leffingwell, an' I live here alone, 'ceptin' my old woman, Mandy. All we ask of people is to let us be. Lots of us in the mountain feel that way. Let them lowlanders shoot one another up ez long ez they please, but up here there ain't no slaves, an' there ain't nothin' else to fight about."

The stable was a good one, better than usual in that country. Dick saw stalls for four horses, but no horses. They put his own horse in one of the stalls, and gave him corn and hay. Then they walked back to the house, and entered a large room, where a stalwart woman of middle age had just finished cooking supper.

"Whew, but the night's goin' to be cold," said Leffingwell, as he shut the door behind them, and cut off an icy blast. "It'll make the fire an' supper all the better. We're just plain mountain people, but you're welcome to the best we have. Ma, this is Mr. Mason, who has been on lan' business in the mountains, an' is back on his way to his home at Pendleton."

Leffingwell's wife, a powerful woman, as large as her husband, and with a pleasant face, gave Dick a large hand and a friendly grasp.

"It's a good night to be indoors," she said. "Supper's ready, Seth. Will you an' the stranger set?"

She had placed the pine table in the middle of the room, and Dick noticed that it was large enough for five or six persons. He put his saddle bags and blankets in a corner and he and the man drew up chairs.

He had seldom beheld a more cheerful scene. In a great fireplace ten feet wide big logs roared and crackled. Corn cakes, vegetables, and two kinds of meat were cooking over the coals and a great pot of coffee boiled and bubbled. No candles had been lighted, but they were not needed. The flames gave sufficient illumination.

"Set, young man," said Leffingwell heartily, "an' see who's teeth are sharper, yourn or mine."

Dick sat down gladly, and they fell to. The woman alternately waited on them and ate with them. For a time the two masculine human beings ate and drank with so much vigor that there was no time for talk. Leffingwell was the first to break silence.

"I kin see you growin'," he said.

"Growing?"

"Yes, growin', you're eatin' so much, you're enjoyin' it so much, an' you're digestin' it so fast. You are already taller than you was when you set, an' you're broader 'cross the chest. No, 'tain't wuth while to 'pologize. You've got a right to be hungry, an' you mustn't forget Ma's cookin' either. She's never had her beat in all these mountains."

"Shut up, Seth," said Mrs. Leffingwell, genially, "you'll make the young stranger think you're plum' foolish, which won't be wide of the mark either."

"I'm grateful," said Dick falling into the spirit of it, "but what pains me, Mrs. Leffingwell, is the fact that Mr. Leffingwell will only nibble at your food. I don't understand it, as he looks like a healthy man."

"'Twouldn't do for me to be too hearty," said Leffingwell, "or I'd keep Mandy here cookin' all the time."

They seemed pleasant people to Dick, good, honest mountain types, and he was glad that he had found their house. The room in which they sat was large, apparently used for all purposes, kitchen, dining-room, sitting-room, and bedroom. An old-fashioned squirrel rifle lay on hooks projecting from the wall, but there was no other sign of a weapon. There was a bed at one end of the room and another at the other, which could be hidden by a rough woolen curtain running on a cord. Dick surmised that this bed would be assigned to him.

Their appetites grew lax and finally ceased. Then Leffingwell yawned and stretched his arms.

"Stranger," he said, "we rise early an' go to bed early in these parts. Thar ain't nothin' to keep us up in the evenin's, an' as you've had a hard, long ride I guess you're just achin' fur sleep."

Dick, although he had been unwilling to say so, was in fact very sleepy. The heavy supper and the heat of the room pulled so hard on his eyelids that he could scarcely keep them up. He murmured his excuses and said he believed he would like to retire.

"Don't you be bashful about sayin' so," exclaimed Leffingwell heartily, "'cause I don't think I could keep up more'n a half hour longer."

Mrs. Leffingwell drew the curtain shutting off one bed and a small space around it. Dick, used to primitive customs, said good-night and retired within his alcove, taking his saddle bags. There was a small window near the foot of the room, and when he noticed it he resolved to let in a little air later on. The mountaineers liked hot rooms all the time, but he did not. This window contained no glass, but was closed with a broad shutter.

The boy undressed and got into bed, placing his saddle bags on the foot of it, and the pistol that he carried in his belt under his head. He fell asleep almost immediately and had he been asked beforehand he would have said that nothing could awake him before morning. Nevertheless he awoke before midnight, and it was a very slight thing that caused him to come out of sleep. Despite the languor produced by food and heat a certain nervous apprehension had been at work in the boy's mind, and it followed him into the unknown regions of sleep. His body was dead for a time and his mind too, but this nervous power worked on, almost independently of him. It had noted the sound of voices nearby, and awakened him, as if he had been shaken by a rough hand.

He sat up in his bed and became conscious of a hot and aching head. Then he remembered the window, and softly drawing two pegs that fastened it in order that he might not awaken his good hosts, he opened it inward a few inches.

The cold air poured in at the crevice and felt like heaven on his face. His temples quit throbbing and his head ceased to ache. He had not noticed at first the cause that really awakened him, but as he settled back into bed, grateful for the fresh air, the same mysterious power gave him a second warning signal.

He heard the hum of voices and sat up again. It was merely the Leffingwells in the bed at the far end of the room, talking! Perhaps he had not been asleep more than an hour, and it was natural that they should lie awake a while, talking about the coming of this young stranger or any other event of the day that interested them. Then he caught a tone or an inflection that he did not remember to have been used by either of the Leffingwells. A third signal of alarm was promptly registered on his brain.

He leaned from the bed and pulling aside the curtain a half an inch or so, looked into the room. The fire had died down except a few coals which cast but a faint light. Yet it was sufficient to show Dick that the two Leffingwells had not gone to bed. They were sitting fully clothed before the fireplace, and three other persons were with them.

As Dick stared his eyes grew more used to the half dusk and he saw clearly. The three strangers were young men, all armed heavily, and the resemblance of two of them to the Leffingwells was so striking that he had no doubt they were their sons. Now he understood about those empty stalls. The third man, who had been sitting with his shoulder toward Dick, turned his face presently, and the boy with difficulty repressed an exclamation. It was the one who had reined his horse across the road to stop him. A fourth and conclusive signal of alarm was registered upon his brain.

He began to dress rapidly and without noise. Meanwhile he listened intently and could hear the words they spoke. The woman was pleading with them to let him go. He was only a harmless lad, and while these were dark days, a crime committed now might yet be punished.

"A harmless boy," said the strange man. "He's quick, an' strong enough, I tell you. You should have seen how he rode me down, and then shot Garmon in the arm."

"I'd like to have that hoss of his," said the elder Leffingwell. "He's the finest brute I ever laid eyes on. Sech power an' sech action. I noticed him at once, when Mason come ridin' up. S'pose we jest take the hoss and send the boy on."

"A hoss like that would be knowed," protested the woman. "What if sojers come lookin' fur him!"

"We could run him off in the hills an' keep him there a while," said Leffingwell. "I know places where sojers wouldn't find that hoss in a thousand years. What do you say to that, Kerins?"

"Good as fur as it goes," replied Kerins, "but it don't go fur enough by a long shot. The Yanks whipped the Johnnies in a big battle at Mill Spring. Me an' my pardners have been hangin' 'roun' in the woods, seein' what would happen. Now, we know that this boy rode straight from the tent of General Thomas hisself. He's a Union sojer, an' young as he is, he's an officer. He wouldn't be sent out by General Thomas hisself 'less it was on big business. He's got messages, dispatches of some kind that are worth a heap to somebody. With all the armies gatherin' in the south an' west of the state it stands to reason that them dispatches mean a lot. Now, we've got to get 'em an' get the full worth of 'em from them to whom they're worth the most."

"He's got a pistol," said the elder Leffingwell, "I seed it in his belt. If he wakes before we grab him he'll shoot."

The man Kerins laughed.

"He'll never get a chance to shoot," he said. "Why, after all he went through today, he'll sleep like a log till mornin'."

"That's so," said one of the young Leffingwells, "an' Kerins is right. We ought to grab them dispatches. Likely in one way or another we kin git a heap fur 'em."

"Shut up, Jim, you fool," said his mother sharply. "Do you want murder on your hands? Stealin' hosses is bad enough, but if that boy has got the big dispatches you say he has, an' he's missin', don't you think that sojers will come after him? An' they'll trace him to this house, an' I tell you that in war trials don't last long. Besides, he's a nice boy an' he spoke nice all the time to pap an' me."

But her words did not seem to make any impression upon the others, except her husband, who protested again that it would be enough to take the horse. As for the dispatches it wasn't wise for them to fool with such things. But Kerins insisted on going the whole route and the young Leffingwells were with him.

Meanwhile Dick had dressed with more rapidity than ever before in his life, fully alive to the great dangers that threatened. But his fear was greatest lest he might lose the precious dispatches that he bore. For a few moments he did not know what to do. He might take his pistols and fight, but he could not fight them all with success. Then that pleasant flood of cold air gave him the key.

While they were still talking he put his saddle bags over his arm, opened the shutter its full width, and dropped quietly to the ground outside, remembering to take the precaution of closing the shutter behind him, lest the sudden inrush of cold startle the Leffingwells and their friends.

It was an icy night, but Dick did not stop to notice it. He ran to the stable, saddled and bridled his horse in two minutes, and in another minute was flying westward over the flinty road, careless whether or not they heard the beat of his horse's hoofs.



Chapter VIII. A Meeting At Night


Dick heard above the thundering hoofbeats only a single shout, and then, as he glanced backward, the house was lost in the moonlight. When he secured his own horse he had noticed that all the empty stalls were now filled, no doubt by the horses of the young Leffingwells and Kerins, but he was secure in his confidence that none could overtake the one he rode.

He felt of that inside pocket of his vest. The precious dispatch was there, tightly pinned into its hidden refuge, and as for himself, refreshed, warm, and strong after food, rest, and sleep, he felt equal to any emergency. He had everything with him. The stout saddle bags were lying across the saddle. He had thrust the holster of pistols into them, but he took it out now, and hung it in its own place, also across the saddle.

Although he was quite sure there would be no pursuit -- the elder Leffingwells would certainly keep their sons from joining it -- he sent his great horse straight ahead at a good pace for a long time, the road being fairly good. His excitement and rapid motion kept him from noticing at first the great bitterness of the cold.

When he had gone five or six miles he drew his horse down to a walk. Then, feeling the intensity of the cold as the mercury was far below zero, he dismounted, looped the reins over his arms, and walked a while. For further precaution he took his blanket-roll and wrapped the two blankets about his body, especially protecting his neck and ears.

He found that the walking, besides keeping him warmer, took all the stiffness out of his muscles, and he continued on foot several miles. He passed two brooks and a creek, all frozen over so solidly that the horse passed on them without breaking the ice. It was an extremely difficult task to make the animal try the ice, but after much delicate coaxing and urging he always succeeded.

He saw two more cabins at the roadside, but he did not think of asking hospitality at either. The night was now far advanced and he wished to put many more miles between him and the Leffingwell home before he sought rest again.

He mounted his horse once more, and increased his speed. Now the reaction came after so much exertion and excitement. He began to feel depressed. He was very young and he had no comrade. The loneliness of the winter night in a country full of dangers was appalling. It seemed to him, as his heart sank, that all things had conspired against him. But the moment of despair was brief. He summoned his courage anew and rode on bravely, although the sense of loneliness in its full power remained.

The moonlight was quite bright. The sky was a deep silky blue, in which myriads of cold stars shone and danced. By and by he skirted for a while the banks of a small river, which he knew flowed southward into the Cumberland, and which would not cross his path. The rays of the moonlight on its frozen surface looked like darts of cold steel.

He left the river presently and the road bent a little toward the north. Then the skies darkened somewhat but lightened again as the dawn began to come. The red but cold edge of the sun appeared above the mountains that he had left behind, and then the morning came, pale and cold.

Dick stopped at a little brook, broke the ice and drank, letting his horse drink after him. Then he ate heartily of the cold bread and meat in his knapsack. Pitying his horse he searched until he found a little grass not yet killed by winter in the lee of the hill, and waited until he cropped it all.

He mounted and resumed his journey through a country in which the hills were steadily becoming lower, with larger stretches of level land appearing between them. By night he should be beyond the last low swell of the mountains and into the hill region proper. As he calculated distances his heart gave a great thump. He was to locate Buell some distance north of Green River, and his journey would take him close to Pendleton.

The boy was torn by great and conflicting emotions. He would carry out with his life the task that Thomas had assigned to him, and yet he wished to stop near Pendleton, if only for an hour.

Yes an hour would do! And it could not interfere with his duty! But Pendleton was a Southern stronghold. Everybody there knew him, and they all knew, too, that he was in the service of the North. How could he pass by without being seen and what might happen then? The terrible conflict went on in his mind, and it was stilled only when he decided to leave it to time and chance.

He rode that day almost without interruption, securing an ample dinner, where no one chose to ask questions, accepting him at his own statement of himself and probably believing it. He heard that a small Southern force was to the southward, probably marching toward Bowling Green, where a great Confederate army under Albert Sidney Johnston was said to be concentrated. But the news gave him no alarm. His own road was still leading west slightly by north.

When night came he was in the pleasant and fertile hill country, dotted with double brick houses, and others of wood, all with wide porticos, supported by white pillars. It looked smiling and prosperous even in winter. The war had done no ravages here, and he saw men at work about the great barns.

He slept in the house of a big farmer, who liked the frank voice and eyes of the lad, and who cared nothing for any errand upon which he might be riding. He slept, too, without dreams, and without awakening until the morning, when he shared a solid breakfast with the family.

Dick obtained at the farmhouse a fresh supply of cold food for his saddle bags, to be held against an emergency, although it was likely now that he could obtain all he needed at houses as he passed. Receiving the good wishes of his hosts he rode on through the hills. The intense cold which kept troops from marching much really served him, as the detachments about the little towns stayed in their camps.

The day was quite clear, with the mercury still well below zero, but his heavy clothing kept him warm and comfortable. His great horse showed no signs of weariness. Apparently his sinews were made of steel.

Noon came, but Dick did not seek any farmhouse for what was called dinner in that region. Instead he ate from his saddle bags as he rode on. He did not wish to waste time, and, moreover, he had taken his resolution. He would go near Pendleton. It was on his most direct route, but he would pass in the night.

As the cold twilight descended he came into familiar regions. Like all other young Kentuckians he was a great horseman, and with Harry Kenton and other lads of his age he had ridden nearly everywhere in a circuit of thirty miles around Pendleton.

It was with many a throb of the heart that he now recognized familiar scenes. He knew the fields, the forests and the houses. But he was glad that the night had come. Others would know him, and he did not wish to be seen when he rode on such an errand. He had been saving his horse in the afternoon, but now he pushed him forward at a much faster gait. The great horse responded willingly and Dick felt the powerful body working beneath him, smooth and tireless like a perfect machine.

He passed nobody on the road. People hugged their fires on such a cold night, and he rode hour after hour without interruption. It was nearly midnight when he stopped on a high hill, free of forest, and looked down upon Pendleton. The wonderful clearness of the winter night helped him. All the stars known to man were out, and helped to illuminate the world with a clear but cold radiance.

Although a long distance away Dick could see Pendleton clearly. There was no foliage on the trees now, and nearly every house was visible. The great pulse in his throat throbbed hard as he looked. He saw the steeples of the churches, the white pillars of the court house, and off to one side the academy in which he and Harry Kenton had gone to school together. He saw further away Colonel Kenton's own house on another hill. It, too, had porticos, supported by white pillars which gleamed in the moonlight.

Then his eyes traveled again around the half circle before him. The place for which he was looking could not be seen. But he knew that it would be so. It was a low house, and the evergreens about it, the pines and cedars would hide it at any time. But he knew the exact spot, and he wanted his eyes to linger there a little before he rode straight for it.

Now the great pulse in his throat leaped, and something like a sob came from him. But it was not a sob of unhappiness. He clucked to his horse and turned from the main road into a narrower one that led by the low house among the evergreens. Yet he was a boy of powerful will, and despite his eagerness, he restrained his horse and advanced very slowly. Sometimes he turned the animal upon the dead turf by the side of the road in order that his footsteps might make no sound.

He drew slowly nearer, and when he saw the roof and eaves of the low house among the evergreens the great pulse in his throat leaped so hard that it was almost unbearable. He reached the edge of the lawn that came down to the road, and hidden by the clipped cone of a pine he saw a faint light shining.

He dismounted, opened the gate softly, and led his horse upon the lawn, hitching him between two pines that grew close together, concealing him perfectly.

"Be quiet, old fellow," he whispered, stroking the great intelligent head. "Nobody will find you here and I'll come back for you."

The horse rubbed his nose against his arm but made no other movement. Then Dick walked softly toward the house, pulses beating hard and paused just at the edge of a portico, where he stood in the shadow of a pillar. He saw the light clearly now. It shone from a window of the low second story. It came from her window and her room. Doubtless she was thinking at that very moment of him. His throat ached and tears came into his eyes. The light, clear and red, shone steadily from the window and made a band across the lawn.

He picked a handful of sand from the walk that led to the front door and threw it against the window. He knew that she was brave and would respond, but waiting only a moment or two he threw a second handful fully and fairly against the glass.

The lower half of the window was thrown open and a head appeared, where the moonlight fell clearly upon it. It was the head of a beautiful woman, framed in thick, silken yellow hair, the eyes deep blue, and the skin of the wonderful fairness so often found in that state. The face was that of a woman about thirty-seven or eight years of age, and without a wrinkle or flaw.

"Mother!" called Dick in a low voice as he stepped from the shadow of the pillar.

There was a cry and the face disappeared like a flash from the window. But he had only a few moments to wait. Her swift feet brought her from the room, down the stairway, and along the hall to the door, which she threw open. The next instant Mrs. Mason had her son in her arms.

"Oh, Dick, Dicky, boy, how did you come!" she exclaimed. "You were here under my window, and I did not even know that you were alive!"

Her tears of joy fell upon his face and he was moved profoundly. Dick loved his beautiful young mother devoutly, and her widowhood had bound them all the more closely together.

"I've come a long distance, and I've come in many ways, mother," he replied, "by train, by horseback, and I have even walked."

"You have come here on foot?"

"No, mother. I rode directly over your own smooth lawn on one of the biggest horses you ever saw, and he's tied now between two of the pine trees. Come, we must go in the house. It's too cold for you out here. Do you know that the mercury is about ten degrees below zero."

"What a man you have grown! Why, you must be two inches taller than you were, when you went away, and how sunburned and weather-beaten you are, too! Oh, Dicky, this terrible, terrible war! Not a word from you in months has got through to me!"

"Nor a word from you to me, mother, but I have not suffered so much so far. I was at Bull Run, where we lost, and I was at Mill Spring, where we won, but I was unhurt."

"Perhaps you have come back to stay," she said hopefully.

"No, mother, not to stay. I took a chance in coming by here to see you, but I couldn't go on without a few minutes. Inside now, mother, your hands are growing cold."

They went in at the door, and closed it behind them. But there was another faithful soul on guard that night. In the dusky hail loomed a gigantic black figure in a blue checked dress, blue turban on head.

"Marse Dick?" she said.

"Juliana!" he exclaimed. "How did you know that I was here?"

"Ain't I done heard Miss Em'ly cry out, me always sleepin' so light, an' I hears her run down the hail. An' then I dresses an' comes an' sees you two through the crack o' the do', an' then I waits till you come in."

Dick gave her a most affectionate greeting, knowing that she was as true as steel. She rejoiced in her flowery name, as many other colored women rejoiced in theirs, but her heart inhabited exactly the right spot in her huge anatomy. She drew mother and son into the sitting-room, where low coals still burned on the hearth. Then she went up to Mrs. Mason's bedroom and put out the light, after which she came back to the sitting-room, and, standing by a window in silence, watched over the two over whom she had watched so long.

"Why is it that you can stay such a little while?" asked Mrs. Mason.

"Mother," replied Dick in a low tone, "General Thomas, who won the battle at Mill Spring, has trusted me. I bear a dispatch of great importance. It is to go to General Buell, and it has to do with the gathering of the Union troops in the western and southern parts of our state, and in Tennessee. I must get through with it, and in war, mother, time counts almost as much as battles. I can stop only a few minutes even for you."

"I suppose it is so. But oh, Dicky, won't this terrible war be over soon?"

"I don't think so, mother. It's scarcely begun yet."

Mrs. Mason said nothing, but stared into the coals. The great negress, Juliana, standing at the window, did not move.

"I suppose you are right, Dick," she said at last with a sigh, "but it is awful that our people should be arrayed so against one another. There is your cousin, Harry Kenton, a good boy, too, on the other side."

"Yes, mother, I caught a glimpse of him at Bull Run. We came almost face to face in the smoke. But it was only for an instant. Then the smoke rushed in between. I don't think anything serious has happened to him."

Mrs. Mason shuddered.

"I should mourn him next to you," she said, "and my brother-in-law, Colonel Kenton, has been very good. He left orders with his people to watch over us here. Pendleton is strongly Southern as you know, but nobody would do us any harm, unless it was the rough people from the hills."

Colonel Kenton's wife had been Mrs. Mason's elder sister, and Dick, as he also sat staring into the coals, wondered why people who were united so closely should yet be divided so much.

"Mother," he said, "when I came through the mountains with my friends we stopped at a house in which lived an old, old woman. She must have been nearly a hundred. She knew your ancestor and mine, the famous and learned Paul Cotter, from whom you and I are descended, and she also knew his friend and comrade, the mighty scout and hunter, Henry Ware, who became the great governor of Kentucky."

"How strange!"

"But the strangest is yet to be told. Harry Kenton, when he went east to join Beauregard before Bull Run, stopped at the same house, and when she first saw him she only looked into the far past. She thought it was Henry Ware himself, and she saluted him as the governor. What do you think of that, mother?"

"It's a startling coincidence."

"But may it not be an omen? I'm not superstitious, mother, but when things come together in such a queer fashion it's bound to make you think. When Harry's paths and mine cross in such a manner maybe it means that we shall all come together again, and be united as we were."

"Maybe."

"At any rate," said Dick with a little laugh, "we'll hope that it does."

While the boy was not noticing his mother had made a sign to Juliana, who had crept out of the room. Now she returned, bearing food upon a tray, and Dick, although he was not hungry, ate to please his mother.

"You will stay until morning?" she said.

"No, mother. I can't afford to be seen here. I must leave in the dark."

"Then until it is nearly morning."

"Nor that either, mother. My time is about up already. I could never betray the trust that General Thomas has put in me. My dispatches not only tell of the gathering of our own troops, but they contain invaluable information concerning the Confederate concentration which General Thomas learned from his scouts and spies. Mother, I think a great battle is coming here in the west."

She shuddered, but she did not seek again to delay him in his duty.

"I am proud," she said, "that you have won the confidence of your general, and that you ride upon such an important errand. I should have been glad if you had stayed at home, Dick, but since you have chosen to be a soldier, I am rejoiced that you have risen in the esteem of your officers. Write to me as often as you can. Maybe none of your letters will reach me, but at least start them. I shall start mine, too."

"Of course, mother," said Dick, "and now it's time for me to ride hard."

"Why, you have been here only a half hour!"

"Nearer an hour, mother, and on this journey of mine time means a lot. I must say good-bye now to you and Juliana."

The two women followed him down the lawn to the point where his horse was hitched between the two big pines. Mrs. Mason patted the horse's great head and murmured to him to carry her son well.

"Did you ever see a finer horse, mother?" said Dick proudly. "He's the very pick of the army."

He threw his arms around her neck, kissed her more than once, sprang into the saddle and rode away in the darkness.

The two women, the black and the white, sisters in grief, and yet happy that he had come, went slowly back into the house to wait, while the boy, a man's soul in him, strode on to war.

Dick was far from Pendleton when the dawn broke, and now he had full need of caution. His horse was bearing him fast into debatable ground, where every man suspected his neighbor, and it remained for force alone to tell to which side the region belonged. But the extreme delicacy of the tension came to Dick's aid. People hesitated to ask questions, lest questions equally difficult be asked of them in return. It was a great time to mind one's own business.

He rode on, fortune with him for the present, and his course was still west slightly by north. He slept under roofs, and he learned that in the country into which he had now come the Union sympathizers were more numerous than the Confederate. The majority of the Kentuckians, whatever their personal feelings, were not willing to shatter the republic.

He heard definitely that here in the west the North was gathering armies greater than any that he had supposed. Besides the troops from the three states just across the Ohio River the hardy lumbermen and pioneers were pouring down from Michigan, Wisconsin, and Minnesota. Hunters in deerskin suits and buffalo moccasins had already come from the far Nebraska Territory.

The power of the west and the northwest was converging upon his state, which gave eighty thousand of its men to the Northern cause, while half as many more went away to the Southern armies, particularly to the one under the brilliant and daring Albert Sidney Johnston, which hung a sinister menace before the Northern front. One hundred and twenty thousand troops sent to the two armies by a state that contained but little more than a million people! It was said at the time that as Kentucky went, so would go the fortunes of the Union and in the end it was so.

But these facts and reckonings were not much in Dick's mind just then. He was thinking of Buell's camp and of the message that he bore. Again and again he felt of that little inside pocket of his vest to see that it was there, although he knew that by no chance could he have lost it.

When he was within fifteen miles of Buell's camp a heavy snow began to fall. But he did not mind it. The powerful horse that had borne him so well carried him safely on to his destination, and before the sundown of that day the young messenger was standing before General Don Carlos Buell, one of the most puzzling characters whom he was to meet in the whole course of the war. He had found Thomas a silent man, but he found Buell even more so. He received Dick in an ordinary tent, thanked him as he saluted and handed him the dispatch, and then read General Thomas' message.

Dick saw before him a shortish, thickset man, grim of feature, who did not ask him a word until he had finished the dispatch.

"You know what this contains?" he said, when he came to the end.

"Yes, General Thomas made me memorize it, that I might destroy it if I were too hard pressed."

"He tells us that Johnston is preparing for some great blow and he gives the numbers and present location of the hostile forces. Valuable information for us, if it is used. You have done well, Mr. Mason. To what force were you attached?"

"A small division of Pennsylvania troops under Major Hertford. They were to be sent by General Thomas to General Grant at Cairo, Illinois."

"And you would like to join them."

"If you please, sir."

"In view of your services your wish is granted. It is likely that General Grant will need all the men whom he can get. A detachment leaves here early in the morning for Elizabethtown, where it takes the train for Louisville, proceeding thence by water to Cairo. You shall go with these men. They are commanded by Colonel Winchester. You may go now, Mr. Mason."

He turned back to his papers and Dick, thinking his manner somewhat curt, left his tent. But he was pleased to hear that the detail was commanded by Colonel Winchester. Arthur Winchester was a man of forty-one or two who lived about thirty miles north of Pendleton. He was a great landowner, of high character and pleasant manners. Dick had met him frequently in his childhood, and the Colonel received him with much warmth.

"I'm glad to know, Dick," he said familiarly, "that you're going with us. I'm fond of Pendleton, and I like to have one of the Pendleton boys in my command. If all that we hear of this man Grant is true, we'll see action, action hot and continuous."

They rode to Elizabethtown, where Dick was compelled to leave his great horse for Buell's men, and went by train to Louisville, going thence by steamer down the Ohio River to Cairo, at its junction with the Mississippi, where they stood at last in the presence of that general whose name was beginning to be known in the west.



Chapter IX. Taking A Fort


Dick was with Colonel Winchester when he was admitted to the presence of the general who had already done much to strengthen the Union cause in the west, and he found him the plainest and simplest of men, under forty, short in stature, and careless in attire. He thanked Colonel Winchester for the reinforcement that he had brought him, and then turned with some curiosity to Dick.

"So you were at the battle of Mill Spring," he said. "It was hot, was it not?"

"Hot enough for me," replied Dick frankly.

Grant laughed.

"They caught a Tartar in George Thomas," he said, "and I fancy that others who try to catch him will be glad enough to let him go."

"He is a great man, sir," said Dick with conviction.

Then Grant asked him more questions about the troops and the situation in Eastern Kentucky, and Dick noticed that all were sharp and penetrating.

"Your former immediate commander, Major Hertford, and some of his men are due here today," said Grant. "General Thomas, knowing that his own campaign was over, sent them north to Cincinnati and they have come down the river to Cairo. When they reach here they will be attached to the regiment of Colonel Winchester."

Dick was overjoyed. He had formed a strong liking for Major Hertford and he was quite sure that Warner and Sergeant Whitley would be with him. Once more they would be reunited, reunited for battle. He could not doubt that they would go to speedy action as the little town at the junction of the mighty rivers resounded with preparation.

When Colonel Winchester and the boy had saluted and retired from General Grant's tent they saw the smoke pouring from the funnels of numerous steamers in the Mississippi, and they saw thousands of troops encamped in tents along the shores of both the Ohio and Mississippi. Heavy cannon were drawn up on the wharves, and ammunition and supplies were being transferred from hundreds of wagons to the steamers. It was evident to any one that this expedition, whatever it might be, was to proceed by water. It was a land of mighty rivers, close together, and a steamer might go anywhere.

As Dick and Colonel Winchester, on whose staff he would now be, were watching this active scene, a small steamer, coming down the Ohio, drew in to a wharf, and a number of soldiers in faded blue disembarked. The boy uttered a shout of joy.

"What is it, Dick?" asked Colonel Winchester.

"Why, sir, there's my former commander, Colonel Newcomb, and just behind him is my comrade, Lieutenant George Warner of Vermont, and not far away is Sergeant Whitley, late of the regular army, one of the best soldiers in the world. Can I greet them, colonel?"

"Of course."

Dick rushed forward and saluted Colonel Newcomb, who grasped him warmly by the hand.

"So you got safely through, my lad," he said. "Major Hertford, who came down the Kentucky with his detachment and joined us at Carrollton at the mouth of that river, told us of your mission. The major is bringing up the rear of our column, but here are other friends of yours."

Dick the next moment was wringing the hand of the Vermont boy and was receiving an equally powerful grip in return.

"I believed that we would meet you here," said Warner, "I calculated that with your courage, skill and knowledge of the country the chances were at least eighty per cent in favor of your getting through to Buell. And if you did get through to Buell I knew that at least ninety per cent of the circumstances would represent your desire and effort to come here. That was a net percentage of seventy-two in favor of meeting you here in Cairo, and the seventy-two per cent has prevailed, as it usually does."

"Nothing is so bad that it can't be worse," said Sergeant Whitley, as he too gave Dick's hand an iron grasp, "and I knew that when we lost you we'd be pretty glad to see you again. Here you are safe an' sound, an' here we are safe an' sound, a most satisfactory condition in war."

"But not likely to remain so long, judging from what we see here," said Warner. "We hear that this man Grant is a restless sort of a person who thinks that the way to beat the enemy is just to go in and beat him."

Major Hertford came up at that moment, and he, too, gave Dick a welcome that warmed his heart. But the boy did not get to remain long with his old comrades. The Pennsylvania regiment had been much cut down through the necessity of leaving detachments as guards at various places along the river, but it was yet enough to make a skeleton and its entity was preserved, forming a little eastern band among so many westerners.

Dick, at General Grant's order, was transferred permanently to the staff of Colonel Winchester, and he and the other officers slept that night in a small building in the outskirts of Cairo. He knew that a great movement was at hand, but he was becoming so thoroughly inured to danger and hardship that he slept soundly all through the night.

They heard early the next morning the sound of many trumpets and Colonel Winchester's regiment formed for embarkation. All the puffing steamers were now in the Ohio, and Dick saw with them many other vessels which were not used for carrying soldiers. He saw broad, low boats, with flat bottoms, their sides sheathed in iron plates. They were floating batteries moved by powerful engines beneath. Then there were eight huge mortars, a foot across the muzzle, every one mounted separately upon a strong barge and towed. Some of the steamers were sheathed in iron also.

Dick's heart throbbed hard when he saw the great equipment. The fighting ships were under the command of Commodore Foote, an able man, but General Grant and his lieutenants, General McClernand and General Smith, commanded the army aboard the transports. On the transport next to them Dick saw the Pennsylvanians and he waved his hand to his friends who stood on the deck. They waved back, and Dick felt powerfully the sense of comradeship. It warmed his heart for them all to be together again, and it was a source of strength, too.

The steamer that bore his regiment was named the River Queen, and many of her cabins had been torn away to make more room for the troops who would sleep in rows on her decks, as thick as buffaloes in a herd. The soldiers, like all the others whom he saw, were mostly boys. The average could not be over twenty, and some were not over sixteen. But they had the adaptability of youth. They had scattered themselves about in easy positions. One was playing an accordion, and another a fiddle. The officers did not interrupt them.

As Dick looked over the side at the yellow torrent some one said beside him:

"This is a whopping big river. You don't see them as deep as this where I come from."

Dick glanced at the speaker, and saw a lad of about his own age, of medium height, but powerfully built, with shoulders uncommonly thick. His face was tanned brown, but his eyes were blue and his natural complexion was fair. He was clad completely in deerskin, mocassins on his feet and a raccoon skin cap on his head. Dick had noticed the Nebraska hunters in such garb, but he was surprised to see this boy dressed in similar fashion among the Kentuckians.

The youth smiled when he saw Dick's glance of surprise.

"I know I look odd among you," he said, "and you take me for one of the Nebraska hunters. So I am, but I'm a Kentuckian, too, and I've a right to a place with you fellows. My name is Frank Pennington. I was born about forty miles north of Pendleton, but when I was six months old my parents went out on the plains, where I've hunted buffalo, and where I've fought Indians, too. But I'm a Kentuckian by right of birth just as you are, and I asked to be assigned to the regiment raised in the region from which we came."

"And mighty welcome you are, too," said Dick, offering his hand. "You belong with us, and we'll stick together on this campaign."

The two youths, one officer and one private, became fast friends in a moment. Events move swiftly in war. Both now felt the great engines throbbing faster beneath them, and the flotilla, well into the mouth of the Ohio, was leaving the Mississippi behind them. But the Ohio here for a distance is apparently the mightier stream, and they gazed with interest and a certain awe at the vast yellow sheet enclosed by shores, somber in the gray garb of winter. It was the beginning of February, and cold winds swept down from the Illinois prairies. Cairo had been left behind and there was no sign of human habitation. Some wild fowl, careless of winter, flew over the stream, dipped toward the water, and then flew away again.

As far as the eye was concerned the wilderness circled about them and enclosed them. The air was cold and flakes of snow dropped upon the decks and the river, but were gone in an instant. The skies were an unbroken sheet of gray. The scene so lonely and desolate contained a majesty that impressed them all, heightened for these youths by the knowledge that many of them were going on a campaign from which they would never return.

"Looks as wild as the great plains on which I've hunted with my father," said Pennington.

"But we hunt bigger game than buffalo," said Dick.

"Game that is likely to turn and hunt us."

"Yes."

"Do you know where we're going?"

"Not exactly, but I can make a good guess. I know that we've taken on Tennessee River pilots, and I'm sure that we'll turn into the mouth of that river at Paducah. I infer that we're to attack Fort Henry, which the Confederates have erected some distance up the Tennessee to guard that river."

"Looks likely. Do you know much about the fort?"

"I've heard of it only since I came to Cairo. I know that it stands on low, marshy ground facing the Tennessee, and that it contains seventeen big guns. I haven't heard anything about the size of its garrison."

"But we'll have a fight, that's sure," said young Pennington. "I've been in battle only once -- at Columbus -- but the Johnny Rebs don't give up forts in a hurry."

"There's another fort, a much bigger one, named Donelson, on the Cumberland," said Dick. "Both the forts are in Tennessee, but as the two rivers run parallel here in the western parts of the two states, Fort Donelson and Fort Henry are not far apart. I risk a guess that we attack both."

"You don't risk much. I tell you, Dick, that man Grant is a holy terror. He isn't much to look at, but he's a marcher and a fighter. We fellows in the ranks soon learn what kind of a man is over us. I suppose it's like the horse feeling through the bit the temper of his rider. President Lincoln has stationed General Halleck at St. Louis with general command here in the West. General Halleck thinks that General Grant is a meek subordinate without ambition, and will always be sending back to him for instructions, which is just what General Halleck likes, but we in the ranks have learned to know our Grant better."

Dick's eyes glistened.

"So you think, then," he said, "that General Grant will push this campaign home, and that he'll soon be where he can't get instructions from General Halleck?"

"Looks that way to a man up a tree," said Pennington slowly, and solemnly winking his left eye.

They were officer and private, but they were only lads together, and they talked freely with each other. Dick, after a while, returned to his commanding officer, Colonel Winchester, but there was little to do, and he sat on the deck with him, looking out over the fleet, the transports, the floating batteries, the mortar boats, and the iron-clads. He saw that the North, besides being vastly superior in numbers and resources, was the supreme master on the water through her equipment and the mechanical skill of her people. The South had no advantage save the defensive, and the mighty generals of genius who appeared chiefly on her Virginia line.

Dick had inherited a thoughtful temperament from his famous ancestor, Paul Cotter, whose learning had appeared almost superhuman to the people of his time, and he was extremely sensitive to impressions. His mind would register them with instant truth. As he looked now upon this floating army he felt that the Union cause must win. On land the Confederates might be invincible or almost so, but the waters of the rivers and the sea upheld the Union cause.

The fleet steamed on at an even pace. Foote, the commodore who had daringly reconnoitered Fort Henry from a single gunboat in the Tennessee, managed everything with alertness and skill. The transports were in the center of the stream. The armed and armored vessels kept on the flanks.

The river, a vast yellow sheet, sometimes turning gray under the gray, wintry skies, seemed alone save for themselves. Not a single canoe or skiff disturbed its surface. Toward evening the flakes of snow came again, and the bitter wind blew once more from the Illinois prairies. All the troops who were not under shelter were wrapped in blankets or overcoats. Dick and the colonel, with the heavy coats over their uniforms, did not suffer. Instead, they enjoyed the cold, crisp air, which filled their lungs and seemed to increase their power.

"When shall we reach the Tennessee?" asked Dick.

"You will probably wake up in the morning to find yourself some distance up that stream."

"I've never seen the Tennessee."

"Though not the equal of the Ohio, it would be called a giant river in many countries. The whole fleet, if it wanted to do it, could go up it hundreds of miles. Why, Dick, these boats can go clear down into Alabama, into the very heart of the Confederacy, into the very state at the capital of which Jefferson Davis was inaugurated President of the seceding states."

"I was thinking of that some time ago," said Dick. "The water is with us."

"Yes, the water is with us, and will stay with us."

They were silent a little while longer and watched the coming of the early winter twilight over the waters and the lonely land. The sky was so heavy with clouds that the gray seemed to melt into the brown. The low banks slipped back into the dark. They saw only the near surface of the river, the dark hulls of the fleet, occasional showers of sparks from smoke stacks, and an immense black cloud made by the smoke of the fleet, trailing behind them far down the river.

"Dick," said Colonel Winchester suddenly, "as you came across Kentucky from Mill Spring, and passed so near Pendleton it must have been a great temptation to you to stop and see your mother."

"It was. It was so great that I yielded to it. I was at our home about midnight for nearly an hour. I hope I did nothing wrong, colonel."

"No, Dick, my boy. Some martinets might find fault with you, but I should blame you had you not stopped for those few moments. A noble woman, your mother, Dick. I hope that she is watched over well."

Dick glanced at the colonel, but he could not see his face in the deepening twilight.

"My uncle, Colonel Kenton, has directed his people to give her help in case of need," he replied, "but that means physical help against raiders and guerillas. Otherwise she has sufficient for her support."

"That is well. War is terrible on women. And now, Dick, my lad, we'll get our supper. This nipping air makes me hungry, and the Northern troops do not suffer for lack of food."

The officers ate in one of the cabins, and when the supper was finished deep night had come over the river, but Dick, standing on the deck, heard the heavy throb of many engines, and he knew that a great army was still around him, driven on by the will of one man, deep into the country of the foe.

The decks, every foot of plank it seemed, were already covered with the sleeping boys, wrapped in their blankets and overcoats. He saw his friend, the young hunter from Nebraska, lying with his head on his arm, sound asleep, a smile on his face.

Dick watched until the first darkness thinned somewhat, and the stars came out. Then he retired to one of the cabins, which he shared with three or four others, and slept soundly until he was aroused for breakfast. He had not undressed, and, bathing his face, he went out at once on the deck. Many of the soldiers were up, there was a hum of talk, and all were looking curiously at the river up which they were steaming.

They were in the Tennessee, having passed in the night the little town of Paducah -- now an important city -- at its mouth. It was not so broad as the Ohio, but it was broad, nevertheless, and it had the aspect of great depth. But here, as on the Ohio, they seemed to be steaming through the wilderness. The banks were densely wooded, and the few houses that may have been near were hidden by the trees. No human beings appeared upon the banks.

Dick knew why the men did not come forth to see the ships. The southwestern part of the state, the old Jackson's Purchase, and the region immediately adjacent, was almost solidly for the South. They would not find here that division of sentiment, with the majority inclined to the North, that prevailed in the higher regions of Kentucky. The country itself was different. It was low and the waters that came into the Tennessee flowed more sluggishly.

But Dick was sure that keen eyes were watching the fleet from the undergrowth, and he had no doubt that every vessel had long since been counted and that every detail of the fleet had been carried to the Southern garrisons in the fort.

The cold was as sharp as on the day before, and Dick, like the others, rejoiced in the hot and abundant breakfast. The boats, an hour or two later, stopped at a little landing, and many of the lads would gladly have gone ashore for a few moments, risking possible sharpshooters in the woods, but not one was allowed to leave the vessels. But Dick's steamer lay so close to the one carrying the Pennsylvanians that he could talk across the few intervening feet of water with Warner and Whitley. He also took the opportunity to introduce his new friend Pennington, of Nebraska.

"Are you the son of John Pennington, who lived for a little while at Fort Omaha?" asked the sergeant.

"Right you are," replied the young hunter, "I'm his third son."

"Then you're the third son of a brave man. I was in the regular army and often we helped the pioneers against the Indians. I remember being in one fight with him against the Sioux on the Platte, and in another against the Northern Cheyennes in the Jumping Sand Hills."

"Hurrah!" cried Pennington. "I'm sorry I can't jump over a section of the Tennessee River and shake hands with you."

"We'll have our chance later," said the sergeant. At that moment the fleet started again, and the boats swung apart. Through Dick's earnest solicitation young Pennington was taken out of the ranks and attached to the staff of Colonel Winchester as an orderly. He was well educated, already a fine campaigner, and beyond a doubt he would prove extremely useful.

They steamed the entire day without interruption. Now and then the river narrowed and they ran between high banks. The scenery became romantic and beautiful, but always wild. The river, deep at any time, was now swollen fifteen feet more by floods on its upper courses, and the water always lapped at the base of the forest.

Dick and Pennington, standing side by side, saw the second sun set over their voyage, and it was as wild and lonely as the first. There was a yellow river again, and hills covered with a bare forest. Heavy gray clouds trooped across the sky, and the sun was lost among them before it sank behind the hills in the west.

Dick and Pennington, wrapped in their blankets and overcoats, slept upon the deck that night, with scores of others strewed about them. They were awakened after eleven o'clock by a sputter of rifle shots. Dick sat up in a daze and heard a bullet hum by his ear. Then he heard a powerful voice shouting: "Down! Down, all of you! It's only some skirmishers in the woods!" Then a cannon on one of the armor clads thundered, and a shell ripped its way through the underbrush on the west bank. Many exclamations were uttered by the half-awakened lads.

"What is it? Has an army attacked us?"

"Are we before the fort and under fire?"

"Take your foot off me, you big buffalo!"

It was Colonel Winchester who had commanded them to keep down, but Dick, a staff officer, knew that it did not apply to him. Instead he sprang erect and assisted the senior officers in compelling the others to lie flat upon the decks. He saw several flashes of fire in the undergrowth, but he had logic enough to know that it could only be a small Southern band. Three or four more shells raked the woods, and then there was no reply.

The boats steamed steadily on. Only one or two of the young soldiers had been hurt and they but lightly. All rolled themselves again in their blankets and coats and went back to sleep.

The second awakening was about half way between midnight and dawn. Something cold was continually dropping on Dick's face and he awoke to find hundreds of sheeted and silent white forms lying motionless upon the deck. Snow was falling swiftly out of a dark sky, and the fleet was moving slowly. In the darkness and stillness the engines throbbed powerfully, and the night was lighted fitfully by the showers of sparks that gushed now and then from the smoke stacks.

Dick thought of rising and brushing the snow from his blankets, but he was so warm inside them that he yawned once or twice and went to sleep again. When he awoke it was morning again, the snow had ceased and the men were brushing it from themselves and the decks.

The young soldiers, as they ate breakfast, spoke of the rifle shots that had been fired at them the night before and, since little damage had been done, they appreciated the small spice of danger. The wildness and mystery of their situation appealed to them, too. They were like explorers, penetrating new regions.

"To most of us it's something like the great plains," said Pennington to Dick. "There you seldom know what you're coming to; maybe a blizzard, maybe a buffalo herd, and maybe a band of Indians, and you take a pleasure in the uncertainty. But I suppose it's not the same to you, this being your state."

"I don't know much about Western Kentucky," said Dick, "my part lies to the center and east, but anyway, our work is to be done in Tennessee. Those two forts, which I'm sure we're after, lie in that state."

"And when do you think we'll reach 'em?"

"Tomorrow, I suppose."

The day passed without any interruption to the advance of the fleet, although there was occasional firing, but not of a serious nature. Now and then small bands of Confederate skirmishers sent rifle shots from high points along the bank toward the fleet, but they did no damage and the ships steamed steadily on.

The third night out came, and again the young soldiers slept soundly, but the next morning, soon after breakfast, the whole fleet stopped in the middle of the river. A thrill of excitement ran through the army when the news filtered from ship to ship that they were now in Tennessee, and that Fort Henry, which they were to attack, was just ahead.

Nevertheless, they seemed to be yet in the wilderness. The Tennessee, in flood, spread its yellow waters through forest and undergrowth, and the chill gray sky still gave a uniform somber, gray tint to everything. Bugles blew in the boats, and every soldier began to put himself and his weapons in order. The command to make a landing had been given, and Commodore Foote was feeling about for a place.

Dick now realized the enormous advantage of supremacy upon the water. Had the Confederates possessed armored ships to meet them, the landing of a great army under fire would be impossible, but now they chose their own time and went about it unvexed.

A place was found at last, a rude wharf was constructed hastily, and the fleet disgorged the army, boat by boat. Vast quantities of stores and heavy cannon were also brought ashore. Despite the cold, Dick and his comrades perspired all the morning over their labors and were covered with mud when the camp was finally constructed at some distance back of the Tennessee, on the high ground beyond the overflow. The transports remained at anchor, but the fighting boats were to drop down the stream and attack the fort at noon the next day from the front, while the army assailed it at the same time from the rear.

The detachment of Pennsylvanians was by the side of Colonel Winchester's Kentucky regiment, and Colonel Newcomb and his staff messed with Colonel Winchester and his officers. There was water everywhere, and before they ate they washed the mud off themselves as best they could.

"I suppose," said Warner, "that seventy per cent of our work henceforth will be marching through the mud, and thirty per cent of it will be fighting the rebels in Fort Henry. I hear that we're not to attack until tomorrow, so I mean to sleep on top of a cannon tonight, lest I sink out of sight in the mud while I'm asleep."

"There's some pleasure," said Pennington, "in knowing that we won't die of thirst. You could hardly call this a parched and burning desert."

But as they worked all the remainder of the day on the construction of the camp, they did not care where they slept. When their work was over they simply dropped where they stood and slumbered soundly until morning.

The day opened with a mixture of rain, snow, and fiercely cold winds. Grant's army moved out of its camp to make the attack, but it was hampered by the terrible weather and the vast swamp through which its course must lead. Colonel Winchester, who knew the country better than any other high officer, was sent ahead on horseback with a small detachment to examine the way. He naturally took Dick and Pennington, who were on his staff, and by request, Colonel Newcomb, Major Hertford, Warner and Sergeant Whitley went also. The whole party numbered about a hundred men.

Dick and the other lads rejoiced over their mission. It was better to ride ahead than to remain with an army that was pulling itself along slowly through the mud. The fort itself was only about three miles away, and as it stood upon low, marshy ground, the backwater from the flooded Tennessee had almost surrounded it.

Despite their horses, Winchester's men found their own advance slow. They had to make many a twist and turn to avoid marshes and deep water before they came within the sight of the fort, and then Dick's watch told him that it was nearly noon, the time for the concerted attacks of army and fleet. But it was certain now that the army could not get up until several hours later, and he wondered what would happen.

They saw the fort very clearly from their position on a low hill, and they saw that the main Confederate force was gathered on a height outside, connected with the fort, and as well as he could judge, the mass seemed to number three or four thousand men.

"What does that mean?" he asked Colonel Winchester.

"I surmise," replied the colonel, "that Tilghman, the Confederate commander, is afraid his men may be caught in a trap. We know his troops are merely raw militia, and he has put them where they can retreat in case of defeat. He, himself, with his trained cannoneers, is inside the fort."

"There can be no attack until tomorrow," said Colonel Newcomb. "It will be impossible for General Grant's army to get here in time."

"You are certainly right about the army, but I'm not so sure that you're right about the attack. Look what's coming up the river."

"The fleet!" exclaimed Newcomb in excitement. "As sure as I'm here it's the fleet, advancing to make the attack alone. Foote is a daring and energetic man, and the failure of the army to co-operate will not keep him back."

"Daring and energy, seventy per cent, at least," Dick heard Warner murmur, but he paid no more attention to his comrades because all his interest was absorbed in the thrilling spectacle that was about to be unfolded before them.

The fleet, the armor clads, the floating batteries, and the mortar boats, were coming straight toward the fort. Colonel Winchester lent Dick his glasses for a moment, and the boy plainly saw the great, yawning mouths of the mortars. Then he passed the glasses back to the colonel, but he was able to see well what followed with the naked eye. The fleet came on, steady, but yet silent.

There was a sudden roar, a flash of fire and a shell was discharged from one of the seventeen great guns in the fort. But it passed over the boat at which it was aimed, and a fountain of water spurted up where it struck. The other guns replied rapidly, and the fleet, with a terrific roar, replied. It seemed to Dick that the whole earth shook with the confusion. Through the smoke and flame he saw the water gushing up in fountains, and he also saw earth and masonry flying from the fort.

"It's a fine fight," said Colonel Winchester, suppressed excitement showing in his tone. "By George, the fleet is coming closer. Not a boat has been sunk! What a tremendous roar those mortars make. Look! One of their shells has burst directly on the fort!"

The fleet, single handed, was certainly making a determined and powerful attack upon the fort, which standing upon low, marshy ground, was not much above the level of the boats, and offered a fair target to their great guns. Both fort and fleet were now enveloped in a great cloud of smoke, but it was repeatedly rent asunder by the flashing of the great guns, and, rapt by the spectacle from which he could not take his eyes, Dick saw that all the vessels of the fleet were still afloat and were crowding closer and closer.

The artillery kept up a steady crash now, punctuated by the hollow boom of the great mortars, which threw huge, curving shells. The smoke floated far up and down the river, and the Southern troops on the height adjoining the fort moved back and forth uneasily, uncertain what to do. Finally they broke and retreated into the forest.

But General Tilghman, the Confederate commander, and the heroic gunners inside the fort, only sixty in number, made the most heroic resistance. The armor clad boats were only six hundred yards away now, and were pouring upon them a perfect storm of fire.

Their intrenchments, placed too low, gave them no advantage over the vessels. Shells and solid shot rained upon them. Some of the guns were exploded and others dismounted by this terrible shower, but they did not yet give up. As fast as they could load and fire the little band sent back their own fire at the black hulks that showed through the smoke.

"The fleet will win," Dick heard Colonel Winchester murmur. "Look how magnificently it is handled, and it converges closer and closer. A fortification located as this one is cannot stand forever a fire like that."

But the fleet was not escaping unharmed. A shell burst the boiler of the Essex, killing and wounding twenty-nine men. Nevertheless, the fire of the boats increased rather than diminished, and Dick saw that Colonel Winchester's words were bound to come true.

Inside the fort there was only depression. It had been raked through by shells and solid shot. Most of the devoted band were wounded and scarcely a gun could be worked. Tilghman, standing amid his dead and wounded, saw that hope was no longer left, and gave the signal.

Dick and his comrades uttered a great shout as they saw the white flag go up over Fort Henry, and then the cannonade ceased, like a mighty crash of thunder that had rolled suddenly across the sky.



Chapter X. Before Donelson


Dick was the first in Colonel Winchester's troop to see the white flag floating over Fort Henry and he uttered a shout of joy.

"Look! look!" he cried, "the fleet has taken the fort!"

"So it has," said Colonel Winchester, "and the army is not here. Now I wonder what General Grant will say when he learns that Foote has done the work before he could come."

But Dick believed that General Grant would find no fault, that he would approve instead. The feeling was already spreading among the soldiers that this man, whose name was recently so new among them, cared only for results. He was not one to fight over precedence and to feel petty jealousies.

The smoke of battle was beginning to clear away. Officers were landing from the boats to receive the surrender of the fort, and Colonel Winchester and his troops galloped rapidly back toward the army, which they soon met, toiling through swamps and even through shallow overflow toward the Tennessee. The men had been hearing for more than an hour the steady booming of the cannon, and every face was eager.

Colonel Winchester rode straight toward a short, thickset figure on a stout bay horse near the head of one of the columns. This man, like all the others, was plastered with mud, but Colonel Winchester gave him a salute of deep respect.

"What does the cessation of firing mean, Colonel?" asked General Grant.

"It means that Fort Henry has surrendered to the fleet. The Southern force, which was drawn up outside, retreated southward, but the fort, its guns and immediate defenders, are ours."

Dick saw the faintest smile of satisfaction pass over the face of the General, who said:

"Commodore Foote has done well. Ride back and tell him that the army is coming up as fast as the nature of the ground will allow."

In a short time the army was in the fort which had been taken so gallantly by the navy, and Grant, his generals, and Commodore Foote, were in anxious consultation. Most of the troops were soon camped on the height, where the Southern force had stood, and there was great exultation, but Dick, who had now seen so much, knew that the high officers considered this only a beginning.

Across the narrow stretch of land on the parallel river, the Cumberland, stood the great fort of Donelson. Henry was a small affair compared with it. It was likely that men who had been stationed at Henry had retreated there, and other formidable forces were marching to the same place. The Confederate commander, Johnston, after the destruction of his eastern wing at Mill Spring by Thomas, was drawing in his forces and concentrating. The news of the loss of Fort Henry would cause him to hasten his operations. He was rapidly falling back from his position at Bowling Green in Kentucky. Buckner, with his division, was about to march from that place to join the garrison in Donelson, and Floyd, with another division, would soon be on the way to the same point. Floyd had been the United States Secretary of War before secession, and the Union men hated him. It was said that the great partisan leader, Forrest, with his cavalry, was also at the fort.

Much of this news was brought in by farmers, Union sympathizers, and Dick and his comrades, as they sat before the fires at the close of the short winter day, understood the situation almost as well as the generals.

"Donelson is ninety per cent and Henry only ten per cent," said Warner. "So long as the Johnnies hold Donelson on the Cumberland, they can build another fort anywhere they please along the Tennessee, and stop our fleet. This general of ours has a good notion of the value of time and a swift blow, and, although I'm neither a prophet nor the son of a prophet, I predict that he will attack Donelson at once by both land and water."

"How can he attack it by water?" asked Pennington. "The distance between them is not great, but our ships can't steam overland from the Tennessee to the Cumberland."

"No, but they can steam back up the Tennessee into the Ohio, thence to the mouth of the Cumberland, and down the Cumberland to Donelson. It would require only four or five days, and it will take that long for the army to invade from the land side."

Dick had his doubts about the ability of the army and the fleet to co-operate. Accustomed to the energy of the Southern commanders in the east he did not believe that Grant would be allowed to arrange things as he chose. But several days passed and they heard nothing from the Confederates, although Donelson was only about twenty miles away. Johnston himself, brilliant and sagacious, was not there, nor was his lieutenant, Beauregard, who had won such a great reputation by his victory at the first Bull Run.

Dick was just beginning to suspect a truth that later on was to be confirmed fully in his mind. Fortune had placed the great generals of the Confederacy, with the exception of Albert Sidney Johnston, in the east, but it had been the good luck of the North to open in the west with its best men.

Now he saw the energy of Grant, the short man of rather insignificant appearance. Boats were sent down the Tennessee to meet any reinforcements that might be coming, take them back to the Ohio, and thence into the Cumberland. Fresh supplies of ammunition and food were brought up, and it became obvious to Dick that the daring commander meant to attack Donelson, even should its garrison outnumber his own besieging force.

Along a long line from Western Tennessee to Eastern Kentucky there was a mighty stir. Johnston had perceived the energy and courage of his opponent. He had shared the deep disappointment of all the Southern leaders when Kentucky failed to secede, but instead furnished so many thousands of fine troops to the Union army.

Johnston, too, had noticed with alarm the tremendous outpouring of rugged men from the states beyond the Ohio and from the far northwest. The lumbermen who came down in scores of thousands from Michigan, Wisconsin and Minnesota, were a stalwart crowd. War, save for the bullets and shell, offered to them no hardships to which they were not used. They had often worked for days at a time up to their waists in icy water. They had endured thirty degrees below zero without a murmur, they had breasted blizzard and cyclone, they could live on anything, and they could sleep either in forest or on prairie, under the open sky.

It was such men as these, including men of his own state, and men of the Tennessee mountains, whom Johnston, who had all the qualities of a great commander, had to face. The forces against him were greatly superior in number. The eastern end of his line had been crushed already at Mill Spring, the extreme western end had suffered a severe blow at Fort Henry, but Jefferson Davis and the Government at Richmond expected everything of him. And he manfully strove to do everything.

There was a mighty marching of men, some news of which came through to Dick and his comrades with Grant. Johnston with his main army, the very flower of the western South, fell back from Bowling Green, in Kentucky, toward Nashville, the capital of Tennessee. But Buckner, with his division, was sent from Bowling Green to help defend Donelson against the threatened attack by Grant, and he arrived there six days after the fall of Henry. On the way were the troops of Floyd, defeated in West Virginia, but afterwards sent westward. Floyd was at the head of them. Forrest, the great cavalry leader, was also there with his horsemen. The fort was crowded with defenders, but the slack Pillow did not yet send forward anybody to see what Grant was doing, although he was only twenty miles away.

All eyes were now turned upon the west. The center of action had suddenly shifted from Kentucky to Tennessee. The telegraph was young yet, but it was busy. It carried many varying reports to the cities North and South. The name of this new man, Grant, spelled trouble. People were beginning to talk much about him, and already some suspected that there was more in the back of his head than in those of far better known and far more pretentious northern generals in the east. None at least could dispute the fact that he was now the one whom everybody was watching.

But the Southern people, few of whom knew the disparity of numbers, had the fullest confidence in the brilliant Johnston. He was more than twenty years older than his antagonist, but his years had brought only experience and many triumphs, not weakness of either mind or body. At his right hand was the swarthy and confident Beauregard, great with the prestige of Bull Run, and Hardee, Bragg, Breckinridge and Polk. And there were many brilliant colonels, too, foremost among whom was George Kenton.

A tremor passed through the North when it was learned that Grant intended to plunge into the winter forest, cross the Cumberland, and lay siege to Donelson. He was going beyond the plans of his superior, Halleck, at St. Louis. He was too daring, he would lose his army, away down there in the Confederacy. But others remembered his successes, particularly at Belmont and Fort Henry. They said that nothing could be won in war without risk, and they spoke of his daring and decision. They recalled, too, that he was master upon the waters, that there was no Southern fleet to face his, as it sailed up the Southern rivers. The telegraph was already announcing that the gunboats, which had been handled with such skill and courage, would be in the Cumberland ready to co-operate with Grant when he should move on Donelson.

Buell was moving also to form another link in the steel chain that was intended to bind the Confederacy in the west. Here again the mastery of the rivers was of supreme value to the North. Buell embarked his army on boats on Green River in the very heart of Kentucky, descended that river to the Ohio, passing down the latter to Smithland, where the Cumberland, coming up from the south, entered it, and met another convoy destined for the huge invasion.

But the first convoy had come, also by boat, from another direction, and from points far distant. There were fresh regiments of farmers and pioneers from Iowa, Nebraska, and Minnesota. They were all eager, full of enthusiasm, anxious to be led against the enemy, and confident of triumph.

Grant and his army, meanwhile, lying in the bleak forest beside the Tennessee, knew little of what was being said of them in the great world without. All their thoughts were of Donelson, across there on the other river, and the men asked to be led against it. Inured to the hardships of border life, there was little sickness among them, despite the winter and the overflow of the flooded streams. They gathered the dead wood that littered the forest, built numerous fires, and waited as patiently as they could for the word to march.

The Pennsylvanians were still camped with the Kentucky regiment to which Dick now belonged, and the fifth evening after the capture of Henry he and his friends sat by one of the big fires.

"We'll advance either tomorrow or the next day," said Warner. "The chances are at least ninety per cent in favor of my statement. What do you say, sergeant?"

"I'd raise the ninety per cent to one hundred," replied Whitley. "We are all ready an' as you've observed, gentlemen, General Grant is a man who acts."

"The Johnnies evidently expect us," said Pennington. "Our scouts have seen their cavalry in the woods watching us, but only in the last day or two. It's strange that they didn't begin it earlier."

"They say that General Pillow, who commands them, isn't of much force," said Dick.

"Well, it looks like it," said Warner, "but from what we hear he'll have quite an army at Donelson. General Grant will have his work cut out for him. The Johnnies, besides having their fort, can go into battle with just about as many men as we have, unless he waits for reinforcements, which I am quite certain he isn't going to do."

That evening several bags of mail were brought to the camp on a small steamer, which had come on three rivers, the Green, the Ohio, and the Tennessee, and Dick, to his great surprise and delight, received a letter from his mother. He had written several letters himself, but he had no way of knowing until now that any of them had reached her. Only one had succeeded in getting through, and that had been written from Cairo.

"My dearest son," she wrote, "I am full of joy to know that you have reached Cairo in safety and in health, though I dread the great expedition upon which you say you are going. I hear in Pendleton many reports about General Grant. They say that he does not spare his men. The Southern sympathizers here say that he is pitiless and cares not how many thousands of his own soldiers he may sacrifice, if he only gains his aim. But of that I know not. I know it is a characteristic of our poor human nature to absolve one's own side and to accuse those on the other side.

"I was in Pendleton this morning, and the reports are thick; thick from both Northerners and Southerners, that the armies are moving forward to a great battle. They have all marched south of us, and I do not know either whether these reports are true or false, though I fear that they are true. Your uncle, Colonel Kenton, is with General Johnston, and I hear is one of his most trusted officers. Colonel Kenton is a good man, and it would be one of the terrible tragedies of war if you and he were to meet on the field in this great battle, which so many hear is coming.

"I am very glad that you are now in the regiment of Colonel Winchester, and that you are an aide on his staff. It is best to be with one's own people. I have known Colonel Winchester a long time, and he has all the qualities that make a man, brave and gentle. I hope that you and he will become the best of friends."

There was much more in the letter, but it was only the little details that concern mother and son. Dick was sitting by the fire when he read it. Then he read it a second time and a third time, folded it very carefully and put it in the pocket in which he had carried the dispatch from General Thomas.

Colonel Winchester was sitting near him, and Dick noticed again what a fine, trim man he was. Although a little over forty, his figure was still slender, and he had an abundant head of thick, vital hair. His whole effect was that of youth. His glance met Dick's and he smiled.

"A letter from home?" he said.

"Yes, sir, from mother. She writes to me that she is glad I am in your command. She speaks very highly of you, sir, and my mother is a woman of uncommon penetration."

A faint red tinted the tanned cheeks of the colonel. Dick thought it was merely the reflection of the fire.

"Would you care for me to read what she says about you?" asked Dick.

"If you don't mind."

Dick drew out the letter again and read the paragraph.

"Your mother is a very fine woman," said Colonel Winchester.

"You're right, sir," said Dick with enthusiasm.

Colonel Winchester said no more, but rose presently and went to the tent of General Grant, where a conference of officers was to be held. Dick remained by the fire, where Warner and Pennington soon joined him.

"Our scouts have exchanged some shots with the enemy," said Pennington, "and they have taken one or two prisoners, bold fellows who say they're going to lick the spots off us. They say they have a big army at Donelson, and they're afraid of nothing except that Grant won't come on. Between ourselves, the Johnny Rebs are getting ready for us."

It was Dick's opinion, too, that the Southern troops were making great preparations to meet them, but, like the others, he was feeling the strong hand on the reins. He did not notice here the doubt and uncertainty that had reigned at Washington before the advance on Bull Run; in Grant's army were order and precision, and with perfect confidence in his commander he rolled himself in his blankets that night and went to sleep.

The order to advance did not come the next morning, and Dick, for a few moments, thought it might not come at all. The reports from Donelson were of a formidable nature, and Grant's own army was not provided for a winter campaign. It had few wagons for food and ammunition, and some of the regiments from the northwest, cherishing the delusion that winter in Tennessee was not cold, were not provided with warm clothing and sufficient blankets.

But Warner abated his confidence not one jot.

"The chance of our moving against Donelson is one hundred per cent," he said. "I passed the General today and his lips were shut tight together, which means a resolve to do at all costs what one has intended to do. I still admit that the prophets and the sons of prophets live no more, but I predict with absolute certainty that we will move in the morning."

The Vermonter's faith was justified. The army, being put in thorough trim, started at dawn upon its momentous march. Wintry fogs were rising from the great river and the submerged lowlands, and the air was full of raw, penetrating chill. An abundant breakfast was served to everybody, and then with warmth and courage the lads of the west and northwest marched forward with eagerness to an undertaking which they knew would be far greater than the capture of Fort Henry.

Dick and Pennington, as staff officers, were mounted, although the horses that had been furnished to them were not much more than ponies. Warner rode with Colonel Newcomb and Major Hertford, who led the slender Pennsylvania detachment beside the Kentucky regiment. Thus the army emerged from its camp and began the march toward the Cumberland. It was now about fifteen thousand strong, but it expected reinforcements, and its fleet held the command of the rivers.

As they entered the leafless forest Dick saw ahead of them, perhaps a quarter of a mile away, a numerous band of horsemen wearing faded Confederate gray. They were the cavalry of Forrest, but they were too few to stay the Union advances. There was a scattered firing of rifles, but the heavy brigades of Grant moved steadily on, and pushed them out of the way. Forrest could do no more than gallop back to the fort with his men and report that the enemy was coming at last.

"Those fellows ride well," said Pennington, as the last of Forrest's cavalrymen passed out of sight, "and if we were not in such strong force I fancy they would sting us pretty hard."

"We'll see more of 'em," said Dick. "This is the enemy's country, and we needn't think that we're going to march as easy as you please from one victory to another."

"Maybe not," said Pennington, "but I'll be glad when we get Donelson. I've been hearing so much about that place that I'm growing real curious."

Their march across the woods suffered no further interruption. Sometimes they saw Confederate cavalrymen at a distance in front, but they did not try to impede Grant's advance. When the sun was well down in the west, the vanguard of the army came within sight of the fortress that stood by the Cumberland. At that very moment the troops under Floyd, just arrived, were crossing the river to join the garrison in the fortress.

Dick looked upon extensive fortifications, a large fort, a redoubt upon slightly higher ground, other batteries at the water's edge, powerful batteries upon a semi-circular hill which could command the river for a long distance, and around all of these extensive works, several miles in length, including a deep creek on the north. Inside the works was the little town of Dover, and they were defended by fifteen thousand men, as many as Grant had without.

When Dick beheld this formidable position bristling with cannon, rifles and bayonets, his heart sank within him. How could one army defeat another, as numerous as itself, inside powerful intrenchments, and in its own country? Nor could they prevent Southern reinforcements from reaching the other side of the river and crossing to the fort under the shelter of its numerous great guns. He was yet to learn the truth, or at least the partial truth, of Napoleon's famous saying, that in war an army is nothing, a man is everything. The army to which he belonged was led by a man of clear vision and undaunted resolution. The chief commander inside the fort had neither, and his men were shaken already by the news of Fort Henry, exaggerated in the telling.

But after the first sinking of the heart Dick felt an extraordinary thrill. Sensitive and imaginative, he was conscious even at the moment that he looked in the face of mighty events. The things of the minute did not always appeal to him with the greatest force. He had, instead, the foreseeing mind, and the meaning of that vast panorama of fortress, hills, river and forest did not escape him.

"Well, Dick, what do you think of it?" asked Pennington.

"We've got our work cut out for us, and if I didn't know General Grant I'd say that we're engaged in a mighty rash undertaking."

"Just what I'd say, also. And we need that fleet bad, too, Dick. I'd like to see the smoke of its funnels as the boats come steaming up the Cumberland."

Dick knew that the fleet was needed, not alone for encouragement and fighting help, but to supply an even greater want. Grant's army was short of both food and ammunition. The afternoon had turned warm, and many of the northwestern lads, still clinging to their illusions about the climate of the lower Mississippi Valley, had dropped their blankets. Now, with the setting sun, the raw, penetrating chill was coming back, and they shivered in every bone.

But the Union army, in spite of everything, gradually spread out and enfolded the whole fortress, save on the northern side where Hickman Creek flowed, deep and impassable. The general's own headquarters were due west of Fort Donelson, and Colonel Winchester's Kentucky regiment was stationed close by.

Low campfires burned along the long line of the Northern army, and Dick and others who sat beside him saw many lights inside the great enclosure held by the South. An occasional report was heard, but it was only the pickets exchanging shots at long range and without hurt. Dick and Pennington wrapped their blankets about them and sat with their backs against a log, ready for any command from Colonel Winchester. Now and then they were sent with orders, because there was much moving to and fro, the placing of men in position and the bringing up of cannon.

Thus the night moved slowly on, raw, cold and dark. Mists and fogs rose from the Cumberland as they had risen from the Tennessee. This, too, was a great river. Dick was glad when the last of his errands was done, and he could come back to the fire, and rest his back once more against the log. The fire was only a bed of coals now, but they gave out much grateful heat.

Dick could see General Grant's tent from where he sat. Officers of high rank were still entering it or leaving it, and he was quite sure that they were planning an attack on the morrow.

But the idea of an assault did not greatly move him now. He was too tired and sleepy to have more than a vague impression of anything. He saw the coals glowing before him, and then he did not see them. He had gone sound asleep in an instant.

The next morning was gray and troubled, with heavy clouds, rolling across the sky. The rising sun was blurred by them, and as the men ate their breakfasts some of the great guns from the fort began to fire at the presumptuous besieger. The heavy reports rolled sullenly over the desolate forests, but the Northern cannon did not yet reply. The Southern fire was doing no damage. It was merely a threat, a menace to those who should dare the assault.

Colonel Winchester signalled to Dick and Pennington, and mounting their horses they rode with him to the crest of the highest adjacent hill. Presently General Grant came and with him were the generals, McClernand and Smith. Colonel Newcomb also arrived, attended by Warner. The high officers examined the fort a long time through their glasses, but Dick noticed that at times they watched the river. He knew they were looking there for the black plumes of smoke which should mark the coming of the steamers out of the Ohio.

But nothing showed on the surface of the Cumberland. The river, dark gray under lowering clouds, flowed placidly on, washing the base of Fort Donelson. At intervals of a minute or two there was a flash of fire from the fort, and the menacing boom of the cannon rolled through the desolate forest. Now and then, a gun from one of the Northern batteries replied. But it was as yet a desultory battle, with much noise and little danger, merely a threat of what was to come.

After a while Colonel Winchester wrote something on a slip of paper:

"Take this to our lieutenant-colonel," he said. "It is an order for the regiment to hold itself in complete readiness, although no action may come for some time. Then return here at once."

Dick rode back swiftly, but on his way he suddenly bent over his saddle bow. A shell from the fort screamed over his head in such a menacing fashion that it seemed to be only a few inches from him. But it passed on, leaving him unharmed, and burst three hundred yards away.

Dick instantly straightened up in the saddle, looked around, breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that no one had noticed his sudden bow, and galloped on with the order. The lieutenant-colonel read it and nodded. Then Dick rode back to the hill where the generals were yet watching in vain for those black plumes of smoke on the Cumberland.

They left the hill at last and the generals went to their brigades. General Grant was smoking a cigar and his face was impassive.

"We're to open soon with the artillery," said Colonel Winchester to Dick. "General Grant means to push things."

The desultory firing, those warning guns, ceased entirely, and for a while both armies stood in almost complete silence. Then a Northern battery on the right opened with a tremendous crash and the battle for Donelson had begun. A Southern battery replied at once and the firing spread along the whole vast curve. Shells and solid shot whistled through the air, but the troops back of the guns crouched in hasty entrenchments, and waited.

The great artillery combat went on for some time. To many of the lads on either side it seemed for hours. Then the guns on the Northern side ceased suddenly, bugles sounded, and the regiments, drawn up in line, rushed at the outer fortifications.

Colonel Winchester and his staff had dismounted, but Dick and Pennington, keeping by the colonel's side, drew their swords and rushed on shouting. The Southerners inside the fort fired their cannon as fast as they could now, and at closer range opened with the rifles. Dick heard once again that terrible shrieking of metal so close to his ears, and then he heard, too, cries of pain. Many of the young soldiers behind him were falling.

The fire now grew so hot and deadly that the Union regiments were forced to give ground. It was evident that they could not carry the formidable earthworks, but on the right, where Dick's regiment charged, and just above the little town of Dover, they pressed in far enough to secure some hills that protected them from the fire of the enemy, and from which Southern cannon and rifles could not drive them. Then, at the order of Grant, his troops withdrew elsewhere and the battle of the day ceased. But on the low hills above Dover, which they had taken, the Union regiments held their ground, and from their position the Northern cannon could threaten the interior of the Southern lines.

Dick's regiment stood here, and beside them were the few companies of Pennsylvanians so far from their native state. Neither Dick nor Pennington was wounded. Warner had a bandaged arm, but the wound was so slight that it would not incapacitate him. The officers were unhurt.

"They've driven our army back," said Pennington, "and it was not so hard for them to do it either. How can we ever defeat an army as large as our own inside powerful works?"

But Dick was learning fast and he had a keen eye.

"We have not failed utterly," he said. "Don't you see that we have here a projection into the enemy's lines, and if those reinforcements come it will be thrust further and further? I tell you that general of ours is a bull dog. He will never let go."

Yet there was little but gloom in the Union camp. The short winter day, somber and heavy with clouds, was drawing to a close. The field upon which the assault had taken place was within the sweep of the Southern guns. Some of the Northern wounded had crawled away or had been carried to their own camp, but others and the numerous dead still lay upon the ground.

The cold increased. The Southern winter is subject to violent changes. The clouds which had floated up without ceasing were massing heavily. Now the young troops regretted bitterly the blankets that they had dropped on the way or left at Fort Henry. Detachments were sent back to regain as many as possible, but long before they could return a sharp wind with an edge of ice sprang up, the clouds opened and great flakes poured down, driven into the eyes of the soldiers by the wind.

The situation was enough to cause the stoutest heart to weaken, but the unflinching Grant held on. The Confederate army within the works was sheltered at least in part, but his own, outside, and with the desolate forest rimming it around, lay exposed fully to the storm. Dick, at intervals, saw the short, thickset figure of the commander passing among the men, and giving them orders or encouragement. Once he saw his face clearly. The lips were pressed tightly together, and the whole countenance expressed the grimmest determination. Dick was confirmed anew in his belief that the chief would never turn back.

The spectacle, nevertheless, was appalling. The snow drove harder and harder. It was not merely a passing shower of flakes. It was a storm. The snow soon lay upon the ground an inch deep, then three inches, then four and still it gained. Through the darkness and the storm the Southern cannon crashed at intervals, sending shells at random into the Union camp or over it. There was full need then for the indomitable spirit of Grant and those around him to encourage anew the thousands of boys who had so lately left the farms or the lumber yards.

Dick and his comrades, careless of the risk, searched over the battlefield for the wounded who were yet there. They carried lanterns, but the darkness was so great and the snow drove so hard and lay so deep that they knew many would never be found.

Back beyond the range of the fort's cannon men were building fires with what wood they could secure from the forest. All the tents they had were set up, and the men tried to cook food and make coffee, in order that some degree of warmth and cheer might be provided for the army beset so sorely.

The snow, after a while, slackening somewhat, was succeeded by cold much greater than ever. The shivering men bent over the fires and lamented anew the discarded blankets. Dick did not sleep an instant that terrible night. He could not. He, Pennington, and Warner, relieved from staff service, worked all through the cold and darkness, helping the wounded and seeking wood for the fires. And with them always was the wise Sergeant Whitley, to whom, although inferior in rank, they turned often and willingly for guidance and advice.

"It's an awful situation," said Pennington; "I knew that war would furnish horrors, but I didn't expect anything like this."

"But General Grant will never retreat," said Dick. "I feel it in every bone of me. I've seen his face tonight."

"No, he won't," said the experienced sergeant, "because he's making every preparation to stay. An' remember, Mr. Pennington, that while this is pretty bad, worse can happen. Remember, too, that while we can stand this, we can also stand whatever worse may come. It's goin' to be a fight to a finish."

Far in the night the occasional guns from the Southern fortress ceased. The snow was falling no longer, but it lay very deep on the ground, and the cold was at its height. Along a line of miles the fires burned and the men crowded about them. But Dick, who had been working on the snowy plain that was the battlefield, and who had heard many moans there, now heard none. All who lay in that space were sleeping the common sleep of death, their bodies frozen stiff and hard under the snow.

Dick, sitting by one of the fires, saw the cold dawn come, and in those chill hours of nervous exhaustion he lost hope for a moment or two. How could anybody, no matter how resolute, maintain a siege without ammunition and without food. But he spoke cheerfully to Pennington and Warner, who had slept a little and who were just awakening.

The pale and wintry sun showed the defiant Stars and Bars floating over Donelson, and Dick from his hill could see men moving inside the earthworks. Certainly the Southern flags had a right to wave defiance at the besieging army, which was now slowly and painfully rising from the snow, and lighting the fires anew.

"Well, what's the program today, Dick?" asked Pennington.

"I don't know, but it's quite certain that we won't attempt another assault. It's hopeless."

"That's true," said Warner, who was standing by, "but we -- hark, what was that?"

The boom of a cannon echoed over the fort and forest, and then another and another. To the northward they saw thin black spires of smoke under the horizon.

"It's the fleet! It's the fleet!" cried Warner joyously, "coming up the Cumberland to our help! Oh, you men of Donelson, we're around you now, and you'll never shake us off!"

Again came the crash of great guns from the fleet, and the crash of the Southern water batteries replying.



Chapter XI. The Southern Attack


The excitement in the Union army was intense and joyous. The cheers rolled like volleys among these farmer lads of the West. Dick, Warner and Pennington stood up and shouted with the rest.

"I should judge that our chances of success have increased at least fifty, yes sixty, per cent," said Warner. "As we have remarked before, this control of the water is a mighty thing. We fight the Johnnie Rebs for the land, but we have the water already. Look at those gunboats, will you? Aren't they the sauciest little things you ever saw?"

Once more the navy was showing, as it has always shown throughout its career, its daring and brilliant qualities. Foote, the commodore, although he had had no time to repair his four small fighting boats after the encounter with Fort Henry, steamed straight up the river and engaged the concentric fire from the great guns of the Southern batteries, which opened upon him with a tremendous crash. The boys watched the duel with amazement. They did not believe that small vessels could live under such fire, but live they did. Great columns of smoke floated over them and hid them at times from the watchers, but when the smoke lifted a little or was split apart by the shattering fire of the guns the black hulls of the gunboats always reappeared, and now they were not more than three or four hundred yards from Donelson.

"I take it that this is a coverin' fire," said Sergeant Whitley, who stood by. "Four little vessels could not expect to reduce such a powerful fortress as Donelson. It's not Fort Henry that they're fightin' now."

"The chances are at least ninety-five per cent in favor of your supposition," said Warner.

The sergeant's theory, in fact, was absolutely correct. Further down the river the transports were unloading regiment after regiment of fresh troops, and vast supplies of ammunition and provisions. Soon five thousand men were formed in line and marched to Grant's relief, while long lines of wagons brought up the stores so badly needed. Now the stern and silent general was able to make the investment complete, but the fiery little fleet did not cease to push the attack.

There was a time when it seemed that the gunboats would be able to pass the fortress and rake it from a point up the river. Many of the guns in the water batteries had been silenced, but the final achievement was too great for so small a force. The rudder of one of Foote's gunboats was shot away, the wheel of another soon went the same way, and both drifted helplessly down the stream. The other two then retreated, and the fire of both fort and fleet ceased.

But there was joy in the Union camp. The soldiers had an abundance of food now, and soon the long ring of fires showed that they were preparing it. Their forces had been increased a third, and there was a fresh outburst of courage and vigor. But Grant ordered no more attacks at present. After the men had eaten and rested a little, picks and spades were swung along a line miles in length. He was fortifying his own position, and it was evident to his men that he meant to stay there until he won or was destroyed.

Dick was conscious once more of a sanguine thrill. Like the others, he felt the strong hand over him, and the certainty that they were led with judgment and decision made him believe that all things were possible. Yet the work of fortifying continued but a little while. The men were exhausted by cold and fatigue, and were compelled to lay down their tools. The fires were built anew, and they hovered about them for shelter and rest.

The wan twilight showed the close of the wintry day, and with the increasing chill a part of Dick's sanguine feeling departed. The gallant little fleet, although it had brought fresh men and supplies and had protected their landing, had been driven back. The investment of the fort was complete only on one side of the river, and steamers coming up the Cumberland from Nashville might yet take off the garrison in safety. Then the work of the silent general, all their hardship and fighting would be at least in part a failure. The Vermont youth, who seemed to be always of the same temper, neither very high nor very low, noticed his change of expression.

"Don't let your hopes decrease, Dick," he said. "Remember that at least twenty per cent of the decline is due to the darkness and inaction. In the morning, when the light comes once more, and we're up and doing again, you'll get back all the twenty per cent you're losing now."

"It's not to be all inaction with you boys tonight, even," said Colonel Winchester, who overheard his closing words. "I want you three to go with me on a tour of inspection or rather scouting duty. It may please you to know that it is the special wish of General Grant. Aware that I had some knowledge of the country, he has detailed me for the duty, and I choose you as my assistants. I'm sure that the skill and danger such a task requires will make you all the more eager for it."

The three youths responded quickly and with zeal, and Sergeant Whitley, when he was chosen, too, nodded in silent gratitude. The night was dark, overcast with clouds, and in an hour Colonel Winchester with his four departed upon his perilous mission. He was to secure information in regard to the Southern army, and to do that they were to go very near the Southern lines, if not actually inside them. Such an attempt would be hazardous in the extreme in the face of a vigilant watch; but on the other hand they would be aided by the fact that both North and South were of like blood and language. Even more, many of those in the opposing camps came from the same localities, and often were of kin.

Dick's regiment had been stationed at the southern end of the line, near the little town of Dover, but they now advanced northward and westward, marching for a long time along their inner line. It was Colonel Winchester's intention to reach Hickman Creek, which formed their northern barrier, creep in the fringe of bushes on its banks, and then approach the fort.

When they reached the desired point the night was well advanced, and yet dark with the somber clouds hanging over river and fort and field of battle. The wind blew out of the northwest, sharp and intensely cold. The snow crunched under their feet. But the four had wrapped themselves in heavy overcoats, and they were so engrossed in their mission that neither wind nor snow was anything to them.

They passed along the bank of the creek, keeping well within the shadow of the bushes, leaving behind them the last outpost of the Union army, and then slowly drew near to the fort. They saw before them many lights burning in the darkness, and at last they discerned dim figures walking back and forth. Dick knew that these were the Southern sentinels. The four went a little nearer, and then crouched down in the snow among some low bushes.

Now they saw the Southern sentinels more distinctly. Some, in fact, were silhouetted sharply as they passed before the Southern fires. Northern sharpshooters could have crept up and picked off many of them, as the Southern sharpshooters in turn might have served many of the Northern watchers, but in this mighty war there was little of such useless and merciless enterprise. The men soon ceased to have personal animosity, and, in the nights between the great battles, when the armies yet lay face to face, the hostile pickets would often exchange gossip and tobacco. Even in a conflict waged so long and with such desperation the essential kindliness of human nature would assert itself.

The four, as they skirted the Southern line, noticed no signs of further preparations by the Confederates. No men were throwing up earthworks or digging trenches. As well as they could surmise, the garrison, like the besieging army, was seeking shelter and rest, and from this fact the keen mind of Colonel Arthur Winchester divined that the defense was confused and headless.

Colonel Winchester knew most of the leaders within Donelson. He knew that Pillow was not of a strong and decided nature. Nor was Floyd, who would rank first, of great military capacity. Buckner had talent and he had served gallantly in the Mexican War, but he could not prevail over the others. The fame of Forrest, the Tennessee mountaineer, was already spreading, but a cavalryman could do little for the defense of a fort besieged by twenty thousand well equipped men, led by a general of unexcelled resolution.

All that Colonel Winchester surmised was true. Inside the fort confusion and doubt reigned. The fleeing garrison from Fort Henry had brought exaggerated reports of Grant's army. Very few of the thousands of young troops had ever been in battle before. They, too, suffered though in a less degree from cold and fatigue, but many were wounded. Pillow and Floyd, who had just arrived with his troops, talked of one thing and then another. Floyd, who might have sent word to his valiant and able chief, Johnston, did not take the trouble or forgot to inform him of his position. Buckner wanted to attack Grant the next morning with the full Southern strength, and a comrade of his on old battlefields, Colonel George Kenton, seconded him ably. The black-bearded Forrest strode back and forth, striking the tops of his riding boots with a small riding whip, and saying ungrammatically, but tersely and emphatically:

"We mustn't stay here like hogs in a pen. We must git at 'em with all our men afore they can git at us."

The illiterate mountaineer and stock driver had evolved exactly the same principle of war that Napoleon used.

But Colonel Winchester and his comrades could only guess at what was going on in Donelson, and a guess always remains to be proved. So they must continue their perilous quest. Once they were hailed by a Southern sentinel, but Colonel Winchester replied promptly that they belonged to Buckner's Kentuckians and had been sent out to examine the Union camp. He passed it off with such boldness and decision that they were gone before the picket had time to express a doubt.

But as they came toward the center of the line, and drew nearer to the fort itself, they met another picket, who was either more watchful or more acute. He hailed them at a range of forty or fifty yards, and when Colonel Winchester made the same reply he ordered them to halt and give the countersign. When no answer came he fired instantly at the tall figure of Colonel Winchester and uttered a loud cry of, "Yankees!"

Luckily the dim light was tricky and his bullet merely clipped the colonel's hair. But there was nothing for the four to do now save to run with all their undignified might for their own camp.

"Come on, lads!" shouted Colonel Winchester. "Our scouting is over for the time!"

The region behind them contained patches of scrub oaks and bushes, and with their aid and that of the darkness, it was not difficult to escape; but Dick, while running just behind the others, stepped in a hole and fell. The snow and the dead leaves hid the sound of his fall and the others did not notice it. As he looked up he saw their dim forms disappearing among the bushes. He rose to his own feet, but uttered a little cry as a ligament in his ankle sent a warning throb of pain through his body.

It was not a wrench, only a bruise, and as he stretched his ankle a few times the soreness went away. But the last sound made by the retreating footsteps of his comrades had died, and their place had been taken by those of his pursuers, who were now drawing very near.

Dick had no intention of being captured, and, turning off at a right angle, he dropped into a gully which he encountered among some bushes. The gully was about four feet deep and half full of snow. Dick threw himself full length on his side, and sank down in the snow until he was nearly covered. There he lay panting hard for a few moments, but quite sure that he was safe from discovery. Only a long and most minute search would be likely to reveal the dark line in the snow beneath the overhanging bushes.

Dick's heart presently resumed its normal beat, and then he heard the sound of voices and footsteps. Some one said:

"They went this way, sir, but they were running pretty fast."

"They'd good cause to run," said a brusque voice. "You'd a done it, too, if you'd expected to have the bullets of a whole army barkin' at your heels."

The footsteps came nearer, crunching on the snow, which lay deep there among the bushes. They could not be more than a dozen feet away, but Dick quivered only a little. Buried as he was and with the hanging bushes over him he was still confident that no one could see him. He raised himself the least bit, and looking through the boughs, saw a tanned and dark face under the broad brim of a Confederate hat. Just then some one said:

"We might have trailed 'em, general, but the snow an' the earth have already been tramped all up by the army."

"They're not wuth huntin' long anyway," said the same brusque voice. "A few Yankees prowlin' about in the night can't do us much harm. It's hard fightin' that'll settle our quarrel."

General Forrest came a little closer and Dick, from his concealment in the snow, surmising his identity, saw him clearly, although himself unseen. He was fascinated by the stern, dark countenance. The face of the unlettered mountaineer was cut sharp and clear, and he had the look of one who knew and commanded. In war he was a natural leader of men, and he had already assumed the position.

"Don't you agree with me, colonel?" he said over his shoulder to some one.

"I think you're right as usual, General Forrest," replied a voice with a cultivated intonation, and Dick started violently in his bed of snow, because he instantly recognized the voice as that of his uncle, Colonel George Kenton, Harry's father. A moment later Colonel Kenton himself stood where the moonlight fell upon his face. Dick saw that he was worn and thin, but his face had the strong and resolute look characteristic of those descended from Henry Ware, the great borderer.

"You know, general, that I endorse all your views," continued Colonel Kenton. "We are unfortunate here in having a division of counsels, while the Yankees have a single and strong head. We have underrated this man Grant. Look how he surprised us and took Henry! Look how he hangs on here! We've beaten him on land and we've driven back his fleet, but he hangs on. To my mind he has no notion of retreating. He'll keep on pounding us as long as we are here."

"That's his way, an' it ought to be the way of every general," growled Forrest. "You cut down a tree by keepin' on cuttin' out chips with an axe, an' you smash up an army by hittin' an' hittin' an' keepin' on hittin'. We ought to charge right out of our works an' jump on the Yankees with all our stren'th."

The two walked on, followed by the soldiers who had come with them, and Dick heard no more. But he was too cautious to stir for a long while. He lay there until the cold began to make its way through his boots and heavy overcoat. Then he rose carefully, brushed off the snow, and began his retreat toward the Union lines. Four or five hundred yards further on and he met Colonel Winchester and his own comrades come back to search for him. They welcomed him joyfully.

"We did not miss you until we were nearly to our own pickets," said the colonel. "Then we concluded that you had fallen and had been taken by the enemy, but we intended to see if we could find you. We've been hovering about here for some time."

Dick told what he had seen and heard, and the colonel considered it of much importance.

"I judge from what you heard that they will attack us," he said. "Buckner and Forrest will be strongly for it, and they're likely to have their way. We must report at once to General Grant."

The Southern attack had been planned for the next morning, but it did not come then. Pillow, for reasons unknown, decided to delay another day, and his fiery subordinates could do nothing but chafe and wait. Dick spent most of the day carrying orders for his chief, and the continuous action steadied his nerves.

As he passed from point to point he saw that the Union army itself was far from ready. It was a difficult task to get twenty thousand raw farmer youths in proper position. They moved about often without cohesion and sometimes without understanding their orders. Great gaps remained in the line, and a daring and skilful foe might cut the besieging force asunder.

But Grant had put his heavy guns in place, and throughout the day he maintained a slow but steady fire upon the fort. Great shells and solid shot curved and fell upon Donelson. Grant did not know what damage they were doing, but he shrewdly calculated that they would unsteady the nerves of the raw troops within. These farmer boys, as they heard the unceasing menace of the big guns, would double the numbers of their foe, and attribute to him an unrelaxing energy.

Thus another gray day of winter wore away, and the two forces drew a little nearer to each other. Far away the rival Presidents at Washington and Richmond were wondering what was happening to their armies in the dark wilderness of Western Tennessee.

The night was more quiet than the one that had just gone before. The booming of the cannon as regular as the tolling of funeral bells had ceased with the darkness, but in its place the fierce winter wind had begun to blow again. Dick, relaxed and weary after his day's work, hovered over one of the fires and was grateful for the warmth. He had trodden miles through slush and snow and frozen earth, and he was plastered to the waist with frozen mud, which now began to soften and fall off before the coals.

Warner, who had been on active duty, too, also sank to rest with a sigh of relief.

"It's battle tomorrow, Dick," he said, "and I don't care. As it didn't come off today the chances are at least eighty per cent that it will happen the next day. You say that when you were lying in the snow last night, Dick, you saw your uncle and that he's a colonel in the rebel army. It's queer."

"You're wrong, George, it isn't queer. We're on opposite sides, serving at the same place, and it's natural that we should meet some time or other. Oh, I tell you, you fellows from the New England and the other Northern States don't appreciate the sacrifices that we of the border states make for the Union. Up there you are safe from invasion. Your houses are not on the battlefields. You are all on one side. You don't have to fight against your own kind, the people you hold most dear. And when the war is over, whether we win or lose, you'll go back to unravaged regions."

"You wrong me there, Dick. I have thought of it. It's the people of the border, whether North or South, who pay the biggest price. We risk our lives, but you risk your lives also, and everything else, too."

Dick wrapped himself in a heavy blanket, pillowed his head on a log before one of the fires and dozed a while. His nerves had been tried too hard to permit of easy sleep. He awoke now and then and over a wide area saw the sinking fires and the moving forms of men. He felt that a sense of uneasiness pervaded the officers. He knew that many of them considered their forces inadequate for the siege of a fortress defended by a large army, but he felt with the sincerity of conviction also, that Grant would never withdraw.

He heard from Colonel Winchester about midnight in one of his wakeful intervals that General Grant was going down the river to see Commodore Foote. The brave leader of the fleet had been wounded severely in the last fight with the fort, and the general wished to confer with him about the plan of operations. But Dick heard only vaguely. The statement made no impression upon him at that time. Yet he was conscious that the feeling of uneasiness still pervaded the officers. He noticed it in Colonel Winchester's tone, and he noticed it, too, in the voices of Colonel Newcomb and Major Hertford, who came presently to confer with Winchester.

But the boy fell into his doze again, while they were talking. Warner and Pennington, who had done less arduous duties, were sound asleep near him, the low flames now and then throwing a red light on their tanned faces. It seemed to him that it was about half way between midnight and morning, and the hum and murmur had sunk to a mere minor note. But his sleepy eyes still saw the dim forms of men passing about, and then he fell into his uneasy doze again.

When he awoke once more it was misty and dark, but he felt that the dawn was near. In the east a faint tint of silver showed through the clouds and vapors. Heavy banks of fog were rising from the Cumberland and the flooded marshes. The earth began to soften as if unlocking from the hard frost of the night.

Colonel Winchester stood near him and his position showed that he was intensely awake. He was bent slightly forward, and every nerve and muscle was strained as if he were eager to see and hear something which he knew was there, but which he could not yet either see or hear.

Dick threw off his blanket and sprang to his feet. At the same moment Colonel Winchester motioned him to awaken Warner and Pennington, which he did at once in speed and silence. That tint of silver, the lining of the fogs and vapors, shone more clearly through, and spread across the East. Dick knew now that the dawn was at hand.

The loud but mellow notes of a trumpet came from a distant point toward Donelson, and then others to right and left joined and sang the same mellow song. But it lasted only for a minute. Then it was lost in the rapid crackle of rifles, which spread like a running fire along a front of miles. The sun in the east swung clear of the earth, its beams shooting a way through fogs and vapors. The dawn had come and the attack had come with it.

The Southerners, ready at last, were rushing from their fort and works, and, with all the valor and fire that distinguished them upon countless occasions, they were hurling themselves upon their enemy. The fortress poured out regiment after regiment. Chafing so long upon the defense Southern youth was now at its best. Attacking, not attacked, the farmer lads felt the spirit of battle blaze high in their breasts. The long, terrible rebel yell, destined to be heard upon so many a desperate field, fierce upon its lower note, fierce upon its higher note, as fierce as ever upon its dying note, and coming back in echoes still as fierce, swelled over forest and fort, marsh and river.

The crackling fire of the pickets ceased. They had been driven back in a few moments upon the army, but the whole regiment of Colonel Winchester was now up, rifle in hand, and on either side of it, other regiments steadied themselves also to receive the living torrent.

The little band of Pennsylvanians were on the left of the Kentuckians and were practically a part of them. Colonel Newcomb and Major Hertford stood amid their men, encouraging them to receive the shock. But Dick had time for only a glance at these old comrades of his. The Southern wave, crested with fire and steel, was rolling swiftly upon them, and as the Southern troops rushed on they began to fire as fast as they could pull the trigger, fire and pull again.

Bullets in sheets struck in the Union ranks. Hundreds of men went down. Dick heard the thud of lead and steel on flesh, and the sudden cries of those who were struck. It needs no small courage to hold fast against more than ten thousand men rushing forward at full speed and bent upon victory or death.

Dick felt all the pulses in his temples beating hard, and he had a horrible impulse to break and run, but pride kept him firm. As an officer, he had a small sword, and snatching it out he waved it, while at the same time he shouted to the men to meet the charge.

The Union troops returned the fire. Thousands of bullets were sent against the ranks of the rushing enemy. The gunners sprang to their guns and the deep roar of the cannon rose above the crash of the small arms. But the Southern troops, the rebel yell still rolling through the woods, came on at full speed and struck the Union front.

It seemed to Dick that he was conscious of an actual physical shock. Tanned faces and gleaming eyes were almost against his own. He looked into the muzzles of rifles, and he saw the morning sun flashing along the edges of bayonets. But the regiment, although torn by bullets, did not give ground. The charge shivered against them, and the Southern troops fell back. Yet it was only for a moment. They came again to be driven back as before, and then once more they charged, while their resolute foe swung forward to meet them rank to rank.

Dick was not conscious of much except that he shouted continuously to the men to stand firm, and wondered now and then why he had not been hit. The Union men and their enemy were reeling back and forth, neither winning, neither losing, while the thunder of battle along a long and curving front beat heavily on the drums of every ear. The smoke, low down, was scattered by the cannon and rifles, but above it gathered in a great cloud that seemed to be shot with fire.

The two colonels, Winchester and Newcomb, were able and valiant men. Despite their swelling losses they always filled up the ranks and held fast to the ground upon which they had stood when they were attacked. But for the present they had no knowledge how the battle was going elsewhere. The enemy just before them allowed no idle moments.

Yet Grant, as happened later on at Shiloh, was taken by surprise. When the first roar of the battle broke with the dawn he was away conferring with the wounded naval commander, Foote. His right, under McClernand, had been caught napping, and eight thousand Southern troops striking it with a tremendous impact just as the men snatched up their arms, drove it back in heavy loss and confusion. Its disaster was increased when a Southern general, Baldwin, led a strong column down a deep ravine near the river and suddenly hurled it upon the wavering Union flank.

Whole regiments retreated now, and guns were lost. The Southern officers, their faces glowing, shouted to each other that the battle was won. And still the combat raged without the Union commander, Grant, although he was coming now as fast as he could with the increasing roar of conflict to draw him on. The battle was lost to the North. But it might be won back again by a general who would not quit. Only the bulldog in Grant, the tenacious death grip, could save him now.

Dick and his friends suddenly became conscious that both on their right and left the thunder of battle was moving back upon the Union camp. They realized now that they were only the segment of a circle extending forward practically within the Union lines, and that the combat was going against them. The word was given to retreat, lest they be surrounded, and they fell back slowly disputing with desperation every foot of ground that they gave up. Yet they left many fallen behind. A fourth of the regiment had been killed or wounded already, and there were tears in the eyes of Colonel Winchester as he looked over the torn ranks of his gallant men.

Now the Southerners, meaning to drive victory home, were bringing up their reserves and pouring fresh troops upon the shattered Union front. They would have swept everything away, but in the nick of time a fresh Union brigade arrived also, supported the yielding forces and threw itself upon the enemy.

But Grant had not yet come. It seemed that in the beginning fortune played against this man of destiny, throwing all her tricks in favor of his opponents. The single time that he was away the attack bad been made, and if he would win back a lost battle there was great need to hurry.

The Southern troops, exultant and full of fire and spirit, continually rolled back their adversaries. They wheeled more guns from the fort into position and opened heavily on the yielding foe. If they were beaten back at any time they always came on again, a restless wave, crested with fire and steel.

Dick's regiment continued to give ground slowly. It had no choice but to do so or be destroyed. It seemed to him now that he beheld the wreck of all things. Was this to be Bull Run over again? His throat and eyes burned from the smoke and powder, and his face was black with grime. His lips were like fire to the touch of each other. He staggered in the smoke against some one and saw that it was Warner.

"Have we lost?" he cried. "Have we lost after doing so much?"

The lips of the Vermonter parted in a kind of savage grin.

"I won't say we've lost," he shouted in reply, "but I can't see anything we've won."

Then he lost Warner in the smoke and the regiment retreated yet further. It was impossible to preserve cohesion or keep a line formed. The Southerners never ceased to press upon them with overwhelming weight. Pillow, now decisive in action, continually accumulated new forces upon the Northern right. Every position that McClernand had held at the opening of the battle was now taken, and the Confederate general was planning to surround and destroy the whole Union army. Already he was sending messengers to the telegraph with news for Johnston of his complete victory.

But the last straw had not yet been laid upon the camel's back. McClernand was beaten, but the hardy men of Kentucky, East Tennessee and the northwest still offered desperate resistance. Conspicuous among the defenders was the regiment of young pioneers from Nebraska, hunters, Indian fighters, boys of twenty or less, who had suffered already every form of hardship. They stood undaunted amid the showers of bullets and shells and cried to the others to stand with them.

Yet the condition of the Union army steadily grew worse. Dick himself, in all the smoke and shouting and confusion, could see it. The regiments that formed the core of resistance were being pared down continually. There was a steady dribble of fugitives to the rear, and those who fought felt themselves going back always, like one who slips on ice.

The sun, far up the heavens, now poured down beams upon the vast cloud of smoke and vapor in which the two armies fought. The few people left in Dover, red hot for the South, cheered madly as they saw their enemy driven further and further away.

Grant, the man of destiny, ill clad and insignificant in appearance, now came upon the field and saw his beaten army. But the bulldog in him shut down its teeth and resolved to replace defeat with victory. His greatest qualities, strength and courage in the face of disaster, were now about to shine forth. His countenance showed no alarm. He rode among the men cheering them to renewed efforts. He strengthened the weak places in the line that his keen eyes saw. He infused a new spirit into the army. His own iron temper took possession of the troops, and that core of resistance, desperate when he came, suddenly hardened and enlarged.

Dick felt the change. It was of the mind, but it was like a cool breath upon the face. It was as if the winds had begun to blow courage. A great shout rolled along the Northern line.

"Grant has come!" exclaimed Pennington, who was bleeding from a slight wound in the shoulder, but who was unconscious of it. "And we've quit retreating!"

The Nebraska youth had divined the truth. Just when a complete Southern victory seemed to be certain the reversal of fortune came. The coolness, the courage, and the comprehensive eye of Grant restored the battle for the North. The Southern reserves had not charged with the fire and spirit expected, and, met with a shattering fire by the Indiana troops, they fell back. Grant saw the opportunity, and massing every available regiment, he hurled it upon Pillow and the Southern center.

Dick felt the wild thrill of exultation as they went forward instead of going back, as they had done for so many hours. Just in front of him was Colonel Winchester, waving aloft a sword, the blade of which had been broken in two by a bullet, and calling to his men to come on. Warner and Pennington, grimed with smoke and mud and stained here and there with blood, were near also, shouting wildly.

The smoke split asunder for a moment, and Dick saw the long line of charging troops. It seemed to be a new army now, infused with fresh spirit and courage, and every pulse in the boy's body began to beat heavily with the hope of victory. The smoke closed in again and then came the shock.

Exhausted by their long efforts which had brought victory so near the Southern troops gave way. Their whole center was driven in, and they lost foot by foot the ground that they had gained with so much courage and blood. Grant saw his success and he pressed more troops upon his weakening enemy. The batteries were pushed forward and raked the shattered Southern lines.

Pillow, who had led the attack instead of Floyd, seeing his fortunes pass so suddenly from the zenith to the nadir, gathered his retreating army upon a hill in front of their intrenchments, but he was not permitted to rest there. A fresh Northern brigade, a reserve, had just arrived upon the field. Joining it to the forces of Lew Wallace, afterwards famous as a novelist, Grant hurled the entire division upon Pillow's weakened and discouraged army.

Winchester's regiment joined in the attack. Dick felt himself swept along as if by a torrent. His courage and the courage of those around him was all the greater now, because hope, sanguine hope, had suddenly shot up from the very depths of despair. Their ranks had been thinned terribly, but they forgot it for the time and rushed upon their enemy.

The battle had rolled back and forth for hours. Noon had come and passed. The troops of Pillow had been fighting without ceasing for six hours, and they could not withstand the new attack made with such tremendous spirit and energy. They fought with desperation, but they were compelled at last to yield the field and retreat within their works. Their right and left suffered the same fate. The whole Confederate attack was repulsed. Bull Run was indeed reversed. There the South snatched victory from defeat and here the North came back with a like triumph.



Chapter XII. Grant's Great Victory


The night, early and wintry, put an end to the conflict, the fiercest and greatest yet seen in the West. Thousands of dead and wounded lay upon the field and the hearts of the Southern leaders were full of bitterness. They had seen the victory, won by courage and daring, taken from them at the very last moment. The farmer lads whom they led had fought with splendid courage and tenacity. Defeat was no fault of theirs. It belonged rather to the generals, among whom had been a want of understanding and concert, fatal on the field of action. They saw, too, that they had lost more than the battle. The Union army had not only regained all its lost positions, but on the right it had carried the Southern intrenchments, and from that point Grant's great guns could dominate Donelson. They foresaw with dismay the effect of these facts upon their young troops.

When the night fell, and the battle ceased, save for the fitful boom of cannon along the lines, Dick sank against an earthwork, exhausted. He panted for breath and was without the power to move. He regarded vaguely the moving lights that had begun to show in the darkness, and he heard without comprehension the voices of men and the fitful fire of the cannon.

"Steady, Dick! Steady!" said a cheerful voice. "Now is the time to rejoice! We've won a victory, and nothing can break General Grant's death grip on Donelson!"

Colonel Winchester was speaking, and he put a firm and friendly hand on the boy's shoulder. Dick came back to life, and, looking into his colonel's face, he grinned. Colonel Winchester could have been recognized only at close range. His face was black with burned gunpowder. His colonel's hat was gone and his brown hair flew in every direction. He still clenched in his hand the hilt of his sword, of which a broken blade not more than a foot long was left. His clothing had been torn by at least a dozen bullets, and one had made a red streak across the back of his left hand, from which the blood fell slowly, drop by drop.

"You don't mind my telling you, colonel, that you're no beauty," said Dick, who felt a sort of hysterical wish to laugh. "You look as if the whole Southern army had tried to shoot you up, but had merely clipped you all around the borders."

"Laugh if it does you good," replied Colonel Winchester, a little gravely, "but, young sir, you must give me the same privilege. This battle, while it has not wounded you, has covered you with its grime. Come, the fighting is over for this day at least, and the regiment is going to take a rest -- what there is left of it."

He spoke the last words sadly. He knew the terrible cost at which they had driven the Southern army back into the fort, and he feared that the full price was yet far from being paid. But he preserved a cheerful manner before the brave lads of his who had fought so well.

Dick found that Warner and Pennington both had wounds, although they were too slight to incapacitate them. Sergeant Whitley, grave and unhurt, rejoined them also.

The winter night and their heavy losses could not discourage the Northern troops. They shared the courage and tenacity of their commander. They began to believe now that Donelson, despite its strength and its formidable garrison, would be taken. They built the fires high, and ate heartily. They talked in sanguine tones of what they would do in the morrow. Excited comment ran among them. They had passed from the pit of despair in the morning to the apex of hope at night. Exhausted, all save the pickets fell asleep after a while, dreaming of fresh triumphs on the morrow.

Had Dick's eyes been able to penetrate Donelson he would have beheld a very different scene. Gloom, even more, despair, reigned there. Their great effort had failed. Bravery had availed nothing. Their frightful losses had been suffered in vain. The generals blamed one another. Floyd favored the surrender of the army, but fancying that the Union troops hated him with special vindictiveness, and that he would not be safe as a prisoner, decided to escape.

Pillow declared that Grant could yet be beaten, but after a while changed to the view of Floyd. They yet had two small steamers in the Cumberland which could carry them up the river. They left the command to Buckner, the third in rank, and told him he could make the surrender. The black-bearded Forrest said grimly: "I ain't goin' to surrender my cavalry, not to nobody," and by devious paths he led them away through the darkness and to liberty. Colonel George Kenton rode with him.

The rumor that a surrender was impending spread to the soldiers. Not yet firm in the bonds of discipline confusion ensued, and the high officers were too busy escaping by the river to restore it. All through the night the two little steamers worked, but a vast majority of the troops were left behind.

But Dick could know nothing of this at the time. He was sleeping too heavily. He had merely taken a moment to snatch a bit of food, and then, at the suggestion of his commanding officer, he had rolled himself in his blankets. Sleep came instantly, and it was not interrupted until Warner's hand fell upon his shoulder at dawn, and Warner's voice said in his ear:

"Wake up, Dick, and look at the white flag fluttering over Donelson."

Dick sprang to his feet, sleep gone in an instant, and gazed toward Donelson. Warner had spoken the truth. White flags waved from the walls and earthworks.

"So they're going to surrender!" said Dick. "What a triumph!"

"They haven't surrendered yet," said Colonel Winchester, who stood near. "Those white flags merely indicate a desire to talk it over with us, but such a desire is nearly always a sure indication of yielding, and our lads take it so. Hark to their cheering."

The whole Union army was on its feet now, joyously welcoming the sight of the white flags. They threw fresh fuel on their fires which blazed along a circling rim of miles, and ate a breakfast sweetened with the savor of triumph.

"Take this big tin cup of coffee, Dick," said Warner. "It'll warm you through and through, and we're entitled to a long, brown drink for our victory. I say victory because the chances are ninety-nine per cent out of a hundred that it is so. Let x equal our army, let y equal victory, and consequently x plus y equals our position at the present time."

"And I never thought that we could do it," said young Pennington, who sat with them. "I suppose it all comes of having a general who won't give up. I reckon the old saying is true, an' that Hold Fast is the best dog of them all."

Now came a period of waiting. Colonel Winchester disappeared in the direction of General Grant's headquarters, but returned after a while and called his favorite aide, young Richard Mason.

"Dick," he said, "we have summoned the Southerners to surrender, and I want you to go with me to a conference of their generals. You may be needed to carry dispatches."

Dick went gladly with the group of Union officers, who approached Fort Donelson under the white flag, and who met a group of Confederate officers under a like white flag. He noticed in the very center of the Southern group the figure of General Buckner, a tall, well-built man in his early prime, his face usually ruddy, now pale with fatigue and anxiety. Dick, with his uncle, Colonel Kenton, and his young cousin, Harry Kenton, had once dined at his house.

Nearly all the officers, Northern and Southern, knew one another well. Many of them had been together at West Point. Colonel Winchester and General Buckner were well acquainted and they saluted, each smiling a little grimly.

"I bring General Grant's demand for the surrender of Fort Donelson, and all its garrison, arms, ammunition, and other supplies," said Colonel Winchester. "Can I see your chief, General Floyd?"

The lips of Buckner pressed close together in a smile touched with irony.

"No, you cannot see General Floyd," he said, "because he is now far up the Cumberland."

"Since he has abdicated the command I wish then to communicate with General Pillow."

"I regret that you cannot speak to him either. He is as far up the Cumberland as General Floyd. Both departed in the night, and I am left in command of the Southern army at Fort Donelson. You can state your demands to me, Colonel Winchester."

Dick saw that the brave Kentuckian was struggling to hide his chagrin, and he had much sympathy for him. It was in truth a hard task that Floyd and Pillow had left for Buckner. They had allowed themselves to be trapped and they had thrown upon him the burden of surrendering. But Buckner proceeded with the negotiations. Presently he noticed Dick.

"Good morning, Richard," he said. "It seems that in this case, at least, you have chosen the side of the victors."

"Fortune has happened to be on our side, general," said Dick respectfully. "Could you tell me, sir, if my uncle, Colonel Kenton, is unhurt?"

"He was, when he was last with us," replied General Buckner, kindly. "Colonel Kenton went out last night with Forrest's cavalry. He will not be a prisoner."

"I am glad of that," said the boy.

And he was truly glad. He knew that it would hurt Colonel Kenton's pride terribly to become a prisoner, and although they were now on opposite sides, he loved and respected his uncle.

The negotiations were completed and before night the garrison of Donelson, all except three thousand who had escaped in the night with Floyd and Pillow and Forrest, laid down their arms. The answer to Bull Run was complete. Fifteen thousand men, sixty-five cannon, and seventeen thousand rifles and muskets were surrendered to General Grant. The bulldog in the silent westerner had triumphed. With only a last chance left to him he had turned defeat into complete victory, and had dealt a stunning blow to the Southern Confederacy, which was never able like the North to fill up its depleted ranks with fresh men.

Time alone could reveal to many the deadly nature of this blow, but Dick, who had foresight and imagination, understood it now at least in part. As he saw the hungry Southern boys sharing the food of their late enemies his mind traveled over the long Southern line. Thomas had beaten it in Eastern Kentucky, Grant had dealt it a far more crushing blow here in Western Kentucky, but Albert Sidney Johnston, the most formidable foe of all, yet remained in the center. He was a veteran general with a great reputation. Nay, more, it was said by the officers who knew him that he was a man of genius. Dick surmised that Johnston, after the stunning blow of Donelson, would be compelled to fall back from Tennessee, but he did not doubt that he would return again.

Dick soon saw that all his surmises were correct. The news of Donelson produced for a little while a sort of paralysis at Richmond, and when it reached Nashville, where the army of Johnston was gathering, it was at first unbelievable. It produced so much excitement and confusion that a small brigade sent to the relief of Donelson was not called back, and marched blindly into the little town of Dover, where it found itself surrounded by the whole triumphant Union army, and was compelled to surrender without a fight.

Panic swept through Nashville. Everybody knew that Johnston would be compelled to fall back from the Cumberland River, upon the banks of which the capital of Tennessee stood. Foote and his gunboats would come steaming up the stream into the very heart of the city. Rumor magnified the number and size of his boats. Again the Southern leaders felt that the rivers were always a hostile coil girdling them about, and lamented their own lack of a naval arm.

Floyd had drawn off in the night from Donelson his own special command of Virginians and when he arrived at Nashville with full news of the defeat at the fortress, and the agreement to surrender, the panic increased. Many had striven to believe that the reports were untrue, but now there could be no doubt.

And the panic gained a second impetus when the generals set fire to the suspension bridge over the river and the docks along its banks. The inhabitants saw the signal of doom in the sheets of flame that rolled up, and all those who had taken a leading part in the Southern cause prepared in haste to leave with Johnston's army. The roads were choked with vehicles and fleeing people. The State Legislature, which was then in session, departed bodily with all the records and archives.

But Dick, after the first hours of triumph, felt relaxed and depressed. After all, the victory was over their own people, and five thousand of the farmer lads, North and South, had been killed or wounded. But this feeling did not last long, as on the very evening of victory he was summoned to action. Action, with him, always made the blood leap and hope rise. It was his own regimental chief, Arthur Winchester, who called him, and who told him to make ready for an instant departure from Donelson.

"You are to be a cavalryman for a while, Dick," said Colonel Winchester. "So much has happened recently that we scarcely know how we stand. Above all, we do not know how the remaining Southern forces are disposed, and I have been chosen to lead a troop toward Nashville and see. You, Warner, Pennington, that very capable sergeant, Whitley, and others whom you know are to go with me. My force will number about three hundred and the horses are already waiting on the other side."

They were carried over the river on one of the boats, and the little company, mounting, prepared to ride into the dark woods. But before they disappeared, Dick looked back and saw many lights gleaming in captured Donelson. Once more the magnitude of Grant's victory impressed him. Certainly he had struck a paralyzing blow at the Southern army in the west.

But the ride in the dark over a wild and thinly-settled country soon occupied Dick's whole attention. He was on one side of Colonel Winchester and Warner was on the other. Then the others came four abreast. At first there was some disposition to talk, but it was checked sharply by the leader, and after a while the disposition itself was lacking.

Colonel Winchester was a daring horseman, and Dick soon realized that it would be no light task to follow where he led. Evidently he knew the country, as he rode with certainty over the worst roads that Dick had ever seen. They were deep in mud which froze at night, but not solidly enough to keep the feet of the horses from crushing through, making a crackle as they went down and a loud, sticky sigh as they came out. All were spattered with mud, which froze upon them, but they were so much inured to hardship now that they paid no attention to it.

But this rough riding soon showed so much effect upon the horses that Colonel Winchester led aside into the woods and fields, keeping parallel with the road. Now and then they stopped to pull down fences, but they still made good speed. Twice they saw at some distance cabins with the smoke yet rising from the chimneys, but the colonel did not stop to ask any questions. Those he thought could be asked better further on.

Twice they crossed creeks. One the horses could wade, but the other was so deep that they were compelled to swim. On the further bank of the second they stopped a while to rest the horses and to count the men to see that no straggler had dropped away in the darkness. Then they sprang into the saddle again and rode on as before through a country that seemed to be abandoned.

There was a certain thrill and exhilaration in their daring ride. The smoke and odors of the battle about Donelson were blown away. The dead and the wounded, the grewsome price even of victory, no longer lay before their eyes, and the cold air rushing past freshened their blood and gave it a new sparkle. Every one in the little column knew that danger was plentiful about them, but there was pleasure in action in the open.

Their general direction was Nashville, and now they came into a country, richer, better cultivated, and peopled more thickly. Toward night they saw on a gentle hill in a great lawn and surrounded by fine trees a large red brick house, with green shutters and portico supported by white pillars. Smoke rose from two chimneys. Colonel Winchester halted his troop and examined the house from a distance for a little while.

"This is the home of wealthy people," he said at last to Dick, "and we may obtain some information here. At least we should try it."

Dick had his doubts, but he said nothing.

"You, Mr. Pennington, Mr. Warner and Sergeant Whitley, dismount with me," continued the colonel, "and we'll try the house."

He bade his troop remain in the road under the command of the officer next in rank, and he, with those whom he had chosen, opened the lawn gate. A brick walk led to the portico and they strolled along it, their spurs jingling. Although the smoke still rose from the chimneys no door opened to them as they stepped into the portico. All the green shutters were closed tightly.

"I think they saw us in the road," said Dick, "and this is a house of staunch Southern sympathizers. That is why they don't open to us."

"Beat on the door with the hilt of your sword, sergeant," said the colonel to Whitley. "They're bound to answer in time."

The sergeant beat steadily and insistently. Yet he was forced to continue it five or six minutes before it was thrown open. Then a tall old woman with a dignified, stern face and white hair, drawn back from high brows, stood before them. But Dick's quick eyes saw in the dusk of the room behind her a girl of seventeen or eighteen.

"What do you want?" asked the woman in a tone of ice. "I see that you are Yankee soldiers, and if you intend to rob the house there is no one here to oppose you. Its sole occupants are myself, my granddaughter, and two colored women, our servants. But I tell you, before you begin, that all our silver has been shipped to Nashville."

Colonel Winchester flushed a deep crimson, and bit his lips savagely.

"Madame," he said, "we are not robbers and plunderers. These are regular soldiers belonging to General Grant's army."

"Does it make any difference? Your armies come to ravage and destroy the South."

Colonel Winchester flushed again but, remembering his self-control, he said politely:

"Madame, I hope that our actions will prove to you that we have been maligned. We have not come here to rob you or disturb you in any manner. We merely wished to inquire of you if you had seen any other Southern armed forces in this vicinity."

"And do you think, sir," she replied in the same uncompromising tones, "if I had seen them that I would tell you anything about it?"

"No, Madame," replied the Colonel bowing, "whatever I may have thought before I entered your portico I do not think so now."

"Then it gives me pleasure to bid you good evening, sir," she said, and shut the door in his face.

Colonel Winchester laughed rather sorely.

"She had rather the better of me," he said, "but we can't make war on women. Come on, lads, we'll ride ahead, and camp under the trees. It's easy to obtain plenty of fuel for fires."

"The darkness is coming fast," said Dick, "and it is going to be very cold, as usual."

In a half hour the day was fully gone, and, as he had foretold, the night was sharp with chill, setting every man to shivering. They turned aside into an oak grove and pitched their camp. It was never hard to obtain fuel, as the whole area of the great civil war was largely in forest, and the soldiers dragged up fallen brushwood in abundance. Then the fires sprang up and created a wide circle of light and cheerfulness.

Dick joined zealously in the task of finding firewood and his search took him somewhat further than the others. He passed all the way through the belt of forest, and noticed fields beyond. He was about to turn back when he heard a faint, but regular sound. Experience told him that it was the beat of a horse's hoofs and he knew that some distance away a road must lead between the fields.

He walked a hundred yards further, and climbing upon a fence waited. From his perch he could see the road about two hundred yards beyond him, and the hoof beats were rapidly growing louder. Some one was riding hard and fast.

In a minute the horseman or rather horsewoman, came into view. There was enough light for Dick to see the slender figure of a young girl mounted on a great bay horse. She was wrapped in a heavy cloak, but her head was bare, and her long dark hair streamed almost straight out behind her, so great was the speed at which she rode.

She struck the horse occasionally with a small riding whip, but he was already going like a racer. Dick remembered the slim figure of a girl, and it occurred to him suddenly that this was she whom he had seen in the dusk of the room behind her grandmother. He wondered why she was riding so fast, alone and in the winter night, and then he admitted with a thrill of admiration that he had never seen any one ride better. The hoof beats rose, died away and then horse and girl were gone in the darkness. Dick climbed down from the fence and shook himself. Was it real or merely fancy, the product of a brain excited by so much siege and battle?

He picked up a big dead bough in the wood, dragged it back to the camp and threw it on one of the fires.

"What are you looking so grave about, Dick?" asked Warner.

"When I went across that stretch of woods I saw something that I didn't expect to see."

"What was it?"

"A girl on a big horse. They came and they went so fast that I just got a glimpse of them."

"A girl alone, galloping on a horse on a wintry night like this through a region infested by hostile armies! Why Dick, you're seeing shadows! Better sit down and have a cup of this good hot coffee."

But Dick shook his head. He knew now that he had seen reality, and he reported it to Colonel Winchester.

"Are you sure it was the girl you saw at the big house?" asked Colonel Winchester. "It might have been some farmer's wife galloping home from an errand late in the evening."

"It was the girl. I am sure of it," said Dick confidently.

Just at that moment Sergeant Whitley came up and saluted.

"What is it, sergeant?" asked the Colonel.

"I have been up the road some distance, sir, and I came to another road that crossed it. The second road has been cut by hoofs of eight or nine hundred horses, and I am sure, sir, that the tracks are not a day old."

Colonel Winchester looked grave. He knew that he was deep in the country of the enemy and he began to put together what Dick had seen and what the sergeant had seen. But the thought of withdrawing did not occur to his brave soul. He had been sent on an errand by General Grant and he meant to do it. But he changed his plans for the night. He had intended to keep only one man in ten on watch. Instead, he kept half, and Sergeant Whitley, veteran of Indian wars, murmured words of approval under his breath.

Whitley and Pennington were in the early watch. Dick and Warner were to come on later. The colonel spoke as if he would keep watch all night. All the horses were tethered carefully inside the ring of pickets.

"It doesn't need any mathematical calculation," said Warner, "to tell that the colonel expects trouble of some kind tonight. What its nature is, I don't know, but I mean to go to sleep, nevertheless. I have already seen so much of hardship and war that the mere thought of danger does not trouble me. I took a fort on the Tennessee, I took a much larger one on the Cumberland, first defeating the enemy's army in a big battle, and now I am preparing to march on Nashville. Hence, I will not have my slumbers disturbed by a mere belief that danger may come."

"It's a good resolution, George," said Dick, "but unlike you, I am subject to impulses, emotions, thrills and anxieties."

"Better cure yourself," said the Vermonter, as he rolled himself in the blankets and put his head on his arm. In two minutes he was asleep, but Dick, despite his weariness, had disturbed nerves which refused to let him sleep for a long time. He closed his eyes repeatedly, and then opened them again, merely to see the tethered horses, and beyond them the circle of sentinels, a clear moonlight falling on their rifle barrels. But it was very warm and cosy in the blankets, and he would soon fall asleep again.

He was awakened about an hour after midnight to take his turn at the watch, and he noticed that Colonel Winchester was still standing beside one of the fires, but looking very anxious. Dick felt himself on good enough terms, despite his youth, to urge him to take rest.

"I should like to do so," replied Colonel Winchester, "but Dick I tell you, although you must keep it to yourself, that I think we are in some danger. Your glimpse of the flying horsewoman, and the undoubted fact that hundreds of horsemen have crossed the road ahead of us, have made me put two and two together. Ah, what is it, sergeant?"

"I think I hear noises to the east of us, sir," replied the veteran.

"What kind of noises, sergeant?"

"I should say, sir, that they're made by the hoofs of horses. There, I hear them again, sir. I'm quite sure of it, and they're growing louder!"

"And so do I!" exclaimed Colonel Winchester, now all life and activity. "The sounds are made by a large body of men advancing upon us! Seize that bugle, Dick, and blow the alarm with all your might!"

Dick snatched up the bugle and blew upon it a long shrill blast that pierced far into the forest. He blew and blew again, and every man in the little force sprang to his feet in alarm. Nor were they a moment too soon. From the woods to the east came the answering notes of a bugle and then a great voice cried:

"Forward men an' wipe 'em off the face of the earth!"

It seemed to Dick that he had heard that voice before, but he had no time to think about it, as the next instant came the rush of the wild horsemen, a thousand strong, leaning low over their saddles, their faces dark with the passion of anger and revenge, pistols, rifles, and carbines flashing as they pulled the trigger, giving way when empty to sabres, which gleamed in the moonlight as they were swung by powerful hands.

Colonel Winchester's whole force would have been ridden down in the twinkling of an eye if it had not been for the minute's warning. His men, leaping to their feet, snatched up their own rifles and fired a volley at short range. It did more execution among the horses than among the horsemen, and the Southern rough riders were compelled to waver for a moment. Many of their horses went down, others uttered the terrible shrieking neigh of the wounded, and, despite the efforts of those who rode them, strove to turn and flee from those flaming muzzles. It was only a moment, but it gave the Union troop, save those who were already slain, time to spring upon their horses and draw back, at the colonel's shouted command, to the cover of the wood. But they were driven hard. The Confederate cavalry came on again, impetuous and fierce as ever, and urged continually by the great partisan leader, Forrest, now in the very dawn of his fame.

"It was no phantom you saw, that girl on the horse!" shouted Warner in Dick's ear, and Dick nodded in return. They had no time for other words, as Forrest's horsemen, far outnumbering them, now pressed them harder than ever. A continuous fire came from their ranks and at close range they rode in with the sabre.

Dick experienced the full terror and surprise of a night battle. The opposing forces were so close together that it was often difficult to tell friend from enemy. But Forrest's men had every advantage of surprise, superior numbers and perfect knowledge of the country. Dick groaned aloud as he saw that the best they could do was to save as many as possible. Why had he not taken a shot at the horse of that flying girl?

"We must keep together, Dick!" shouted Warner. "Here are Pennington and Sergeant Whitley, and there's Colonel Winchester. I fancy that if we can get off with a part of our men we'll be doing well."

Pennington's horse, shot through the head, dropped like a stone to the ground, but the deft youth, used to riding the wild mustangs of the prairie, leaped clear, seized another which was galloping about riderless, and at one bound sprang into the saddle.

"Good boy!" shouted Dick with admiration, but the next moment the horsemen of Forrest were rushing upon them anew. More men were killed, many were taken, and Colonel Winchester, seeing the futility of further resistance, gathered together those who were left and took flight through the forest.

Tears of mortification came to Dick's eyes, but Sergeant Whitley, who rode on his right hand, said:

"It's the only thing to do. Remember that however bad your position may be it can always be worse. It's better for some of us to escape than for all of us to be down or be taken."

Dick knew that his logic was good, but the mortification nevertheless remained a long time. There was some consolation, however, in the fact that his own particular friends had neither fallen nor been taken.

They still heard the shouts of pursuing horsemen, and shots rattled about them, but now the covering darkness was their friend. They drew slowly away from all pursuit. The shouts and the sounds of trampling hoofs died behind them, and after two hours of hard riding Colonel Winchester drew rein and ordered a halt.

It was a disordered and downcast company of about fifty who were left. A few of these were wounded, but not badly enough to be disabled. Colonel Winchester's own head had been grazed, but he had bound a handkerchief about it, and sat very quiet in his saddle.

"My lads," he said, and his tone was sharp with the note of defiance. "We have been surprised by a force greatly superior to our own, and scarcely a sixth of us are left. But it was my fault. I take the blame. For the present, at least, we are safe from the enemy, and I intend to continue with our errand. We were to scout the country all the way to Nashville. It is also possible that we will meet the division of General Buell advancing to that city. Now, lads, I hope that you all will be willing to go on with me. Are you?"

"We are!" roared fifty together, and a smile passed over the wan face of the colonel. But he said no more then. Instead he turned his head toward the capital city of the state, and rode until dawn, his men following close behind him. The boys were weary. In truth, all of them were, but no one spoke of halting or complained in any manner.

At sunrise they stopped in dense forest at the banks of a creek, and watered their horses. They cooked what food they had left, and after eating rested for several hours on the ground, most of them going to sleep, while a few men kept a vigilant watch.

When Dick awoke it was nearly noon, and he still felt sore from his exertions. An hour later they all mounted and rode again toward Nashville. Near night they boldly entered a small village and bought food. The inhabitants were all strongly Southern, but villagers love to talk, and they learned there in a manner admitting of no doubt, that the Confederate army was retreating southward from the line of the Cumberland, that the state capital had been abandoned, and that to the eastward of them the Union army, under Buell, was advancing swiftly on Nashville.

"At least we accomplished our mission," said Colonel Winchester with some return of cheerfulness. "We have discovered the retreat of General Johnston's whole army, and the abandonment of Nashville, invaluable information to General Grant. But we'll press on toward Nashville nevertheless."

They camped the next night in a forest and kept a most vigilant watch. If those terrible raiders led by Forrest should strike them again they could make but little defense.

They came the next morning upon a good road and followed it without interruption until nearly noon, when they saw the glint of arms across a wide field. Colonel Winchester drew his little troop back into the edge of the woods, and put his field glasses to his eyes.

"There are many men, riding along a road parallel to ours," he said. "They look like an entire regiment, and by all that's lucky, they're in the uniforms of our own troops. Yes, they're our own men. There can be no mistake. It is probably the advance guard of Buell's army."

They still had a trumpet, and at the colonel's order it was blown long and loud. An answering call came from the men on the parallel road, and they halted. Then Colonel Winchester's little troop galloped forward and they were soon shaking hands with the men of a mounted regiment from Ohio. They had been sent ahead by Buell to watch Johnston's army, but hearing of the abandonment of Nashville, they were now riding straight for the city. Colonel Winchester and his troop joined them gladly and the colonel rode by the side of the Ohio colonel, Mitchel.

Dick and his young comrades felt great relief. He realized the terrible activity of Forrest, but that cavalry leader, even if he had not now gone south, would hesitate about attacking the powerful regiment with which Dick now rode. Warner and Pennington shared his feelings.

"The chances are ninety per cent in our favor," said the Vermonter, "that we'll ride into Nashville without a fight. I've never been in Tennessee before, and I'm a long way from home, but I'm curious to see this city. I'd like to sleep in a house once more."

They rode into Nashville the next morning amid frowning looks, but the half deserted city offered no resistance.



Chapter XIII. In The Forest


Dick spent a week or more in Nashville and he saw the arrival of one of General Grant's divisions on the fleet under Commodore Foote. Once more he appreciated the immense value of the rivers and the fleet to the North.

He and the two lads who were now knitted to him by sympathy, and hardships and dangers shared, enjoyed their stay in Nashville. It was pleasant to sleep once more in houses and to be sheltered from rain and frost and snow. It was pleasant, too, for these youths, who were devoted to the Union, to think that their armies had made such progress in the west. The silent and inflexible Grant had struck the first great blow for the North. The immense Confederate line in the west was driven far southward, and the capital of one of the most vigorous of the secessionist states was now held by the Union.

But a little later, news not so pleasant came to them. The energy and success of Grant had aroused jealousy. Halleck, his superior, the general of books and maps at St. Louis, said that he had transcended the limits of his command. He was infringing upon territory of other Northern generals. Halleck had not found him to be the yielding subordinate who would win successes and let others have the credit.

Grant was practically relieved of his command, and when Dick heard it he felt a throb of rage. Boy as he was, he knew that what had been won must be held. Johnston had stopped at Murfreesborough, thirty or forty miles away. His troops had recovered from their panic, caused by the fall of Donelson. Fresh regiments and brigades were joining him. His army was rising to forty thousand men, and officers like Colonel Winchester began to feel apprehensive.

Now came a period of waiting. The Northern leaders, as happened so often in this war, were uncertain of their authority, and were at cross-purposes. They seldom had the power of initiative that was permitted to the Southern generals, and of which they made such good use. Dick saw that the impression made by Donelson was fading. The North was reaping no harvest, and the South was lifting up its head again.

While he was in Nashville he received a letter from his mother in reply to one of his that he had written to her just after Donelson. She was very thankful that her son had gone safely through the battle, and since he must fight in war, which was terrible in any aspect, she was glad that he had borne himself bravely. She was glad that Colonel Kenton had escaped capture. Her brother-in-law was always good to her and was a good man. She had also received a letter from his son, her nephew, written from Richmond, She loved Harry Kenton, too, and sympathized with him, but she could not see how both sides could prevail.

Dick read the letter over and over again and there was a warm glow about his heart. What a brave woman his mother was! She said nothing about his coming back home, or leaving the war. He wrote a long reply, and he told her only of the lighter and more cheerful events that they had encountered. He described Warner, Pennington, and the sergeant, and said that he had the best comrades in the world. He told, too, of his gallant and high-minded commander, Colonel Arthur Winchester.

He was sure that the letter would reach her promptly, as it passed all the way through territory now controlled by the North. The next day after sending it he heard with joy that Grant was restored to his command, and two days later Colonel Winchester and his men were ordered to join him at Pittsburg Landing, on the Tennessee River. They heard also that Buell, with his whole division, was soon to march to the same place, and they saw in it an omen of speedy and concentrated action.

"I imagine," said Warner, "that we'll soon go down in Mississippi hunting Johnston. We must outnumber the Johnny Rebs at least two to one. I'm not a general, though any one can see that I ought to be, and if we were to follow Johnston's army and crush it the war would soon be ended in the west."

"You've got a mighty big 'if'," said Dick. "If we march into Mississippi we get pretty far from our base. We'll have to send a long distance through hostile country for fresh supplies and fresh troops, while the Southerners will be nearer to their own. Besides, it's not so certain that we can destroy Johnston when we find him."

"Your talk sounds logical, and that being the case, I'll leave our future movements to General Grant. Anyway, it's a good thing not to have so much responsibility on your shoulders."

They came in a few days to the great camp on the Tennessee. Spring was now breaking through the crust of winter. Touches of green were appearing on the forests and in the fields. Now and then the wonderful pungent odor of the wilderness came to them and life seemed to have taken on new zest. They were but boys in years, and the terrible scenes of Donelson could not linger with them long.

They found Colonel Newcomb and the little detachment of Pennsylvanians with Grant, and Colonel Winchester, resuming command of his regiment, camped by their side, delighted to be with old friends again. Colonel Winchester had lost a portion of his regiment, but there were excuses. It had happened in a country well known to the enemy and but little known to him, and he had been attacked in overwhelming force by the rough-riding Forrest, who was long to be a terror to the Union divisions. But he had achieved the task on which he had been sent, and he was thanked by his commander.

Dick, as he went on many errands or walked about in the course of his leisure hours with his friends, watched with interest the growth of a great army. There were more men here upon the banks of the Tennessee than he had seen at Bull Run. They were gathered full forty thousand strong, and General Buell's army also, he learned, had been put under command of General Grant and was advancing from Nashville to join him.

Dick also observed with extreme interest the ground upon which they were encamped and the country surrounding it. There was the deep Tennessee, still swollen by spring rains, upon the left bank of which they lay, with the stream protecting one flank. In the river were some of the gunboats which had been of such value to Grant. All about them was rough, hilly country, almost wholly covered with brushwood and tall forest. There were three deep creeks, given significant names by the pioneers. Lick Creek flowed to the south of them into the Tennessee, and Owl Creek to the north sought the same destination. A third, Snake Creek, was lined with deep and impassable swamps to its very junction with the river.

Some roads of the usual frontier type ran through this region, and at a point within the Northern lines stood a little primitive log church that they called Shiloh. It was of the kind that the pioneers built everywhere as they moved from the Atlantic to the Pacific. Shiloh belonged to a little body of Methodists. Dick went into it more than once. There was no pastor and no congregation now, but the little church was not molested. He sat more than once on an uncompromising wooden bench, and looked out through a window, from which the shutter was gone, at the forest and the army.

Sitting here in this primitive house of worship, he would feel a certain sadness. It seemed strange that a great army, whose purpose was to destroy other armies, should be encamped around a building erected in the cause of the Prince of Peace. The mighty and terrible nature of the war was borne in upon him more fully than ever.

But optimism was supreme among the soldiers. They had achieved the great victory of Donelson in the face of odds that had seemed impossible. They could defeat all the Southern forces that lay between them and the Gulf. The generals shared their confidence. They did not fortify their camp. They had not come that far South to fight defensive battles. It was their place to attack and that of the men in gray to defend. They had advanced in triumph almost to the Mississippi line, and they would soon be pursuing their disorganized foe into that Gulf State.

Several new generals came to serve under Grant. Among them was one named Sherman, to whom Dick bore messages several times, and who impressed him with his dry manner and curt remarks which were yet so full of sense.

It was Sherman's division, in fact, that was encamped around the little church, and Dick soon learned his opinions. He did not believe that they would so easily conquer the South. He did not look for any triumphal parade to the Gulf. In the beginning of the war he had brought great enmity and criticism upon himself by saying that 200,000 men at least would be needed at once to crush the Confederacy in the west alone. And yet it was to take more than ten times that number four bitter years to achieve the task in both west and east.

But optimism continued to reign in the Union army. Buell would arrive soon with his division and then seventy thousand strong they would resume their march southward, crushing everything. Meanwhile it was pleasant while they waited. They had an abundance of food. They were well sheltered from the rains. The cold days were passing, nature was bursting into its spring bloom, and the crisp fresh winds that blew from the west and south were full of life and strength. It was a joy merely to breathe.

One rainy day the three boys, who had met by chance, went into the little church for shelter from a sudden spring rain. From the shutterless window Dick saw Sergeant Whitley scurrying in search of a refuge, and they called to him. He came gladly and took a seat in one of the rough wooden pews of the little church of Shiloh. The three boys had the greatest respect for the character and judgment of the sergeant, and Dick asked him when he thought the army would march.

"They don't tell these things to sergeants," said Whitley.

"But you see and you know a lot about war."

"Well, you've noticed that the army ain't gettin' ready to march. When General Buell gets here we'll have nigh onto seventy thousand men, and seventy thousand men can't lift themselves up by their bootstraps an' leave, all in a mornin'."

"But we don't have to hurry," said Pennington. "There's no Southern army west of the Alleghanies that could stand before our seventy thousand men for an hour."

"General Buell ain't here yet."

"But he's coming."

"But he ain't here yet," persisted the sergeant, "an' he can't be here for several days, 'cause the roads are mighty deep in the spring mud. Don't say any man is here until he is here. An' I tell you that General Johnston, with whom we've got to deal, is a great man. I wasn't with him when he made that great march through the blizzards an' across the plains to Salt Lake City to make the Mormons behave, but I've served with them that was. An' I've never yet found one of them who didn't say General Johnston was a mighty big man. Soldiers know when the right kind of a man is holdin' the reins an' drivin' 'em. Didn't we all feel that we was bein' driv right when General Grant took hold?"

"We all felt it," said the three in chorus.

"Of course you did," said the sergeant, "an' now I've got a kind of uneasy feelin' over General Johnston. Why don't we hear somethin' from him? Why don't we know what he's doin'? We haven't sent out any scoutin' parties. On the plains, no matter how strong we was, we was always on the lookout for hostile Indians, while here we know there is a big Confederate army somewhere within fifty miles of us, but don't take the trouble to look it up."

"That's so," said Warner. "Caution represents less than five per cent of our effectiveness. But I suppose we can whip the Johnnies anyway."

"Of course we can," said Pennington, who was always of a most buoyant temperament.

Sergeant Whitley went to the shutterless window, and looked out at the forest and the long array of tents.

"The rain is about over," he said. "It was just a passin' shower. But it looks as if it had already added a fresh shade of green to the leaves and grass. Cur'us how quick a rain can do it in spring, when everything is just waitin' a chance to grow, and bust into bloom. I've rid on the plains when everything was brown an' looked dead. 'Long come a big rain an' the next day everything was green as far as the eye could reach an' you'd see little flowers bloomin' down under the shelter of the grass."

"I didn't know you had a poetical streak in you, sergeant," said Dick, who marked his abrupt change from the discussion of the war to a far different topic.

"I think some of it is in every man," replied Sergeant Whitley gravely. "I remember once that when we had finished a long chase after some Northern Cheyennes through mighty rough and dry country we came to a little valley, a kind of a pocket in the hills, fed by a fine creek, runnin' out of the mountains on one side, into the mountains on the other. The pocket was mebbe two miles long an' mebbe a mile across, an' it was chock full of green trees an' green grass, an' wild flowers. We enjoyed its comforts, but do you think that was all? Every man among us, an' there was at least a dozen who couldn't read, admired its beauties, an' begun to talk softer an' more gentle than they did when they was out on the dry plains. An' you feel them things more in war than you do at any other time."

"I suppose you do," said Dick. "The spring is coming out now in Kentucky where I live, and I'd like to see the new grass rippling before the wind, and the young leaves on the trees rustling softly together."

"Stop sentimentalizing," said Warner. "If you don't it won't be a minute before Pennington will begin to talk about his Nebraska plains, and how he'd like to see the buffalo herds ten million strong, rocking the earth as they go galloping by."

Pennington smiled.

"I won't see the buffalo herds," he said, "but look at the wild fowl going north."

They left the window as the rain had ceased, and went outside. All this region was still primitive and thinly settled, and now they saw flocks of wild ducks and wild geese winging northward. The next day the heavens themselves were darkened by an immense flight of wild pigeons. The country cut up by so many rivers, creeks and brooks swarmed with wild fowl, and more than once the soldiers roused up deer from the thickets.

The second day after the talk of the four in the little church Dick, who was now regarded as a most efficient and trusty young staff officer, was sent with a dispatch to General Buell requesting him to press forward with as much speed as he could to the junction with General Grant. Several other aides were sent by different routes, in order to make sure that at least one would arrive, but Dick, through his former ride with Colonel Winchester to Nashville, had the most knowledge of the country, and hence was likely to reach Buell first.

As the boy rode from the camp and crossed the river into the forest he looked back, and he could not fail to notice to what an extent it was yet a citizen army, and not one of trained soldiers. The veteran sergeant had already called his attention to what he deemed grave omissions. In the three weeks that they had been lying there they had thrown up no earthworks. Not a spade had touched the earth. Nor was there any other defense of any kind. The high forest circled close about them, dense now with foliage and underbrush, hiding even at a distance of a few hundred yards anything that might lie within. The cavalry in these three weeks had made one scouting expedition, but it was slight and superficial, resulting in nothing. The generals of divisions posted their own pickets separately, leaving numerous wide breaks in the line, and the farmer lads, at the change of guard, invariably fired their rifles in the air, to signify the joy of living, and because it was good to hear the sound.

Now that he was riding away from them, these things impressed Dick more than when he was among them. Sergeant Whitley's warning and pessimistic words came back to him with new force, but, as he rode into the depths of the forest, he shook off all depression. Those words, "Seventy thousand strong!" continually recurred to him. Yes, they would be seventy thousand strong when Buell came up, and the boys were right. Certainly there was no Confederate force in the west that could resist seventy thousand troops, splendidly armed, flushed with victory and led by a man like Grant.

Seventy thousand strong! Dick's heart beat high at the unuttered words. Why should Grant fortify? It was for the enemy, not for him, to do such a thing. Nor was it possible that Johnston even behind defenses could resist the impact of the seventy thousand who had been passing from one victory to another, and who were now in the very heart of the enemy's country.

His heart continued to beat high and fast as he rode through the green forest. Its strong, sweet odors gave a fillip to his blood, and he pressed his horse to new speed. He rode without interruption night and day, save a few hours now and then for sleep, and reached the army of Buell which deep in mud was toiling slowly forward.

Buell was not as near to Shiloh as Dick had supposed, but his march had suffered great hindrances. Halleck, in an office far away in St. Louis, had undertaken to manage the campaign. His orders to Buell and his command to Grant had been delayed. Buell, who had moved to the town of Columbia, therefore had started late through no fault of his.

Duck River, which Buell was compelled to cross, was swollen like all the other streams of the region, by the great rains and was forty feet deep. The railway bridge across it had been wrecked by the retreating Confederates and he was compelled to wait there two weeks until his engineers could reconstruct it.

War plays singular chances. Halleck in St. Louis, secure in his plan of campaign, had sent an order after Dick left Shiloh, for Buell to turn to the north, leaving Grant to himself, and occupy a town that he named. Through some chance the order never reached Buell. Had it done so the whole course of American history might have been changed. Grant himself, after the departure of the earlier messengers, changed his mind and sent messengers to Nelson, who led Buell's vanguard, telling him not to hurry. This army was to come to Pittsburg Landing or Shiloh partly by the Tennessee, and Grant stated that the vessels for him would not be ready until some days later. It was the early stage of the war when generals behaved with great independence, and Nelson, a rough, stubborn man, after reading the order marched on faster than ever. It seemed afterward that the very stars were for Grant, when one order was lost, and another disobeyed.

But Dick was not to know of these things until later. He delivered in person his dispatch to General Buell, who remembered him and gave him a friendly nod, but who was as chary of speech as ever. He wrote a brief reply to the dispatch and gave it sealed to Dick.

"The letter I hand you," he said, "merely notifies General Grant that I have received his orders and will hurry forward as much as possible. If on your return journey you should deem yourself in danger of falling into the hands of the enemy destroy it at once."

Dick promised to do so, saluted, and retired. He spent only two hours in General Buell's camp, securing some fresh provisions to carry in his saddle bags and allowing his horse a little rest. Then he mounted and took as straight a course as he could for General Grant's camp at Pittsburg Landing.

The boy felt satisfied with himself. He had done his mission quickly and exactly, and he would have a pleasant ride back. On his strong, swift horse, and with a good knowledge of the road, he could go several times faster than Buell's army. He anticipated a pleasant ride. The forest seemed to him to be fairly drenched in spring. Little birds flaming in color darted among the boughs and others more modest in garb poured forth a full volume of song. Dick, sensitive to sights and sounds, hummed a tune himself. It was the thundering song of the sea that he had heard Samuel Jarvis sing in the Kentucky Mountains:

They bore him away when the day had fled, And the storm was rolling high, And they laid him down in his lonely bed By the light of an angry sky. The lightning flashed and the wild sea lashed The shore with its foaming wave, And the thunder passed on the rushing blast, As it howled o'er the rover's grave.

He pressed on, hour after hour, through the deep woods, meeting no one, but content. At noon his horse suddenly showed signs of great weariness, and Dick, remembering how much he had ridden him over muddy roads, gave him a long rest. Besides, there was no need to hurry. The Southern army was at Corinth, in Mississippi, three or four days' journey away, and there had been no scouts or skirmishers in the woods between.

After a stop of an hour he remounted and rode on again, but the horse was still feeling his great strain, and he did not push him beyond a walk. He calculated that nevertheless he would reach headquarters not long after nightfall, and he went along gaily, still singing to himself. He crossed the river at a point above the army, where the Union troops had made a ferry, and then turned toward the camp.

About sunset he reached a hill from which he could look over the forest and see under the horizon faint lights that were made by Grant's campfires at Pittsburg Landing. It was a welcome sight. He would soon be with his friends again, and he urged his horse forward a little faster.

"Halt!" cried a sharp voice from the thicket.

Dick faced about in amazement, and saw four horsemen in gray riding from the bushes. The shock was as great as if he had been struck by a bullet, but he leaned forward on his horse's neck, kicked him violently with his heels and shouted to him. The horse plunged forward at a gallop. The boy, remembering General Buell's instructions, slipped the letter from his pocket, and in the shelter of the horse's body dropped it to the ground, where he knew it would be lost among the bushes and in the twilight.

"Halt!" was repeated more loudly and sharply than ever. Then a bullet whizzed by Dick's ear, and a second pierced the heart of his good horse. He tried to leap clear of the falling animal, and succeeded, but he fell so hard among the bushes that he was stunned for a few moments. When he revived and stood up he saw the four horsemen in gray looking curiously at him.

"'Twould have been cheaper for you to have stopped when we told you to do it," said one in a whimsical tone.

Dick noticed that the tone was not unkind -- it was not the custom to treat prisoners ill in this great war. He rubbed his left shoulder on which he had fallen and which still pained him a little.

"I didn't stop," he said, "because I didn't know that you would be able to hit either me or my horse in the dusk."

"I s'pose from your way of lookin' at it you was right to take the chance, but you've learned now that we Southern men are tol'able good sharpshooters."

"I knew it long ago, but what are you doing here, right in the jaws of our army? They might close on you any minute with a snap. You ought to be with your own army at Corinth."

Dick noticed that the men looked at one another, and there was silence for a moment or two.

"Young fellow," resumed the spokesman, "you was comin' from the direction of Columbia, an' your hoss, which I am sorry we had to kill, looked as if he was cleaned tuckered out. I judge that you was bearin' a message from Buell's army to Grant's."

"You mustn't hold me responsible for your judgment, good or bad."

"No, I reckon not, but say, young fellow, do you happen to have a chaw of terbacker in your clothes?"

"If I had any I'd offer it to you, but I never chew."

The man sighed.

"Well, mebbe it's a bad habit," he said, "but it's powerful grippin'. I'd give a heap for a good twist of old Kentucky. Now we're goin' to search you an' it ain't wuth while to resist, 'cause we've got you where we want you, as the dog said to the 'coon when he took him by the throat. We're lookin' for letters an' dispatches, 'cause we're shore you come from Buell, but if we should run across any terbacker we'll have to he'p ourselves to it. We ain't no robbers, 'cause in times like these it ain't no robbery to take terbacker."

Dick noticed that while they talked one of the men never ceased to cover him with a rifle. They were good-humored and kindly, but he knew they would not relax an inch from their duty.

"All right," he said, "go ahead. I'll give you a good legal title to everything you may find."

He knew that the letter was lying in the bushes within ten feet of them and he had a strong temptation to look in that direction and see if it were as securely hidden as he had thought, but he resisted the impulse.

Two of the men searched him rapidly and dexterously, and much to their disappointment found no dispatch.

"You ain't got any writin' on you, that's shore," said the spokesman. "I'd expected to find a paper, an' I had a lingerin' hope, too, that we might find a little terbacker on you 'spite of what you said."

"You don't think I'd lie about the tobacco, would you?"

"Sonny, it ain't no lyin' in a big war to say you ain't got no terbacker, when them that's achin' for it are standin' by, ready to grab it. If you had a big diamond hid about you, an' a robber was to ask you if you had it, you'd tell him no, of course."

"I think," said Dick, "that you must be from Kentucky. You've got our accent."

"I shorely am, an' I'm a longer way from it than I like. I noticed from the first that you talked like me, which is powerful flatterin' to you. Ain't you one of my brethren that the evil witches have made take up with the Yankees?"

"I'm from the same state," replied Dick, who saw no reason to conceal his identity. "My name is Richard Mason, and I'm an aide on the staff of Colonel Arthur Winchester, who commands a Kentucky regiment in General Grant's army."

"I've heard of Colonel Winchester. The same that got a part of his regiment cut up so bad by Forrest."

"Yes, we did get cut up. I was there," confessed Dick a little reluctantly.

"Don't feel bad about it. It's likely to happen to any of you when Forrest is around. Now, since you've introduced yourself so nice I'll introduce myself. I'm Sergeant Robertson, in the Orphan Brigade. It's a Kentucky brigade, an' it gets its nickname 'cause it's made up of boys so young that they call me gran'pa, though I'm only forty-four. These other three are Bridge, Perkins, and Connor, just plain privates."

The three "just plain privates" grinned.

"What are you going to do with me?" asked Dick.

"We're goin' to give you a pleasant little ride. We killed your hoss, for which I 'pologize again, but I've got a good one of my own, and you'll jump up behind me."

A sudden spatter of rifle fire came from the direction of the Northern pickets.

"Them sentinels of yours have funny habits," said Robertson grinning. "Just bound to hear their guns go off. They're changin' the guard now."

"How do you know that?" asked Dick.

"Oh, I know a heap. I'm a terrible wise man, but bein' so wise I don't tell all I know or how I happen to know it. Hop up, sonny."

"Don't you think I'll be a lot of trouble to you," said Dick, "riding behind you thirty or forty miles to your camp?"

The four men exchanged glances, and no one answered. The boy felt a sudden chill, and his hair prickled at the roots. He did not know what had caused it, but surely it was a sign of some danger.

The night deepened steadily as they were talking. The twilight had gone long since. The last afterglow had faded. The darkness was heavy with warmth. The thick foliage of spring rustled gently. Dick's sensation that something unusual was happening did not depart.

The four men, after looking at one another, looked fixedly at Dick.

"Sonny," said Robertson, "you ain't got no call to worry 'bout our troubles. As I said, this is a good, strong hoss of mine, an' it will carry us just as far as we go an' no further."

It was an enigmatical reply, and Dick saw that it was useless to ask them questions. Robertson mounted, and Dick, without another word, sprang up behind him. Two of the privates rode up close, one on either side, and the other kept immediately behind. He happened to glance back and he saw that the man held a drawn pistol on his thigh. He wondered at such extreme precautions, and the ominous feeling increased.

"Now, lads," said Robertson to his men, "don't make no more noise than you can help. There ain't much chance that any Yankee scoutin' party will be out, but if there should be one we don't want to run into it. An' as for you, Mr. Mason, you're a nice boy. We all can see that, but just as shore as you let go with a yell or anything like it at any time or under any circumstances, you'll be dead the next second."

A sudden fierce note rang in his voice, and Dick, despite all his courage, shuddered. He felt as if a nameless terror all at once threatened not only him, but others. His lips and mouth were dry.

Robertson spoke softly to his horse, and then rode slowly forward through the deep forest. The others rode with him, never breaking their compact formation, and preserving the utmost silence. Dick did not ask another question. Talk and fellowship were over. Everything before him now was grim and menacing.

The dense woods and the darkness hid them so securely that they could not have been seen twenty yards away, but the men rode on at a sure pace, as if they knew the ground well. The silence was deep and intense, save for the footsteps of the horses and now and then a night bird in the tall trees calling.

Before they had gone far a man stepped from a thicket and held up a rifle.

"Four men from the Orphan Brigade with a prisoner," said Robertson.

"Advance with the prisoner," said the picket, and the four men rode forward. Dick saw to both left and right other pickets, all in the gray uniform of the South, and his heart grew cold within him. The hair on his head prickled again at its roots, and it was a dreadful sensation. What did it mean? Why these Southern pickets within cannon shot of the Northern lines?

The men rode slowly on. They were in the deep forest, but the young prisoner began to see many things under the leafy canopy. On his right the dim, shadowy forms of hundreds of men lay sleeping on the grass. On his left was a massed battery of great guns, eight in number.

Further and further they went, and there were soldiers and cannon everywhere, but not a fire. There was no bed of coals, not a single torch gleamed anywhere. Not all the soldiers were sleeping, but those who were awake never spoke. Silence and darkness brooded over a great army in gray. It was as if they marched among forty thousand phantoms, row on row.

The whole appalling truth burst in an instant upon the boy. The Southern army, which they had supposed was at Corinth, lay in the deep woods within cannon shot of its foe, and not a soul in all Grant's thousands knew of its presence there! And Buell was still far away! It seemed to Dick that for a little space his heart stopped beating. He foresaw it all, the terrible hammer-stroke at dawn, the rush of the fiery South upon her unsuspecting foe, and the cutting down of brigades, before sleep was gone from their eyes.

Not in vain had the South boasted that Johnston was a great general. He had not been daunted by Donelson. While his foe rested on his victory and took his ease, he was here with a new army, ready to strike the unwary. Dick shivered suddenly, and, with a violent impulse, clutched the waist of the man in front of him. It may have been some sort of physical telepathy, but Robertson understood. He turned his head and said in a whisper:

"You're right. The whole Southern army is here in the woods, an' we'd rather lose a brigade tonight than let you escape."

Dick felt a thrill of the most acute agony. If he could only escape! There must be some way! If he could but find one! His single word would save the lives of thousands and prevent irreparable defeat! Again he clutched the waist of the man in front of him and again the man divined.

"It ain't no use," he said, although his tone was gentle, and in a way sympathetic. "After all, it's your own fault. You blundered right in our way, an' we had to take you for fear you'd see us, an' give the alarm. It was your unlucky chance. You'd give a million dollars if you had it to slip out of our hands and tell Ulysses Grant that Albert Sidney Johnston with his whole army is layin' in the woods right alongside of him, ready to jump on his back at dawn, an' he not knowin' it."

"I would," said Dick fervently.

"An' so would I if I was in your place. Just think, Mr. Mason, that of all the hundreds of thousands of men in the Northern armies, of all the twenty or twenty-five million people on the Northern side, there's just one, that one a boy, and that boy you, who knows that Albert Sidney Johnston is here."

"Held fast as I am, I'm sorry now that I do know it."

"I can't say that I blame you. I said you'd give a million dollars to be able to tell, but if you're to measure such things with money it would be worth a hundred million an' more, yes, it would be cheap at three or four hundred millions for the North to know it. But, after all, you can't measure such things with money. Maybe you think I talk a heap, but I'm stirred some, too."

They rode on a little farther over the hilly ground, covered with thick forest or dense, tall scrub. But there were troops, troops, everywhere, and now and then the batteries. They were mostly boys, like their antagonists of the North, and the sleep of most of them was the sleep of exhaustion, after a forced and rapid march over heavy ground from Corinth. But Dick knew that they would be fresh in the morning when they rose from the forest, and rushed upon their unwarned foe.



Chapter XIV. The Dark Eve Of Shiloh


Dick noticed as they went further into the forest how complete was the concealment of a great army, possible only in a country wooded so heavily, and in the presence of a careless enemy. The center was like the front of the Southern force. Not a fire burned, not a torch gleamed. The horses were withdrawn so far that stamp or neigh could not be heard by the Union pickets.

"We'll stop here," said Robertson at length. "As you're a Kentuckian, I thought it would be pleasanter for you to be handed over to Kentuckians. The Orphan Brigade to which I belong is layin' on the ground right in front of us, an' the first regiment is that of Colonel Kenton. I'll hand you over to him, an' -- not 'cause I've got anything ag'inst you -- I'll be mighty glad to do it, too, 'cause my back is already nigh breakin' with the responsibility."

Dick started violently.

"What's hit you?" asked Robertson.

"Oh, nothing. You see, I'm nervous."

"You ain't tellin' the truth. But I don't blame you an' it don't matter anyway. Here we are. Jump down."

Dick sprang to the ground, and the others followed. While they held the reins they stood in a close circle about him. He had about as much chance of escape as he had of flying.

Robertson walked forward, saluted some one who stood up in the dark, and said a few words in a low tone.

"Bring him forward," said a clear voice, which Dick recognized at once.

The little group of men opened out and Dick, stepping forth, met his uncle face to face. It was now the time of Colonel George Kenton to start violently.

"My God! You, Dick!" he exclaimed. "How did you come here?"

"I didn't come," replied the boy, who was now feeling more at ease. "I was brought here by four scouts of yours, who I must say saw their duty and did it."

Colonel Kenton grasped his hand and shook it. He was very fond of this young nephew of his. The mere fact that he was on the other side did not alter his affection.

"Tell me about it, Dick," he said. "And you, Sergeant Robertson, you and your men are to be thanked for your vigilance and activity. You can go off duty. You are entitled to your rest."

As they withdrew the sergeant, who passed by Dick and who had not missed a word of the conversation between him and his uncle, said to him:

"At least, young sir, I've returned you to your relatives, an' you're a minor, as I can see."

"It's so," said Dick as the sergeant passed on.

"They have not ill treated you?" said Colonel Kenton.

"No, they've been as kind as one enemy could be to another."

"It is strange, most strange, that you and I should meet here at such a time. Nay, Dick, I see in it the hand of Providence. You're to be saved from what will happen to your army tomorrow."

"I'd rather not be saved in this manner."

"I know it, but it is perhaps the only way. As sure as the stars are in Heaven your army will be destroyed in the morning, an' you'd be destroyed with it. I'm fond of you, Dick, and so I'd rather you'd be in our rear, a prisoner, while this is happening."

"General Grant is a hard man to crush."

"Dick! Dick, lad, you don't know what you're talking about! Look at the thing as it stands! We know everything that you're doing. Our spies look into the very heart of your camp. You think that we are fifty miles away, but a cannon shot from the center of our camp would reach the center of yours. Why, while we are here, ready to spring, this Grant, of whom you think so much, is on his way tonight to the little village of Savannah to confer with Buell. In the dawn when we strike and roll his brigades back he will not be here. And that's your great general!"

Dick knew that his uncle was excited. But he had full cause to be. There was everything in the situation to inflame an officer's pride and anticipation. It was not too dark for Dick to see a spark leap from his eyes, and a sudden flush of red appear in either tanned cheek. But for Dick the chill came again, and once more his hair prickled at the roots. The ambush was even more complete than he had supposed, and General Grant would not be there when it was sprung.

"Dick," said Colonel Kenton, "I have talked to you as I would not have talked to anyone else, but even so, I would not have talked to you as I have, were not your escape an impossibility. You are unharmed, but to leave this camp you would have to fly."

"I admit it, sir."

"Come with me. There are men higher in rank than I who would wish to see a prisoner taken as you were."

Dick followed him willingly and without a word. Aware that he was not in the slightest physical danger he was full of curiosity concerning what he was about to see. The words, "men higher in rank than I," whipped his blood.

Colonel Kenton led through the darkness to a deep and broad ravine, into which they descended. The sides and bottom of this ravine were clothed in bushes, and they grew thick on the edges above. It was much darker here, but Dick presently caught ahead of him the flicker of the first light that he had seen in the Southern army.

The boy's heart began to beat fast and hard. All the omens foretold that he was about to witness something that he could never by any possibility forget. They came nearer to the flickering light, and he made out seated figures around it. They were men wrapped in cavalry cloaks, because the night air had now grown somewhat chill, and Dick knew instinctively that these were the Southern generals preparing for the hammer-stroke at dawn.

A sentinel, rifle in hand, met them. Colonel Kenton whispered with him a moment, and he went to the group. He returned in a moment and escorted Dick and his uncle forward. Colonel Kenton saluted and Dick involuntarily did the same.

It was a small fire, casting only a faint and flickering light, but Dick, his eyes now used to the dusk, saw well the faces of the generals. He knew at once which was Johnston, the chief. He seemed older than the rest, sixty at least, but his skin was clear and ruddy, and the firm face and massive jaw showed thought and power. Yet the countenance appeared gloomy, as if overcast with care. Perhaps it was another omen!

By the side of Johnston sat a small but muscular man, swarthy, and in early middle years. His face and gestures when he talked showed clearly that he was of Latin blood. It was Beauregard, the victor of Bull Run, now second in command here, and he made a striking contrast to the stern and motionless Kentuckian who sat beside him and who was his chief. There was no uneasy play of Johnston's hands, no shrugging of the shoulders, no jerking of the head. He sat silent, his features a mask, while he listened to his generals.

On the other side was Braxton Bragg, brother-in-law of Jefferson Davis, who could never forget Bragg's kinship, and the service that he had done fifteen years before at Buena Vista, when he had broken with his guns the last of Santa Anna's squares, deciding the victory. By the side of him was Hardee, the famous tactician, taught in the best schools of both America and Europe. Then there was Polk, who, when a youth, had left the army to enter the church and become a bishop, and who was now a soldier again and a general. Next to the bishop-general sat the man who had been Vice-President of the United States and who, if the Democracy had held together would now have been in the chair of Lincoln, John C. Breckinridge, called by his people the Magnificent, commonly accounted the most splendid looking man in America.

"Bring the prisoner forward, Colonel Kenton," said General Johnston, a general upon whom the South, with justice, rested great hopes.

Dick stepped forward at once and he held himself firmly, as he felt the eyes of the six generals bent upon him. He was conscious even at the moment that chance had given him a great opportunity. He was there to see, while the military genius of the South planned in the shadow of a dark ravine a blow which the six intended to be crushing.

"Where was the prisoner taken?" said Johnston to Colonel Kenton.

"Sergeant Robertson and three other men of my command seized him as he was about to enter the Northern lines. He was coming from the direction of Buell, where it is likely that he had gone to take a dispatch."

"Did you find any answer upon him."

"My men searched him carefully, sir, but found nothing."

"He is in the uniform of a staff officer. Have you found to what regiment in the Union army he belongs?"

"He is on the staff of Colonel Arthur Winchester, who commands one of the Kentucky regiments. I have also to tell you, sir, that his name is Richard Mason, and that he is my nephew."

"Ah," said General Johnston, "it is one of the misfortunes of civil war that so many of us fight against our own relatives. For those who live in the border states yours is the common lot."

But Dick was conscious that the six generals were gazing at him with renewed interest.

"Your surmise about his having been to Buell is no doubt correct," said Beauregard quickly and nervously. "You left General Buell this morning, did you not, Mr. Mason?"

Dick remained silent.

"It is also true that Buell's army is worn down by his heavy march over muddy roads," continued Beauregard as if he had not noticed Dick's failure to reply.

Dick's teeth were shut firmly, and he compressed his lips. He stood rigidly erect, gazing now at the flickering flames of the little fire.

"I suggest that you try him on some other subject than Buell, General Beauregard," said the bishop-general, a faint twinkle appearing in his eyes. Johnston sat silent, but his blue eyes missed nothing.

"It is true also, is it not," continued Beauregard, "that General Grant has gone or is going tonight to Savannah to meet General Buell, and confer with him about a speedy advance upon our army at Corinth?"

Dick clenched his teeth harder than ever, and a spasm passed over his face. He was conscious that six pairs of eyes, keen and intent, ready to note the slightest change of countenance and to read a meaning into it, were bent upon him. It was only by a supreme effort that he remained master of himself, but after the single spasm his countenance remained unmoved.

"You do not choose to answer," said Bragg, always a stern and ruthless man, "but we can drag what you know from you."

"I am a prisoner of war," replied Dick steadily. "I was taken in full uniform. I am no spy, and you cannot ill treat me."

"I do not mean that we would inflict any physical suffering upon you," said Bragg. "The Confederacy does not, and will never resort to such methods. But you are only a boy. We can question you here, until, through very weakness of spirit, you will be glad to tell us all you know about Buell's or any other Northern force."

"Try me, and see," said Dick proudly.

The blue eye of the silent Johnston flickered for an instant.

"But it is true," said Beauregard, resuming his role of cross-examiner, "that your army, considering itself secure, has not fortified against us? It has dug no trenches, built no earthworks, thrown up no abatis!"

The boy stood silent with folded arms, and Colonel George Kenton, standing on one side, threw his nephew a glance of sympathy, tinged with admiration.

"Still you do not answer," continued Beauregard, and now a strong note of irony appeared in his tone, "but perhaps it is just as well. You do your duty to your own army, and we miss nothing. You cannot tell us anything that we do not know already. Whatever you may know we know more. We know tonight the condition of General Grant's army better than General Grant himself does. We know how General Buell and his army stand better than General Buell himself does. We know the position of your brigades and the missing links between them better than your own brigade commanders do."

The eyes of the Louisianian flashed, his swarthy face swelled and his shoulders twitched. The French blood was strong within him. Just so might some general of Napoleon, some general from the Midi, have shown his emotion on the eve of battle, an emotion which did not detract from courage and resolution. But the Puritan general, Johnston, raised a deprecatory hand.

"It is enough, General Beauregard," he said. "The young prisoner will tell us nothing. That is evident. As he sees his duty he does it, and I wish that our young men when they are taken may behave as well. Mr. Mason, you are excused. You remain in the custody of your uncle, but I warn you that there is none who will guard better against the remotest possibility of your escape."

It was involuntary, but Dick gave his deepest military salute, and said in a tone of mingled admiration and respect:

"General Johnston, I thank you."

The commander-in-chief of the Southern army bowed courteously in return, and Dick, following his uncle, left the ravine.

The six generals returned to their council, and the boy who would not answer was quickly forgotten. Long they debated the morrow. Several have left accounts of what occurred. Johnston, although he had laid the remarkable ambush, and was expecting victory, was grave, even gloomy. But Beauregard, volatile and sanguine, rejoiced. For him the triumph was won already. After their great achievement in placing their army, unseen and unknown, within cannon shot of the Union force, failure was to him impossible.

Breckinridge, like his chief, Johnston, was also grave and did not say much. Hardee, as became one of his severe military training, discussed the details, the placing of the brigades and the time of attack by each. Polk, the bishop-general, and Bragg, also had their part.

As they talked in low tones they moved the men over their chessboard. Now and then an aide was summoned, and soon departed swiftly and in silence to move a battery or a regiment a little closer to the Union lines, but always he carried the injunction that no noise be made. Not a sound that could be heard three hundred yards away came from all that great army, lying there in the deep woods and poised for its spring.

Meanwhile security reigned in the Union camp. The farm lads of the west and northwest had talked much over their fires. They had eaten good suppers, and by and by they fell asleep. But many of the officers still sat by the coals and discussed the march against the Southern army at Corinth, when the men of Buell should join those of Grant. The pickets, although the gaps yet remained between those of the different brigades, walked back and forth and wondered at the gloom and intensity of the woods in front of them, but did not dream of that which lay in the heart of the darkness.

The Southern generals in the ravine lingered yet a little longer. A diagram had been drawn upon a piece of paper. It showed the position of every Southern brigade, regiment, and battery, and of every Northern division, too. It showed every curve of the Tennessee, the winding lines of the three creeks, Owl, Lick, and Snake, and the hills and marshes.

The last detail of the plan was agreed upon finally, and they made it very simple, lest their brigades and regiments should lose touch and become confused in the great forest. They were to attack continually by the right, press the Union army toward the right always, in order to rush in and separate it from Pittsburg Landing on the Tennessee, and from the fleet and its stores. Then they meant to drive it into the marshes enclosed by the river and Snake Creek and destroy it.

The six generals rose, leaving the little fire to sputter out. General Johnston was very grave, and so were all the others as they started toward their divisions, except Beauregard, who said in sanguine tones:

"Gentlemen, we shall sleep tomorrow night in the enemy's camp."

Word, in the mysterious ways of war, had slid through the camp that the generals were in council, and many soldiers, driven by overwhelming curiosity, had crept through the underbrush to watch the figures by the fire in the ravine. They could not hear, they did not seek to hear, but they were held by a sort of spell. When they saw them separate, every one moving toward his own headquarters, they knew that there was nothing to await now but the dawn, and they stole back toward their own headquarters.

Dick had gone with Colonel Kenton to his own regiment, in the very heart of the Orphan Brigade, and on his way his uncle said:

"Dick, you will sleep among my own lads, and I ask you for your own sake to make no attempt to escape tonight. You would certainly be shot."

"I recognize that fact, sir, and I shall await a better opportunity."

"What to do with you in the morning I don't know, but we shall probably be able to take care of you. Meanwhile, Dick, go to sleep if you can. See, our boys are spread here through the woods. If it were day you'd probably find at least a dozen among them whom you know, and certainly a hundred are of blood kin to you, more or less."

Dick saw the dim forms stretched in hundreds on the ground, and, thanking his uncle for his kindness, he stretched himself upon an unoccupied bit of turf and closed his eyes. But it was impossible for young Richard Mason to sleep. He felt again that terrible thrill of agony, because he, alone, of all the score and more of Northern millions, knew that the Southern trap was about to fall, and he could not tell.

Never was he further from sleep. His nerves quivered with actual physical pain. He opened his eyes again and saw the dim forms lying in row on row as far in the forest as his eye could reach. Then he listened. He might hear the rifle of some picket, more wary or more enterprising than the others, sounding the alarm. But no such sound came to his ears. It had turned warmer again, and he heard only the Southern wind, heavy with the odors of grass and flower, sighing through the tall forest.

An anger against his own surged up in his breast. Why wouldn't they look? How could they escape seeing? Was it possible for one great army to remain unknown within cannon shot of another a whole night? It was incredible, but he had seen it, and he knew it. Fierce and bitter words rose to his lips, but he did not utter them.

Dick lay a long time, with his eyes open, and the night was passing as peacefully as if there would be no red dawn. Occasionally he heard a faint stir near him, as some restless soldier turned on his side in his sleep, and now and then a muttered word from an officer who passed near in the darkness.

Hours never passed more slowly. Colonel Kenton had gone back toward the Northern lines, and the boy surmised that he would be one of the first in the attack at dawn. He began to wonder if dawn would ever really come. Stars and a fair moon were out, and as nearly as he could judge from them it must be about three o'clock in the morning. Yet it seemed to him that he had been lying there at least twelve hours.

He shut his eyes again, but sleep was as far from him as ever. After another long and almost unendurable period he opened them once more, and it seemed to him that there was a faint tint of gray in the east. He sat up, and looking a long time, he was sure of it. The gray was deepening and broadening, and at its center it showed a tint of silver. The dawn was at hand, and every nerve in the boy's body thrilled with excitement and apprehension.

A murmur and a shuffling sound arose all around him. The sleepers were awake, and they stood up, thousands of them. Cold food was given to them, and they ate it hastily. But they fondled their rifles and muskets, and turned their faces toward the point where the Northern army lay, and from which no sound came.

Dick shivered all over. His head burned and his nerves throbbed. Too late now! He had hoped all through the long night that something would happen to carry a warning to that unsuspecting army. Nothing had happened, and in five minutes the attack would begin.

He stood up at his full height and sought to pierce with his eyes the foliage in front of him, but the massed ranks of the Southerners now stood between, and the batteries were wheeling into line.

A great throb and murmur ran through the forest. Dick looked upon faces brown with the sun, and eyes gleaming with the fierce passion of victory and revenge. They were going to avenge Henry and Donelson and all the long and mortifying retreat from Kentucky. Dick saw them straining and looking eagerly at their officers for the word to advance.

As if by a concerted signal the long and mellow peal of many trumpets came from the front, the officers uttered the shout to charge, the wild and terrible rebel yell swelled from forty thousand throats, and the Southern army rushed upon its foe.

The red dawn of Shiloh had come.



Chapter XV. The Red Dawn Of Shiloh


Dick stood appalled when he heard that terrible shout in the dawn, and the crash of cannon and rifles rolling down upon the Union lines. It was already a shout of triumph and, as he gazed, he saw through the woods the red line of flame, sweeping on without a halt.

The surprise had been complete. Hardee, leading the Southern advance, struck Peabody's Northern brigade and smashed it up instantly. The men did not have time to seize their rifles. They had no chance to form into ranks, and the officers themselves, as they shouted commands, were struck down. Men killed or wounded were falling everywhere. Almost before they had time to draw a free breath the remnants of the brigade were driven upon those behind it.

Hardee also rushed upon Sherman, but there he found a foe of tough mettle. The man who had foreseen the enormous extent of the war, although taken by surprise, too, did not lose his courage or presence of mind. His men had time to seize their arms, and he formed a hasty line of battle. He also had the forethought to send word to the general in his rear to close up the gap between him and the next general in the line. Then he shifted one of his own brigades until there was a ravine in front of it to protect his men, and he hurried a battery to his flank.

Never was Napoleon's maxim that men are nothing, a man is everything, more justified, and never did the genius of Sherman shine more brilliantly than on that morning. It was he, alone, cool of mind and steady in the face of overwhelming peril, who first faced the Southern rush. He inspired his troops with his own courage, and, though pale of face, they bent forward to meet the red whirlwind that was rushing down upon them.

Like a blaze running through dry grass the battle extended in almost an instant along the whole front, and the deep woods were filled with the roar of eighty thousand men in conflict. And Grant, as at Donelson, was far away.

The thunder and blaze of the battle increased swiftly and to a frightful extent. The Southern generals, eager, alert and full of success, pushed in all their troops. The surprised Northern army was giving away at all points, except where Sherman stood. Hardee, continuing his rush, broke the Northern line asunder, and his brigades, wrapping themselves around Sherman, strove to destroy him.

Although he saw his lines crumbling away before him, Sherman never flinched. The ravine in front of him and rough ground on one side defended him to a certain extent. The men fired their rifles as fast as they could load and reload, and the cannon on their flanks never ceased to pour shot and shell into the ranks of their opponents. The gunners were shot down, but new ones rose at once in their place. The fiercest conflict yet seen on American soil was raging here. North would not yield, South ever rushed anew to the attack, and a vast cloud of mingled flame and smoke enclosed them both.

Dick had stood as if petrified, staring at the billows of flame, while the thunder of great armies in battle stunned his ears. He realized suddenly that he was alone. Colonel Kenton had said the night before that he did not know what to do with him, but that he would find a way in the morning. But he had been forgotten, and he knew it was natural that he should be. His fate was but a trifle in the mighty event that was passing. There was no time for any one in the Southern army to bother about him.

Then he understood too, that he was free. The whole Orphan Brigade had passed on into the red heart of the battle, and had left him there alone. Now his mind leaped out of its paralysis. All his senses became alert. In that vast whirlwind of fire and smoke no one would notice that a single youth was stealing through the forest in an effort to rejoin his own people.

Action followed swift upon thought. He curved about in the woods and then ran rapidly toward the point where the fire seemed thinnest. He did not check his pace until he had gone at least a mile. Then he paused to see if he could tell how the battle was going. Its roar seemed louder than ever in his ears, and in front of him was a vast red line, which extended an unseen distance through the forest. Now and then the wild and thrilling rebel yell rose above the roar of cannon and the crash of rifles.

Dick saw with a sinking of the heart -- and yet he had known that it would be so -- that the red line of flame had moved deeper into the heart of the Northern camp. It had passed the Northern outposts and, at many points, it had swept over the Northern center. He feared that there was but a huddled and confused mass beyond it.

He saw something lying at his feet. It was a Confederate military cloak which some officer had cast off as he rushed to the charge. He picked it up, threw it about his own shoulders, and then tossed away his cap. If he fell in with Confederate troops they would not know him from one of their own, and it was no time now to hold cross-examinations.

He took a wide curve, and, after another mile, came to a hillock, upon which he stood a little while, panting. Again he was appalled at the sight he beheld. Bull Run and Donelson were small beside this. Here eighty thousand men were locked fast in furious conflict. Raw and undisciplined many of these farmer lads of the west and south were, but in battle they showed a courage and tenacity not surpassed by the best trained troops that ever lived.

The floating smoke reached Dick where he stood and stung his eyes, and a powerful odor of burned gunpowder assailed his nostrils. But neither sight nor odors held him back. Instead, they drew him on with overwhelming force. He must rejoin his own and do his best however little it counted in the whole.

It was now well on into the morning of a brilliant and hot Sunday. He did not know it, but the combat was raging fiercest then around the little church, which should have been sacred. Drawing a deep breath of an air which was shot with fire and smoke, and which was hot to his lungs, Dick began to run again. Almost before he noticed it he was running by the side of a Southern regiment which had been ordered to veer about and attack some new point in the Northern line. Keeping his presence of mind he shouted with them as they rushed on, and presently dropped away from them in the smoke.

He was conscious now of a new danger. Twigs and bits of bark began to rain down upon him, and he heard the unpleasant whistle of bullets over his head. They were the bullets of his own people, seeking to repel the Southern charge. A minute later a huge shell burst near him, covering him with flying earth. At first he thought he had been hit by fragments of the shell, but when he shook himself he found that he was all right.

He took yet a wider curve and before he was aware of the treacherous ground plunged into a swamp bordering one of the creeks. He stood for a few moments in mud and water to his waist, but he knew that he had passed from the range of the Union fire. Twigs and bark no longer fell around him and that most unpleasant whizz of bullets was gone.

He pulled himself out of the mire and ran along the edge of the creek toward the roar of the battle. He knew now that he had passed around the flank of the Southern army and could approach the flank of his own. He ran fast, and then began to hear bullets again. But now they were coming from the Southern army. He threw away the cloak and presently he emerged into a mass of men, who, under the continual urging of their officers, were making a desperate defense, firing, drawing back, reloading and firing again. In front, the woods swarmed with the Southern troops who drove incessantly upon them.

Dick snatched up a rifle -- plenty were lying upon the ground, where the owners had fallen with them -- and fired into the attacking ranks. Then he reloaded swiftly, and pressed on toward the Union center.

"What troops are these?" he asked of an officer who was knotting a handkerchief about a bleeding wrist.

"From Illinois. Who are you?"

"I'm Lieutenant Richard Mason of Colonel Arthur Winchester's Kentucky regiment. I was taken prisoner by the enemy last night, but I escaped this morning. Do you know where my regiment is?"

"Keep straight on, and you'll strike it or what's left of it, if anything at all is left. It's a black day."

Dick scarcely caught his last words, as he dashed on through bullets, shell and solid shot over slain men and horses, over dismantled guns and gun carriages, and into the very heart of the flame and smoke. The thunder of the battle was at its height now, because he was in the center of it. The roar of the great guns was continuous, but the unbroken crash of rifles by the scores of thousands was fiercer and more deadly.

The officer had pointed toward the Kentucky regiment with his sword, and following the line Dick ran directly into it. The very first face he saw was that of Colonel Winchester.

"Dick, my lad," shouted the Colonel, "where have you come from?"

"From the Southern army. I was taken prisoner last night almost within sight of our own, but when they charged this morning they forgot me and here I am."

Colonel Winchester suddenly seized him by the shoulders and pushed him down. The regiment was behind a small ridge which afforded some protection, and all were lying down except the senior officers.

"Welcome, Dick, to our hot little camp! The chances are about a hundred per cent out of a hundred per cent that this is the hottest place on the earth today!"

The long, thin figure of Warner lay pressed against the ground. A handkerchief, stained red, was bound about his head and his face was pale, but indomitable courage gleamed from his eyes. Just beyond him was Pennington, unhurt.

"Thank God you haven't fallen, and that I've found you!" exclaimed Dick.

"I don't know whether you're so lucky after all," said Warner. "The Johnnies have been mowing us down. They dropped on us so suddenly this morning that they must have been sleeping in the same bed with us last night, and we didn't know it. I hear that we're routed nearly everywhere except here and where Sherman stands. Look out! Here they come again!"

They saw tanned faces and fierce eyes through the smoke, and the bullets swept down on them in showers. Lucky for them that the little ridge was there, and that they had made up their minds to stand to the last. They replied with their own deadly fire, yet many fell, despite the shelter, and to both left and right the battle swelled afresh. Dick felt again that rain of bark and twigs and leaves. Sometimes a tree, cut through at its base by cannon balls, fell with a crash. Along the whole curving line the Southern generals ever urged forward their valiant troops.

Now the courage and skill of Sherman shone supreme. Dick saw him often striding up and down the lines, ordering and begging his men to stand fast, although they were looking almost into the eyes of their enemies.

The conflict became hand to hand, and assailant and assailed reeled to and fro. But Sherman would not give up. The fiercest attacks broke in vain on his iron front. McClernand, with whom he had quarreled the day before as to who should command the army while Grant was away, came up with reinforcements, and seeing what the fearless and resolute general had done, yielded him the place.

The last of the charges broke for the time upon Sherman, and his exhausted regiment uttered a shout of triumph, but on both sides of him the Southern troops drove their enemy back and yet further back. Breckinridge, along Lick Creek, was pushing everything before him. The bishop-general was doing well. Many of the Northern troops had not yet recovered from their surprise. A general and three whole regiments, struck on every side, were captured.

It seemed that nothing could deprive the Southern army of victory, absolute and complete. General Johnston had marshalled his troops with superb skill, and intending to reap the full advantage of the surprise, he continually pushed them forward upon the shattered Northern lines. He led in person and on horseback the attack upon the Federal center. Around and behind him rode his staff, and the wild rebel yell swept again through the forest, when the soldiers saw the stern and lofty features of the chief whom they trusted, leading them on.

But fate in the very moment of triumph that seemed overwhelming and sure was preparing a terrible blow for the South. A bullet struck Johnston in the ankle. His boot filled with blood, and the wound continued to bleed fast. But, despite the urging of his surgeon, who rode with him, he refused to dismount and have the wound bound up. How could he dismount at such a time, when the battle was at its height, and the Union army was being driven into the creeks and swamps! He was wounded again by a piece of shell, and he sank dying from his horse. His officers crowded around him, seeking to hide their irreparable loss from the soldiers, the most costly death, with the exception of Stonewall Jackson's, sustained by the Confederacy in the whole war.

But the troops, borne on by the impetus that success and the spirit of Johnston had given them, drove harder than ever against the Northern line. They crashed through it in many places, seizing prisoners and cannon. Almost the whole Northern camp was now in their possession, and many of the Southern lads, hungry from scanty rations, stopped to seize the plenty that they found there, but enough persisted to give the Northern army no rest, and press it back nearer and nearer to the marshes.

The combat redoubled around Sherman. Johnston was gone, but his generals still shared his resolution. They turned an immense fire upon the point where stood Sherman and McClernand, now united by imminent peril. Their ranks were searched by shot and shell, and the bullets whizzed among them like a continuous swarm of hornets.

Dick was still unwounded, but so much smoke and vapor had drifted about his face that he was compelled at times to rub his eyes that he might see. He felt a certain dizziness, too, and he did not know whether the incessant roaring in his ears came wholly from the cannon and rifle fire or partly from the pounding of his blood.

"I feel that we are shaking," he shouted in the ears of Warner, who lay next to him. "I'm afraid we're going to give ground."

"I feel it, too," Warner shouted back. "We've been here for hours, but we're shot to pieces. Half of our men must be killed or wounded, but how old Sherman fights!"

The Southern leaders brought up fresh troops and hurled them upon Sherman. Again the combat was hand to hand, and to the right and left the supports of the indomitable Northern general were being cut away. Those brigades who had proved their mettle at Donelson, and who had long stood fast, were attacked so violently that they gave way, and the victors hurled themselves upon Sherman's flank.

Dick and his two young comrades perceived through the flame and smoke the new attack. It seemed to Dick that they were being enclosed now by the whole Southern army, and he felt a sense of suffocation. He was dizzy from such a long and terrible strain and so much danger, and he was not really more than half conscious. He was loading and firing his rifle mechanically, but he always aimed at something in the red storm before them, although he never knew whether he hit or missed, and was glad of it.

The division of Sherman had been standing there seven hours, sustaining with undaunted courage the resolute attacks of the Southern army, but the sixth sense warning Dick that it had begun to shake at last was true. The sun had now passed the zenith and was pouring intense and fiery rays upon the field, sometimes piercing the clouds of smoke, and revealing the faces of the men, black with sweat and burned gunpowder.

A cry arose for Grant. Why did not their chief show himself upon the field! Was so great a battle to be fought with him away? And where was Buell? He had a second great army. He was to join them that day. What good would it be for him to come tomorrow? Many of them laughed in bitter derision. And there was Lew Wallace, too! They had heard that he was near the field with a strong division. Then why did he not come upon it and face the enemy? Again they laughed that fierce and bitter laugh deep down in their throats.

The attack upon Sherman never ceased for an instant. Now he was assailed not only from the front, but from both flanks, and some even gaining the rear struck blows upon his division there. One brigade upon his left was compelled to give way, scattered, and lost its guns. The right wing was also driven in, and the center yielded slowly, although retaining its cohesion.

The three lads were on their feet now, and it seemed to them that everything was lost. They could see the battle in front of them only, but rumors came to them that the army was routed elsewhere. But neither Sherman nor McClernand would yield, save for the slow retreat, yielding ground foot by foot only. And there were many unknown heroes around them. Sergeant Whitley blazed with courage and spirit.

"We could be worse off than we are!" he shouted to Dick. "General Buell's army may yet come!"

"Maybe we could be worse off than we are, but I don't see how it's possible!" shouted Dick in return, a certain grim humor possessing him for the moment.

"Look! What I said has come true already!" shouted the sergeant. "Here is shelter that will help us to make a new stand!"

In their slow retreat they reached two low hills, between which a small ravine ran. It was not a strong position, but Sherman used it to the utmost. His men fired from the protecting crests of the hills, and he filled the ravine with riflemen, who poured a deadly fire upon their assailants.

Now Sherman ordered them to stand fast to the last man, because it was by this road that the division of Lew Wallace must come, if it came at all. But Southern brigades followed them and the battle raged anew, as fierce and deadly as ever.

Although their army was routed at many points the Northern officers showed indomitable courage. Driven back in the forest they always strove to form the lines anew, and now their efforts began to show some success. Their resistance on the right hardened, and on the left they held fast to the last chain of hills that covered the wharves and their stores at the river landing. As they took position here two gunboats in the river began to send huge shells over their heads at the attacking Southern columns, maintaining a rapid and heavy fire which shook assailants and strengthened defenders. Again the water had come to the help of the North, and at the most critical moment. The whole Northern line was now showing a firmer front, and Grant, himself, was directing the battle.

Fortune, which had played a game with Grant at Donelson, played a far greater one with him on the far greater field of Shiloh. The red dawn of Shiloh, when Johnston was sweeping his army before him, had found him at Savannah far from the field of battle. The hardy and vigorous Nelson had arrived there in the night with Buell's vanguard, and Grant had ordered it to march at speed the next day to join his own army. But he, himself, did not reach the field of Shiloh until 10 o'clock, when the fiercest battle yet known on the American continent had been raging for several hours.

Grant and his staff, as they rode away from his headquarters, heard the booming of cannon in the direction of Shiloh. Some of them thought it was a mere skirmish, but it came continuously, like rolling thunder, and their trained ears told them that it rose from a line miles in length. One seeks to penetrate the mind of a commanding general at such a time, and see what his feelings were. Again the battle had been joined, and was at its height, and he away!

Those trained ears told him also that the rolling thunder of the cannon was steadily moving toward them. It could mean only that the Northern army had been driven from its camp and that the Southern army was pushing its victory to the utmost. In those moments his agony must have been intense. His great army not only attacked, but beaten, and he not there! He and his staff urged their horses forward, seeking to gain from them new ounces of speed, but the country was difficult. The hills were rough and there were swamps and mire. And, as they listened, the roar of battle steadily came nearer and nearer. There was no break in the Northern retreat. The sweat, not of heat but of mental agony, stood upon their faces. Grant was not the only one who suffered.

Now they met some of those stragglers who flee from every battlefield, no matter what the nation. Their faces were white with fear and they cried out that the Northern army was destroyed. Officers cursed them and struck at them with the flats of their swords, but they dodged the blows and escaped into the bushes. There was no time to pursue them. Grant and his staff never ceased to ride toward the storm of battle which raged far and wide around the little church of Shiloh.

The stream of fugitives increased, and now they saw swarms of men who stood here and there, not running, but huddled and irresolute. Never did Fortune, who brought this, her favorite, from the depths, bring him again in her play so near to the verge of destruction. When he came upon the field, the battle seemed wholly lost, and the whole world would have cried that he was to blame.

But the bulldog in Grant was never of stauncher breed than on that day. His face turned white, and he grew sick at the sight of the awful slaughter. A bullet broke the small sword at his side, but he did not flinch. Preserving the stern calm that always marked him on the field he began to form his lines anew and strengthen the weaker points.

Yet the condition of his army would have appalled a weaker will. It had been driven back three miles. His whole camp had been taken. His second line also had been driven in. Many thousands of men had fallen and other thousands had been taken. Thirty of his cannon were in the hands of the enemy, and although noon had now come and gone there was no sound to betoken the coming of the troops led by Wallace or Nelson. Well might Grant's own stout heart have shrunk appalled from the task before him.

Wallace was held back by confused orders, pardonable at such a time. The eager Nelson was detained at Savannah by Buell, who thought that the sounds of the engagement they heard in the Shiloh woods was a minor affair, and who wanted Nelson to wait for boats to take him there.

It seemed sometimes to Dick long afterward, when the whole of the great Shiloh battle became clear, that Fortune was merely playing a game of chess, with the earth as a board, and the armies as pawns. Grant's army was ambushed with its general absent. The other armies which were almost at hand were delayed for one reason or another. While as for the South, the genius that had planned the attack and that had carried it forward was quenched in death, when victory was at its height.

But for the present the lad had little time for such thoughts as these. The success of Sherman in holding the new position infused new courage into him and those around him. The men in gray, wearied with their immense exertions, and having suffered frightful losses themselves, abated somewhat the energy and fierceness of their attack.

The dissolved Northern regiments had time to reform. Grant seized a new position along a line of hills, in front of which ran a deep ravine filled with brushwood. He and his officers appreciated the advantage and they massed the troops there as fast as they could.

Now Fortune, after having brought Grant to the verge of the pit, was disposed to throw chances in his way. The hills and the ravine were one. Another, and most important it was, was the presence of guns of the heaviest calibre landed some days ago from the fleet, and left there until their disposition could be determined. A quick-witted colonel, Webster by name, gathered up all the gunners who had lost their own guns and who had been driven back in the retreat, and manned this great battery of siege guns, just as the Southern generals were preparing to break down the last stand of the North.

Meanwhile, a terrible rumor had been spreading in the ranks of the Southern troops. The word was passed from soldier to soldier that their commander, Johnston, whom they had believed invincible, had been killed, and they did not trust so much Beauregard, who was left in command, nor those who helped. Their fiery spirit abated somewhat. There was no decrease of courage, but continuous victory did not seem so easy now.

Confusion invaded the triumphant army also. Beauregard had divided the leadership on the field among three of his lieutenants. Hardee now urged on the center, Bragg commanded the right, and Polk, the bishop-general, led the left. It was Bragg's division that was about to charge the great battery of siege guns that the alert Webster had manned so quickly. Five minutes more and Webster would have been too late. Here again were the fortunes of Grant brought to the very verge of the pit. The Northern gunboats at the mouth of Lick Creek moved forward a little, and their guns were ready to support the battery.

The Kentucky regiment was wedged in between the battery and a brigade, and it was gasping for breath. Colonel Winchester, slightly wounded in three places, commanded his men to lie down, and they gladly threw themselves upon the earth.

There was a momentary lull in the battle. Wandering winds caught up the banks of smoke and carried most of them away. Dick, as he rose a little, saw the Southern troops massing in the forest for an attack upon their new position. They seemed to be only a few yards away and he clearly observed the officers walking along the front of the lines. It flashed upon him that they must hold these hills or Grant's army would perish. Where was Buell? Why did he not come? If the Southerners destroyed one Northern army today they would destroy another tomorrow! They would break the two halves of the Union force in the west into pieces, first one and then the other.

"What do you see, Dick?" asked Warner, who was lying almost flat upon his face.

"The Confederate army is getting ready to wipe us off the face of the earth! Up with your rifle, George! They'll be upon us in two minutes!"

They heard a sudden shout behind them. It was a glad shout, and well it might be. Nelson, held back by Buell's orders, had listened long to the booming of the cannon off in the direction of Shiloh. Nothing could convince him that a great battle was not going on, and all through the morning he chafed and raged. And as the sound of the cannon grew louder he believed that Grant's army was losing.

Nelson obtained Buell's leave at last to march for Shiloh, but it was a long road across hills and creeks and through swamps. The cannon sank deep in the mire, and then the ardent Nelson left them behind. Now he knew there was great need for haste. The flashing and thundering in front of them showed to the youngest soldier in his command that a great battle was in progress, and that it was going against the North. His division at last reached Pittsburg Landing and was carried across the river in the steamers. One brigade led by Ammen outstripped the rest, and rushed in behind the great battery and to its support, just as the Southern bugles once more sounded the charge.

Dick shouted with joy, too, when he saw the new troops. The next moment the enemy was upon them, charging directly through a frightful discharge from the great guns. The riddled regiments, which had fought so long, gave way before the bayonets, but the fresh troops took their places and poured a terrible fire into the assaulting columns. And the great guns of the battery hurled a new storm of shell and solid shot. The ranks of the Southern troops, worn by a full day of desperate fighting, were broken. They had crossed the ravine into the very mouths of the Northern guns, but now they were driven back into the ravine and across it. Cannon and rifles rained missiles upon them there, and they withdrew into the woods, while for the first time in all that long day a shout of triumph rose from the Union lines.

Another lull came in the battle.

"What are they doing now, Dick?" asked the Vermonter.

"I can't see very well, but they seem to be gathering in the forest for a fresh attack. Do you know, George, that the sun is almost down?"

"It's certainly time. It's been at least a month since the Johnnies ran out of the forest in the dawn, and jumped on us."

It was true that the day was almost over, although but few had noticed the fact. The east was already darkening, and a rosy glow from the west fell across the torn forest. Here and there a dead tree, set on fire by the shells, burned slowly, little flames creeping along trunk and boughs.

Bragg was preparing to hurl his entire force upon Sherman and the battery. At that moment Beauregard, now his chief, arrived. But a few minutes of daylight were left and the swarthy Louisianian looked at the great losses in his own ranks. He believed that the army of Buell was so far away that it could not arrive that night and he withheld the charge.

The Southern army withdrew a little into the woods, the night rushed down, and Shiloh's terrible first day was over.



Chapter XVI. The Fierce Finish Of Shiloh


Dick, who had been lying under cover just behind the crest of one of the low ridges, suddenly heard the loud beating of his heart. He did not know, for a moment or two, that the sound came so distinctly because the mighty tumult which had been raging around him all day had ceased, as if by a concerted signal. Those blinding flashes of flame no longer came from the forest before him, the shot and shell quit their horrible screaming, and the air was free from the unpleasant hiss of countless bullets.

He stretched himself a little and stood up. The lads all around him were standing up, and were beginning to talk to each other in the high-pitched, shouting voices that they had been compelled to use all day long, not yet realizing to the full that the tumult of the battle had ceased. The boy felt stiff and sore in every bone and muscle, and, although the cannon and rifles were silent, there was still a hollow roaring in his ears. His eyes were yet dim from the smoke, and his head felt heavy and dull. He gazed vacantly at the forest in front of him, and wondered dimly why the Southern army was not still there, attacking, as it had attacked for so many hours.

But the deep woods were silent and empty. Coils and streamers of smoke floated about among the trees, and suddenly a gray squirrel hopped out on a bough and began to chatter wildly. Dick, despite himself, laughed, but the laugh was hysterical. He could appreciate the feelings of the squirrel, which probably had been imprisoned in a hollow of the tree all day long, listening to this tremendous battle, and squirrels were not used to such battles. It was a trifle that made him laugh, but everything was out of proportion now. Life did not go on in the usual way at all. The ordinary occupations were gone, and people spent most of their time trying to kill one another.

He rubbed his hands across his eyes and cleared them of the smoke. The battle was certainly over for the day at least, and neither he nor his comrades had sufficient vitality yet to think of the morrow. The twilight was fast deepening into night. The last rosy glow of the sun faded, and thick darkness enveloped the vast forest, in which twenty thousand men had fallen, and in which most of them yet lay, the wounded with the dead.

There was presently a deep boom from the river, and a shell fired by one of the gunboats curved far over their heads and dropped into the forest, where the Southern army was encamped. All through the night and at short but regular intervals the gunboats maintained this warning fire, heartening the Union soldiers, and telling them at every discharge that however they might have to fight for the land, the water was always theirs.

Dick saw Colonel Winchester going among his men, and pulling himself together he saluted his chief.

"Any orders, sir?" he said.

"No, Dick, my boy, none for the present," replied the colonel, a little sadly. "Half of my poor regiment is killed or wounded, and the rest are so exhausted that they are barely able to move. But they fought magnificently, Dick! They had to, or be crushed! It is only here that we have withstood the rush of the Southern army, and it is probable that we, too, would have gone had not night come to our help."

"Then we have been beaten?"

"Yes, Dick, we have been beaten, and beaten badly. It was the surprise that did it. How on earth we could have let the Southern army creep upon us and strike unaware I don't understand. But Dick, my boy, there will be another battle tomorrow, and it may tell a different tale. Some prisoners whom we have taken say that Johnston has been killed, and Beauregard is no such leader as he."

"Will the army of General Buell reach us tonight?"

"Buell, himself, is here. He has been with Grant for some time, and all his brigades are marching at the double quick. Lew Wallace arrived less than half an hour ago with seven thousand men fresh and eager for battle. Dick! Dick, my boy, we'll have forty thousand new troops on the field at the next dawn, and before God we'll wipe out the disgrace of today! Listen to the big guns from the boats as they speak at intervals! Why, I can understand the very words they speak! They are saying to the Southern army: 'Look out! Look out! We're coming in the morning, and it's we who'll attack now!'"

Dick saw that Colonel Winchester himself was excited. The pupils of his eyes were dilated, and a red spot glowed in either cheek. Like all the other officers he was stung by the surprise and defeat, and he could barely wait for the morning and revenge.

Colonel Winchester walked away to a council that had been called, and Dick turned to Pennington and Warner, who were not hurt, save for slight wounds. Warner had recovered his poise, and was soon as calm and dry as ever.

"Dick," he said, "we're some distance from where we started this morning. There's nothing like being shoved along when you don't want to go. The next time they tell me there's nothing in a thicket I expect to search it and find a rebel army at least a hundred thousand strong right in the middle of it."

"How large do you suppose the Southern army was?" asked Pennington.

"I had a number of looks at it," replied Warner, "and I should say from the way it acted that it numbered at least three million men. I know that at times not less than ten thousand were aiming their rifles at my own poor and unworthy person. What a waste of energy for so many men to shoot at me all at once. I wish the Johnnies would go away and let us alone!"

The last words were high-pitched and excited. His habitual self-control broke down for a moment, and the tremendous excitement and nervous tension of the day found vent in his voice. But in a few seconds he recovered himself and looked rather ashamed.

"Boys," he said, "I apologize."

"You needn't," said Pennington. "There have been times today when I felt brave as a lion, and lots of other times I was scared most to death. It would have helped me a lot then, if I could have opened my mouth and yelled at the top of my voice."

Sergeant Daniel Whitley was leaning against a stump, and while he was calmly lighting a pipe he regarded the three boys with a benevolent gaze.

"None of you need be ashamed of bein' scared," he said. "I've been in a lot of fights myself, though all of them were mere skirmishes when put alongside of this, an' I've been scared a heap today. I've been scared for myself, an' I've been scared for the regiment, an' I've been scared for the whole army, an' I've been scared on general principles, but here we are, alive an' kickin', an' we ought to feel powerful thankful for that."

"We are," said Dick. Then he rubbed his head as if some sudden thought had occurred to him.

"What is it, Dick?" asked Warner.

"I've realized all at once that I'm tremendously hungry. The Confederates broke up our breakfast. We never had time to think of dinner, and now its nothing to eat."

"Me, too," said Pennington. "If you were to hit me in the stomach I'd give back a hollow sound like a drum. Why don't somebody ring the supper bell?"

But fires were soon lighted along their whole front, and provisions were brought up from the rear and from the steamers. The soldiers, feeling their strength returning, ate ravenously. They also talked much of the battle. Many of them were yet under the influence of hysterical excitement. They told extraordinary stories of the things they had seen and done, and they believed all they told were true. They ate fiercely, at first almost like wolves, but after a while they resolved into their true state as amiable young human beings and were ashamed of themselves.

All the while Buell's army of the Ohio was passing over the river and joining Grant's army of the Tennessee. Regiment after regiment and brigade after brigade crossed. The guns that Nelson had been forced to leave behind were also brought up and were taken over with the other batteries. While the shattered remnants of the army of the Tennessee were resting, the fresh army of the Ohio was marching by it in the late hours of the night in order to face the Southern foe in the morning.

The Southern army itself lay deep in the woods from which it had driven its enemy. Always the assailant through the day, its losses had been immense. Many thousands had fallen, and no new troops were coming to take their place. Continual reinforcements came to the North throughout the night, not a soldier came to the South. Beauregard, at dawn, would have to face twice his numbers, at least half of whom were fresh troops.

Another conference was held by the Southern generals in the forest, but now the central figure, the great Johnston, was gone. The others, however, summoned their courage anew, and passed the whole night arranging their forces, cheering the men, and preparing for the morn. Their scouts and skirmishers kept watch on the Northern camp, and the Southerners believed that while they had whipped only one army the day before, they could whip two on the morrow.

Dick and his friends meanwhile were lying on the earth, resting, but not able to sleep. The nerves, drawn so tightly by the day's work, were not yet relaxed wholly. A deep apathy seized them all. Dick, from a high point on which he lay, saw the dark surface of the Tennessee, and the lights on the puffing steamers as they crossed, bearing the Army of the Ohio. His mind did not work actively now, but he felt that they were saved. The deep river, although it was on their flank, seemed to flow as a barrier against the foe, and it was, in fact, a barrier more and more, as without its command the second Union army could never have come to the relief of the first.

Dick, after a while, saw Colonel Winchester, and other officers near him. They were talking of their losses. They gave the names of many generals and colonels who had been killed. Presently they moved away, and he fell into an uneasy sleep, or rather doze, from which he was awakened after a while by a heavy rumbling sound of a distant cannonade.

The boy sprang up, wondering why any one should wish to renew the battle in the middle of the night, and then he saw that it was no battle. The sound was thunder rolling heavily on the southern horizon, and the night had become very dark. Vivid flashes of lightning cut the sky, and a strong wind rushed among the trees. Heavy drops of water struck him in the face and then the rain swept down.

Dick did not seek protection from the storm, nor did any of those near him. The cool drops were grateful to their faces after the heat and strife of the day. Their pulses became stronger, and the blood flowed in a quickened torrent through their veins. They let it pour upon them, merely seeking to keep their ammunition dry.

Ten thousand wounded were yet lying untouched in the forest, but the rain was grateful to them, too. When they could they turned their fevered faces up to it that it might beat upon them and bring grateful coolness.

Deep in the night a council like that of the Southern generals was held in the Northern camp, also. Grant, his face an expressionless mask, presided, and said but little. Buell, Sherman, McClernand, Nelson, Wallace and others, were there, and Buell and Sherman, like their chief, spoke little. The three men upon whom most rested were very taciturn that night, but it is likely that extraordinary thoughts were passing in the minds of every one of the three.

Grant, after a day in which any one of a dozen chances would have wrecked him, must have concluded that in very deed and truth he was the favorite child of Fortune. When one is saved again and again from the very verge he begins to believe that failure is impossible, and in that very belief lies the greatest guard against failure.

It is said of Grant that in the night after his great defeat around the church of Shiloh, he was still confident, that he told his generals they would certainly win on the morrow, and he reminded them that if the Union army had suffered terribly, the Southern army must have suffered almost equally so, and would face them at dawn with numbers far less than their own. He had not displayed the greatest skill, but he had shown the greatest moral courage, and now on the night between battles it was that quality that was needed most.

Dick, not having slept any the night before, and having passed through a day of fierce battle, was overcome after midnight, and sank into a sleep that was mere lethargy. He awoke once before dawn and remembered, but vaguely, all that had happened. Yet he was conscious that there was much movement in the forest. He heard the tread of many feet, the sound of commands, the neigh of horses and the rumbling of cannon wheels. The Army of the Ohio was passing to the exposed flank of the Army of the Tennessee and at dawn it would all be in line. He also caught flitting glimpses of the Tennessee, and of the steamers loaded with troops still crossing, and he heard the boom of the heavy cannon on the gunboats which still, at regular and short intervals, sent huge shells curving into the forest toward the camp of the Southern army. He also saw near him Warner and Pennington sound asleep on the ground, and then he sank back into his own lethargic slumber.

He was awakened by the call of a trumpet, and, as he rose, he saw the whole regiment or rather, what was left of it, rising with him. It was not yet dawn, and a light rain was falling, but smoldering fires disclosed the ground for some distance, and also the river on which the gunboats and transports were now gathered in a fleet.

Colonel Winchester beckoned to him.

"All right this morning, Dick?" he said.

"Yes, sir; I'm ready for my duty."

"And you, too, Warner and Pennington?"

"We are, sir," they replied together.

"Then keep close beside me. I don't know when I may want you for a message. Daybreak will be here in a half hour. The entire Army of the Ohio, led by General Buell in person will be in position then or very shortly afterward, and a new, and, we hope, a very different battle will begin."

Food and coffee were served to the men, and while the rain was still falling they formed in line and awaited the dawn. The desire to retrieve their fortunes was as strong among the farmer lads as it was among the officers who took care to spread among them the statement that Buell's army alone was as numerous as the Southern force, and probably more numerous since their enemy must have sustained terrible losses. Thus they stood patiently, while the rain thinned and the sun at last showed a red edge through floating clouds.

They waited yet a little while longer, and then the boom of a heavy gun in the forest told them that the enemy was advancing to begin the battle afresh. Again it was the Southern army that attacked, although it was no surprise now. Yet Beauregard and his generals were still sanguine of completing the victory. Their scouts and skirmishers had failed to discover that the entire army of Buell also was now in front of them.

Bragg was gathering his division on the left to hurl it like a thunderbolt upon Grant's shattered brigades. Hardee and the bishop-general were in the center, and Breckinridge led the right. But as they moved forward to attack the Union troops came out to meet them. Nelson had occupied the high ground between Lick and Owl Creeks, and his and the Southern troops met in a fierce clash shortly after dawn.

Beauregard, drawn by the firing at that point, and noticing the courage and tenacity with which the Northern troops held their ground, sending in volley after volley, divined at once that these were not the beaten troops of the day before, but new men. This swarthy general, volatile and dramatic, nevertheless had great penetration. He understood on the instant a fact that his soldiers did not comprehend until later. He knew that the whole army of Buell was now before him.

For the moment it was Beauregard and Buell who were the protagonists, instead of Grant and Johnston as on the day before. The Southern leader gathered all his forces and hurled them upon Nelson. Weary though the Southern soldiers were, their attack was made with utmost fire and vigor. A long and furious combat ensued. A Southern division under Cheatham rushed to the help of their fellows. Buell's forces were driven in again and again, and only his heavy batteries enabled him to regain his lost ground.

Buell led splendid troops that he had trained long and rigidly, and they had not been in the conflict the day before. Fresh and with unbroken ranks, not a man wounded or missing, they had entered the battle and both Grant and Buell, as well as their division commanders, expected an easy victory where the Army of the Ohio stood.

Buell, to his amazement, saw himself reduced to the defensive. He and Grant had reckoned that the decimated brigades of the South could not stand at all before him, but just as on the first day they came on with the fierce rebel yell, hurling themselves upon superior numbers, taking the cannon of their enemy, losing them, and retaking them and losing them again, but never yielding.

The great conflict increased in violence. Buell, a man of iron courage, saw that his soldiers must fight to the uttermost, not for victory only, but even to ward off defeat. The dawn was now far advanced. The rain had ceased, and the sun again shot down sheaves of fiery rays upon a vast low cloud of fire and smoke in which thousands of men met in desperate combat.

Nine o'clock came. It had been expected by Grant that Buell long before that time would have swept everything before him. But for three hours Buell had been fighting to keep himself from being swept away. The Southern troops seemed animated by that extraordinary battle fever and absolute contempt of death which distinguished them so often during this war. Buell's army was driven in on both flanks, and only the center held fast. It began to seem possible that the South, despite her reduced ranks might yet defeat both Northern armies. Another battery dashed up to the relief of the men in blue. It was charged at once by the men in gray so fiercely that the gunners were glad to escape with their guns, and once more the wild rebel yell of triumph swelled through the southern forest.

Dick, standing with his comrades on one of the ridges that they had defended so well, listened to the roar of conflict on the wing, ever increasing in volume, and watched the vast clouds of smoke gathering over the forest. He could see from where he stood the flash of rifle fire and the blaze of cannon, and both eye and ear told him that the battle was not moving back upon the South.

"It seems that we do not make headway, sir," he said to Colonel Winchester, who also stood by him, looking and listening.

"Not that I can perceive," replied the colonel, "and yet with the rush of forty thousand fresh troops of ours upon the field I deemed victory quick and easy. How the battle grows! How the South fights!"

Colonel Winchester walked away presently and joined Sherman, who was eagerly watching the mighty conflict, into which he knew that his own worn and shattered troops must sooner or later be drawn. He walked up and down in front of his lines, saying little but seeing everything. His tall form was seen by all his men. He, too, must have felt a singular thrill at that moment. He must have known that his star was rising. He, more than any other, with his valor, penetrating mind and decision had saved the Northern army from complete destruction the first day at Shiloh. He had not been able to avert defeat, but he had prevented utter ruin. His division alone had held together in the face of the Southern attack until night came.

Sherman must have recalled, too, how his statement that the North would need 200,000 troops in the west alone had been sneered at, and he had been called mad. But he neither boasted nor predicted, continuing to watch intently the swelling battle.

"I had enough fighting yesterday to last me a hundred years," said Warner to Dick, "but it seems that I'm to have more today. If the Johnnies had any regard for the rules of war they'd have retreated long ago."

"We'll win yet," said Dick hopefully, "but I don't think we can achieve any big victory. Look, there's General Grant himself."

Grant was passing along his whole line. While leaving the main battle to Buell he retained general command and watched everything. He, too, observed the failure of Buell's army to drive the enemy before them, and he must have felt a sinking of the heart, but he did not show it. Instead he spoke only of victory, when he made any comment at all, and sent the members of his staff to make new arrangements. He must bring into action every gun and man he had or he would yet lose.

It was now 10 o'clock and the new battle had lasted with the utmost fury and desperation for four hours. Dick, after General Grant rode on, felt as if a sudden thrill had run through the whole army. He saw men rising from the earth and tightening their belts. He saw gunners gathering around their guns and making ready with the ammunition. He knew the remains of Grant's army were about to march upon the enemy, helping the Army of the Ohio to achieve the task that had proved so great.

Sherman, McClernand and other generals now passed among their troops, cheering them, telling them that the time had come to win back what they had lost the day before, and that victory was sure. They called upon them for another great effort, and a shout rolled along the line of willing soldiers.

Sherman's whole division now raised itself up and rushed at the enemy, Dick and his comrades in the front of their own regiment. The whole Northern line was now engaged. Grant, true to his resolution, had hurled every man and every gun upon his foe.

The Southern generals felt the immense weight of the numbers that were now driving down upon them. Their decimated ranks could not withstand the charge of two armies. In the center where Buell's men, having stood fast from the first, were now advancing, they were compelled to give way and lost several guns. On the wings the heavy Northern brigades were advancing also, and the whole Southern line was pushed back. So much inferior was the South in numbers that her enemy began to overlap her on the flanks also.

A tremendous shout of exultation swept through the Northern ranks, as they felt themselves advancing. The promises of their generals were coming true, and there is nothing sweeter than victory after defeat. Fortune, after frowning upon her so long, was now smiling upon the North. The exultant cheer swept through the ranks again, and back came the defiant rebel yell.

A young soldier often feels what is happening with as true instinct as a general. Dick now knew that the North would recover the field, and that the South, cut down fearfully, though having performed prodigies of valor, must fight to save herself. He felt that the resistance in front of them was no longer invincible. He saw in the flash of the firing that the Southern ranks were thin, very thin, and he knew that there was no break in their own advance.

Now the sanguine Northern generals planned the entire destruction of the Southern army. There was only one road by which Beauregard could retreat to Corinth. A whole Northern division rushed in to block the way. Sherman, in his advance, came again to the ground around the little Methodist chapel of Shiloh which he had defended so well the day before, and crowded his whole force upon the Southern line at that point. Once more the primitive church in the woods looked down upon one of the most sanguinary conflicts of the whole war. If Sherman could break through the Southern line here Beauregard's whole army would be lost.

But the Southern soldiers were capable of another and a mighty effort. Their generals saw the danger and acted with their usual promptness and decision. They gathered together their shattered brigades and hurled them like a thunderbolt upon the Union left and center. The shock was terrific. Sherman, with all his staunchness and the valor of his men, was compelled to give way. McClernand, too, reeled back, others were driven in also. Whole brigades and regiments were cut to pieces or thrown in confusion. The Southerners cut a wide gap in the Northern army, through which they rushed in triumph, holding the Corinth road against every attack and making their rear secure.

Sherman's division, after its momentary repulse, gathered itself anew, and, although knowing now that the Southern army could not be entrapped, drove again with all its might upon the positions around the church. They passed over the dead of the day before, and gathered increasing vigor, as they saw that the enemy was slowly drawing back.

Grant reformed his line, which had been shattered by the last fiery and successful attack of the South. Along the whole long line the trumpets sang the charge, and brigades and batteries advanced.

But the end of Shiloh was at hand. Despite the prodigies of valor performed by their men, the Southern generals saw that they could not longer hold the field. The junction of Grant and Buell, after all, had proved too much for them. The bugles sounded the retreat, and reluctantly they gave up the ground which they had won with so much courage and daring. They retreated rather as victors than defeated men, presenting a bristling front to the enemy until their regiments were lost in the forest, and beating off every attempt of skirmishers or cavalry to molest them.

It was the middle of the afternoon when the last shot was fired, and the Southern army at its leisure resumed its march toward Corinth, protected on the flanks by its cavalry, and carrying with it the assurance that although not victorious over two armies it had been victorious over one, and had struck the most stunning blow yet known in American history.

When the last of the Southern regiments disappeared in the deep woods, Dick and many of those around him sank exhausted upon the ground. Even had they been ordered to follow they would have been incapable of it. Complete nervous collapse followed such days and nights as those through which they had passed.

Nor did Grant and Buell wish to pursue. Their armies had been too terribly shaken to make another attack. Nearly fifteen thousand of their men had fallen and the dead and wounded still lay scattered widely through the woods. The South had lost almost as many. Nearly a third of her army had been killed or wounded in the battle, and yet they retired in good order, showing the desperate valor of these sons of hers.

The double army which had saved itself, but which had yet been unable to destroy its enemy, slept that night in the recovered camp. The generals discussed in subdued tones their narrow escape, and the soldiers, who now understood very well what had happened, talked of it in the same way.

"We knew that it was going to be a big war," said Dick, "but it's going to be far bigger than we thought."

"And we won't make that easy parade down to the Gulf," said Warner. "I'm thinking that a lot of lions are in the path."

"But we'll win!" said Dick. "In the end we'll surely win!"

Then after dreaming a little with his eyes open he fell asleep, gathering new strength for mighty campaigns yet to come.

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Indian Legends Retold

By

Elaine Goodale Eastman



A Little Talk About Indians


Many of us think of the American Indians as all one people. We talk of "the Indian language." There are more than fifty distinct Indian languages.

There are many other important differences between the various tribes. The nature of the country, the kinds of game and other foods, the climate, winds, trees, all have their effect in molding the daily lives of the people. Their habits and customs are reflected in their legends and popular tales as in a looking-glass.

The mountains, plains, and seashore are the great natural features of our country, and corresponding to these we have coast tribes, prairie tribes, and forest-dwellers or mountaineers among the natives. If you try, you will soon be able to tell from reading a story what part of the country it came from. It is an interesting study to read and compare the legends of different tribes.

The Cherokees lived originally in the South Atlantic States and some few still have their homes in the mountains of North Carolina, but the greater part of the tribe was forcibly removed many years ago to the old Indian Territory. There they developed a civilized government, established schools and colleges, and are now well educated and intermixed with white people. The stories repeated here were gathered from the eastern or parent branch. Their shrewdness and quick wit is very noticeable. Sequoyah, whose impressive statue stands in bronze in the rotunda of the Capitol at Washington, was the famous Cherokee who invented an alphabet.

The Choctaws formerly lived in Mississippi and Louisiana but are now one of the Five Civilized Tribes of Oklahoma (once Indian Territory).

The Tsimshians are Indians of the North Pacific coast and in the old days lived mainly by fishing. They also hunted deer, bears, and other animals. Their houses and boats were made chiefly of cedar wood, and they also wove the bark of the cedar into baskets, ropes, mats, and even clothing. The salmon and the cedar were to them what the buffalo was to the Indians of the Great Plains, so you will not be surprised by the many references to them both in these stories. There is a strong likeness between their customs and those of the Alaskan tribes.

The home of the brave and manly Iroquois was in the valley of the St. Lawrence, the basins of Lakes Erie and Ontario, and most of what is now the State of New York. They were an exceptionally gifted people, wise in state-craft and active in warfare. They believed in the manlike form and magic power of the creatures and elements.

The Pimas are a gentle, peaceable, brown-skinned people, living in Arizona, making fine pottery, weaving beautiful mats and baskets, and raising corn. Like the other desert tribes, their songs and stories have much to do with the rain clouds, upon which their crops depend. They formerly stood in great fear of the warlike Apaches, who often attacked them and carried off women and children captive.

I suppose you all know that these legends were not written down at all until white people or educated Indians put them into books. They were made up by unknown story-tellers, far back in the past, and repeated by old men and women for the amusement and instruction of the young folks. Thus they were handed down, with some changes or additions, from one generation to another.

Indians had good memories. There were no libraries or museums or universities. All their wisdom and their traditions were stored up in the heads of the people, and a thing once forgotten was lost forever. They had not even a notebook or memorandum to help out a poor memory.

It is not so simple to invent a short tale that is witty and ingenious, with as much point and meaning as have most of these we are giving you, as you will soon find out if you try to make up some fables or fairy tales of your own. To remember and tell over such a story in a clear and effective way, without missing any of its logical or dramatic quality -- even this is no very easy matter. The hearing and repeating of the legends took in large part the place of both school and story-books to the Indian boy or girl, and it is good practice for any of us.

It seems likely that every tribe has in its folklore a mischievous character with supernatural powers, who is at the same time a butt for jokes and a successful wonder-worker. He is boastful and resourceful, always trying to outwit other people, and in his turn is often outwitted. Among the Sioux this character is known as Unktomee, the Spider; the Tsimshians call him the Raven; the Cherokees the Rabbit.

Besides this clown, as it were, whose tricks and troubles are endless, every animal has its personal or human side, sometimes one that is obvious, and again it may be decidedly puzzling. The Turtle, for instance, is depicted as a famous warrior (we hardly see why) and the Porcupine as a wise man, which we should scarcely have expected. On the other hand, it seems quite natural to find the Grizzly Bear the chief among animals, and the Eagle the leader among birds.

Indian legends are broadly classed as "myths" and "folk tales." The first tell in a fanciful way how the world was made, how winter, summer, fire, tides, and many other familiar things or conditions came into being. They go back to a time which all Indians believed in, when the animals were real people and could talk as we do. They could do many wonderful things besides that we cannot do. The Winds, Cold, the Stars, and so on are personified; that is, they are described and act as persons, and there are also giants, witches, water sprites and fairy people who change their nature at will.

In many of the folk tales, which come nearer being a record of actual or possible happenings, the lovable and domestic qualities of Indians are brought out very clearly. Notice the loving brothers and the affectionate husband in "The Woman Who Became a Beaver" and "The Wooden Wife." The duty of hospitality is taught in the story of "Grizzly Bear and the Four Chiefs", kindness to animals in "The Feast of the Mountain Goats", patience with children in "The Naughty Grandchildren" and "The Stars and the Pine." In every instance the right-doer is rewarded, the selfish man and the trickster are punished. I hope that you will enjoy these stories as much as I have done, and that they may help you to know and like better the first Americans.




Pima Tales


Children Of The Cloud

There was sorrow on the Casa Grande (the Great Pueblo), for the prettiest woman in the village would accept no man for her husband. Her suitors were many and impatient, but her black glossy locks were still wound above her ears in the manner of virgins, and she steadily refused to allow them to hang down in the matron's coils.

One day a great Cloud came out of the east, looked down upon the maiden and wished to marry her, for she was very beautiful. A second time and a third he floated silently overhead, and at last he found her tired out with work and lying asleep at her mat-weaving. He let fall a single drop of rain upon her, and by and by twin boys were born.

Now when the boys were about ten years old, they began to notice that other boys had fathers whom they welcomed home from war and the chase. "Mother," said they, "who shall we call our father?"

"In the morning look to the east," their mother answered, "and you will see a stately white cloud towering heavenward. That cloud is your father."

Then they begged to go visit their father, and she refused, for she was afraid; but when the boys grew large and strong she could no longer keep them, since they were determined to go. She told them to journey four full days to the eastward and not to stop once on the way.

Her sons followed her instructions, and in four days they came to the house of the Wind. "Are you our father?" asked they.

"No," replied Wind, "I am your uncle. Your father lives in the next house; go and find him."

They did so, but Cloud sent them back to Wind, telling them that he was really the one whom they sought. Again Wind sent them to Cloud. Four times they went back and forth, and the fourth time Cloud saw that they were persistent and he said to them: "You say that you are my sons. Prove it!"

Instantly the younger son sent forked lightning leaping across the heavens, while the elder caused the heat lightning to flash in the distance. The skies opened and rain came down in torrents, enough to drown a mere mortal, but the boys only laughed at the roar and rush of the tempest. Then Cloud saw that they were in truth his children, and he took them to his house.

After they had been there a long time, they began to miss their mother sorely, and finally they wished to return to earth. Their father gave each a magic bow and arrows, strictly charging them to avoid any whom they might meet on the homeward path.

First the Eagle on mighty wing swooped toward them, and they turned aside. Then came the Hawk, and afterward the Raven, but the boys managed to elude all of these. Last the Coyote sought to intercept them, and whichever way they turned, he was always before them. So they stepped out of the road and stood one on either side to allow him to pass. But when Coyote came opposite to them, each was changed into a plant of the mescal, the sacred agave, which is both food and drink to the Indian.


The Captive

There was once a little boy who was brought up by his grandmother. While he was yet very young, his mother had been taken captive by the warlike Apaches. He thought about her a great deal, for he had heard that they treat their prisoners cruelly.

One day he made up his mind to run away and find her. The way was long and hard, but at last he descried the enemy's camp upon the plain, and when he came nearer, he could see a woman standing, looking toward the mesa and her old home. He knew her at once by the white scars which covered her arms, showing where she had been tortured with fire. The child turned himself into a dove and flew straight to his mother, who took him in her hands, and recognized him as her son.

She caressed and fondled him, but told him that he must fly home again before the Apache chief returned, as it would not be safe for him to stay. While they were talking together, the chief entered suddenly.

"What do you mean by whispering to that dove?" he demanded fiercely. "There is sorcery here." And he took the bird in his powerful hands and squeezed it so that the delicate flesh and bones oozed out between his fingers.

The woman screamed, and the murdered dove instantly became a whole flock of hawks, which beat the chief down with their wings and pecked out his eyes. While they attacked him, the captive escaped, and returned to her own people.


The Naughty Grandchildren

An old woman had set her pot on the fire with the soup for dinner, and as her two grandchildren were playing near, she cautioned them not to upset the pot. The boy and girl were in a frolicsome mood, chasing one another with shouts of laughter; and as they ran they heedlessly struck against the pot, which rolled over and broke in pieces, spilling the rich broth into the ashes.

Now when their grandmother saw the mischief they had done in spite of her warning, she caught and whipped them both. Thereupon the children determined to run away.

As soon as she missed them, the old woman followed the runaways out into the desert, calling loudly upon them to come back, for she had only punished them for their own good and loved them both dearly. However, run as fast as she might, she could never come up with them. The two children were never seen again; but it is said that they were turned into two giant cacti and still stand side by side upon the plain.


Bluebird And Coyote

In the old days the animals wore no such fine clothing as now, and the bluebird was of an ugly dun color, which made him very unhappy. One fine morning he came to a lake shining like turquoise, and something told him to bathe in the water.

Lightly he skimmed above the waves and dipped his wings four times, singing as he did so:

"Here is blue water --  I go in --  I am all blue!"

The fourth time that he sang the verse and shook the water from his feathers, they really became bright blue!

Just then Coyote appeared, in time to see the transformation. "If you can make yourself beautiful by bathing in the lake, I can do as much," said he, and accordingly he took the plunge. Coyote could not swim, and he choked and strangled and was almost drowned. When at last he contrived to get upon dry land, he was shivering with cold. He rolled and rolled in the warm sand, which stuck to his fur, and he became dirt color, just as you see him now.




Cherokee Tales


The First Fire

In the old days there was no fire on earth, and the world was a cold and a dreary place, especially at night and in the winter. Think what it would be if we had no hearth at which to warm ourselves, no coals to broil our venison!

One night, in the midst of a thunderstorm, the lightning struck a great hollow sycamore, and it began to burn. When the people saw it, they all wanted to get some fire, but the tree stood in a swamp where there was no firm ground for them to walk on. Many tried and were stuck fast in the bog.

The Raven easily flew across and got so close to the blaze that his feathers were burnt black, and black they have been to this day, but he brought back no fire. Then the Screech Owl tried, and he flew to the top of the burning tree from which he looked down on the hot coals, and got the red eyes that he has had ever since. The large Hooting Owl followed his brother, and the smoke gave him those white rings around his eyes that you have all noticed. The Black Snake said he would try, and he wriggled into a small hole at the foot of the tree, but he was immediately burnt black, and was scorched so badly into the bargain that he has done nothing but twist and squirm to this day. Not one of them brought back any fire.

At last the little Water Spider wove a silken basket which he placed on his back, and then he spun a fine silken thread for a bridge and ran across on it. He reached the tree safely, put a tiny live coal in the basket, and brought it back to the waiting tribes of earth.


Ice Man Puts Out The Fire

Once upon a time there was a forest fire, and the fire went deep down to the roots of a poplar tree, and there it smoldered for a long time. The people tried to put it out, but they could do nothing. By and by they grew frightened, fearing lest it might burn down to the middle of the earth, or spread over all the world. So they sent a messenger to the far north, to beg the Ice Man to help them.

Now the Ice Man is a little fellow, with two heavy braids of black hair hanging over his shoulders. After he had heard all about the fire, he nodded, and loosening one braid he breathed upon the strands. Instantly the wind began to blow. He shook out the hair again, and it began to rain. When he undid the other braid, it hailed violently, and the fourth time he blew upon his hair, the storm became so terrific that the messenger hastened homeward.

When he got home, he saw the fire at the roots of the poplar was still burning, and the pit looked deeper and wider than ever. Many people were standing sadly about it, and as they stood there the wind began to blow. Soon a cold rain fell hissing on the hot coals. Then large hailstones were mixed with the rain, and before long the tempest grew so fierce that they were forced to run for shelter. When it stopped at last, they came out again to look, and the pit of fire was nothing but black coals covered with lumps of ice.


The Origin Of Sickness And Medicine

There was a time when man and the animal people were friends, and talked the same language, and even intermarried with one another. Later on, the human race declared war upon the animals and began to kill them in great numbers, using their flesh for food and their skins for clothing, so that there was great fear and anger among them. At last the old White Bear chief called all the Bears in council to decide what should be done.

After much talk, it was agreed to make bows and arrows of their own with which to defend themselves, and one of the Bears sacrificed his life to furnish sinew for the bowstring. When all was ready, and the Bear chief undertook to try the new weapon, his long claws caught on the string so that he could not handle it. Some one then proposed that they all cut their claws, and they were on the point of doing this when the thought occurred to another that they would be unable to climb trees or seize their prey if they had no claws, and would be in danger of starving to death. In the end, the meeting broke up without coming to any decision, and Bears were hunted just the same as ever.

The White Deer next called all the Deer together, and they decided to punish with rheumatic pains every hunter who should kill one of their number without asking pardon for the offense. Ever since that time, the hunters have been very careful to beg the Deer's pardon whenever it becomes necessary to shoot one, although now and then some one tries to avoid the penalty by building fires on his trail.

The other animals followed the Deer's example, and each made haste to invent a disease with which to torment the human race. The Fish and the Snakes threatened him with bad dreams, and the little Grub, who was tired of being trodden upon, heard them with such joy that he fell over backward and has never stood on his feet since. Only the Ground Squirrel said modestly that as man had never done him any harm he had no wish for revenge, whereupon the others were so angry that they scratched him severely, and he bears the marks on his back to this day.

However, they reckoned without the plants, which were friendly to man, and promptly devised a remedy for each disease. We should be grateful to them whenever we are made to suffer by the revengeful spirit of the animals, for in the kindly vegetable world we can find a cure for every ill.


The First Strawberry

It is told that the first man and woman quarreled, and the woman left her husband. He followed her sorrowfully, but she never once looked back. At last the Sun took pity on the man.

"Do you still love her?" asked the Sun, and the man said he did, and prayed to the Sun to help him win her back again.

Then the Sun caused all manner of delicious fruits to spring up in her path. The woman saw luscious purple huckleberries, but she went right on over them. A service tree laden with sweet red fruit stood in front of her, and she passed it by. Finally she came upon a patch of scarlet strawberries, the first that ever grew, and these she could not resist.

She stooped to taste one, and at once the thought of her husband came into her mind. All the sweetness of their love enfolded her, and she stood quite still in the strawberry patch until he came up with her, and embraced her, and they went back together.


How The Terrapin Beat The Rabbit

The Terrapin once challenged the Rabbit to a race, which the latter regarded as a joke.

"The Terrapin is doubtless a wit," said he, "and a great warrior as well, but every one knows that he cannot run. I shall give him a big handicap, and even then I cannot help beating him."

The course lay over four ridges, and the Rabbit told the Terrapin to go ahead to the top of the first ridge, so that when the signal to start was given he was already out of sight.

When the Rabbit reached the top of the first ridge, he was surprised to catch a glimpse of the Terrapin almost at the top of the second. He ran faster, and as his rival was soon hidden in the long grass, he saw nothing more of him till he was mounting the second ridge, and there was the Terrapin already passing the third. When the Rabbit with great leaps ascended the third ridge, behold! the Terrapin was about to cross the fourth, and the next minute he had won the race.

This is the way it was done. The Terrapin had several friends who looked exactly like himself, so he stationed one of them at the top of each of the first three ridges, with orders to hide in the long grass as soon as the Rabbit came near. He himself stayed at the fourth rise until his competitor came in sight, when he crept over it and so came out ahead.


How The Turkey Got His Beard

Now the animals all suspected some trick in this case, and the Turkey in particular was heard to say that he would contrive to get even.

Soon afterward he saw the Terrapin coming back from war, creeping along with a fresh scalp hung about his short neck and trailing on the ground.

"How, my friend!" he exclaimed, "you do not wear your scalp right; only let me show you."

The Terrapin let the Turkey take the scalp and hang it about his own neck, while he strutted proudly to and fro.

"Does it not look well?" the Turkey asked.

"Well enough," the other admitted, "but you may give it back to me now."

"First let me show you another way to wear it," cried the Turkey, and he adjusted the scalp and flew with it into a tree where the other could not follow. Thus he boasts the stolen ornament to this day.


How The Deer Got His Horns

Perhaps you never heard that there was once a time when the Deer's head was as smooth as that of the doe, and as he and the Rabbit were both great jumpers and proud of their ability, a match was arranged, the winner to receive a fine pair of antlers as a prize. They were to start at one side of a dense thicket, and the first one to make his way through to the further side and back again would be judged the winner.

Now the Rabbit said that he had never before been in that part of the country, and he asked permission to look about a little, which was agreed to. However, he was gone so long that they suspected he might be up to one of his tricks, so one of the judges followed him quietly. There he was, busily gnawing off branches and making a road through the underbrush!

When he finally came out, he was told that on account of his dishonesty the horns would be given to the Deer, and furthermore, since he was so fond of gnawing at bushes, he might continue to do so for the rest of his life.


Why The Deer's Teeth Are Blunt

Although it was not the Deer's fault that the Rabbit lost the prize, the Rabbit was greatly provoked and laid his plans to get even. Cutting a stout grapevine almost in two with his teeth, he laid it across the Deer's path and began leaping back and forth, snapping at the vine.

"What are you doing that for?" asked the Deer, when he caught him at this game.

"Only look! I can bite this tough vine in two with one snap of my sharp teeth," replied the Rabbit.

"Let me see you do it," the Deer suggested.

So the Rabbit sprang at the vine and bit it in two, where it was already almost cut through. "You cannot do anything like that," he declared proudly.

"If you can do it, I am sure I can," the Deer insisted, and the Rabbit made haste to drag forward a heavy vine. The Deer leaped at it and tried to bite it as the other had done, but caught his heels and fell headlong. Again and again he tried without success.

"My friend," put in the Rabbit, who had been looking on and pretending to sympathize, "how can you expect to bite anything in two with such blunt teeth as you have? Just let me file them for you a bit, and they will soon be as sharp as mine."

The Deer was hot and embarrassed and very foolishly gave his consent. Thereupon the sly Rabbit got a rough stone and filed off the Deer's teeth almost down to the gums, so that he could not bite off anything at all.


Why The Possum's Tail Is Bare

A long time ago, the Possum had a fine bushy tail of which he was very proud, so much so that he would even sing of it at the dance. As the Rabbit's tail is short and stubby, he had no patience with such absurd vanity, and at last he thought of a way to put a stop to it.

There was to be a large council and dance to which all the animals were invited, and Rabbit stopped in on his way home to inquire whether Possum was going.

"I shall not attend unless I can be assured of a good seat," declared Possum with much dignity, "for I think my tail entitles me to so much, at least."

"Certainly, I will arrange that," replied Rabbit, with a great show of deference, "and I shall be glad if you will allow me to send a barber to comb and dress your beautiful tail so that it may appear to the best advantage."

On these conditions Possum agreed to attend the dance, and the Cricket, who was an expert barber, was sent to him with private instructions. As fast as he combed and brushed the tail, he wrapped it around with red string to keep it smooth, and no sooner had he finished his work than Possum hurried away in good spirits.

He found the council house crowded, but all made room for him at once, and when his turn came he quickly unwrapped his long tail and took the center of the floor, waving it proudly as he danced. He was greatly surprised to be greeted with loud peals of laughter. He ventured to speak of his tail in the accompanying song, and the people laughed louder than ever. At last, looking down, he discovered that the Cricket, according to the secret orders he had received, had shaved that splendid tail to the very roots, and it has remained entirely bare ever since.

In his great mortification, Possum rolled over on his back helpless, and this he still does whenever he is taken by surprise.


The Owl Gets Married

There was once a woman who had a marriageable daughter. Many men came wooing, but the mother told the girl never to accept any but a skilled hunter, who would keep the lodge well supplied with meat.

One evening the Owl called, in the shape of a handsome young man, and asked the girl to be his wife.

"Are you a good hunter?" she asked.

He said that he was, and upon this she agreed to marry him.

On the day after the wedding, the bridegroom went forth to hunt, and at night he returned with nothing but some scraps that the hunters had thrown away. He excused himself by saying that he had had bad luck, and the next morning he declared that he would try fishing instead.

When at evening he brought home only a worthless minnow or two, the old lady advised her daughter to follow him quietly the next time and see what he did. She did so and was horrified to see her husband turn into a great Owl and fly to the top of a dead tree, where he sat watching for some small fish that might be dropped by a Hawk or an Eagle.

She went home in disgust, and presently he returned with a story of an Owl which had driven away his game.

"I think you are the Owl," declared the young woman, and she turned him out of doors.

The poor Owl went off by himself and pined away till he lost all his flesh, and is now nothing more than a big head and a bundle of feathers.


The Stars And The Pine

Once there were seven little boys who spent most of their time down at the town house, playing a game with wheel-shaped stones and a curved stick like a hockey-stick. Their mothers thought they played too much, and one day, when they were boiling the corn for dinner, they put some round stones in the pot and served these to the little boys instead of corn.

This made the boys angry, and instead of staying at home they went right back to the town house and began to dance. Round and round they went, faster and faster, until their feet came quite off the ground, and they were dancing on air. When their mothers came to look for them, they were already out of reach.

The mothers screamed, and one caught up a game stick and contrived to pull her son down, but the other six went straight up into the sky; and there they are now, as the six bright stars named Pleiades, which the Cherokees call "The Boys."

As for the seventh little boy, he struck the ground with such force that he sank in and was seen no more. His wretched mother watered the spot every day with her tears, and after a long time there sprang up a slender shoot of green which grew into a pine tree. This was the very first pine. Perhaps you did not know that the Pine has a heart of flame and is a brother to the Stars.


The Man Who Married The Thunder's Sister

A certain young man went to a dance one evening and met there two strange young women, both of whom had the longest and handsomest hair he had ever seen. He looked at them a great deal from a distance and finally spoke to them, and before the dance broke up he had asked the younger and prettier of the two sisters to be his wife.

In reply she told him to fast for seven days and she would meet him again at the same place.

The young man was so deeply in love that he gladly accepted the hard condition, and after going without any food for the prescribed time, he went to another dance. There he met again the two sisters with the beautiful long hair. When it was time to leave, the younger one said that he might follow her, but she warned him that if he ever told where he went or what he saw, he would surely die.

They all went along a footpath until they came to a small brook, when the two girls stepped quietly into the water and continued on their way. The young man hesitated at first, but when his sweetheart turned her head and beckoned he stepped boldly in, and it was as if he were walking in deep, soft grass.

Presently the brook ran into a wide and deep river, and now he stopped short, for he was afraid of being drowned.

"Oh," said the girl, "that is only the road to our home!" So in he plunged, and he did not seem to be in the water at all but in the long meadow grass.

The girls led him to a cave under a great rock and offered him a seat, but when he looked at the seat he saw that it was an immense live turtle. He said then that he would rather stand. But what surprised him most was to see both young women take off their lovely hair and hang it up beside the doorway, leaving their heads quite bare.

Soon there came a loud clap of thunder, and directly after a flash of lightning that disclosed a tall man entering the cave. This was the brother of the girls, and his name was Thunder. He invited the youth to ride with him and offered him a horse which turned out to be a large water snake. The young man refused the invitation, for he had become a good deal frightened and decided that he would rather go home.

There came another frightful peal and a dazzling flash, and the next thing he knew he was lying on the river bank with his feet in the water. He reached his home safely, but he could not resist telling his friends about his wonderful experience; therefore within three days he died, for no one may tell of a visit to the underworld and live.


The Enchanted Lake

In the depths of the Great Smoky Mountains there lies a hidden lake which no human eye has ever seen. The hunters know where it must be, for sometimes one has come near enough to scent its freshness, and to hear the rustle of thousands of wings as the ducks rise in great clouds from its cool, green depths. Yet when he approaches, he perceives only a dry hollow in the heart of the woods.

All the creatures know this lake; it is their City of Refuge; mortal eye cannot find them there, and when one of them is wounded, he has only to plunge into its mysterious waters, and he comes out whole.


The Bear Man

A hunter once trailed a bear and shot many arrows into its body, but to his surprise they seemed to make no impression. Finally the bear stopped, pulled out the arrows, and turning to the man, he handed them back to him, saying pleasantly:

"You see it is no use -- you can't kill me. Better give it up and come home with me instead!"

The hunter was curious and followed the bear to his den, where he slept all winter, gradually growing thick black hair over his whole body. When spring came, he was wakened by the shouts of his friends as they surrounded the den.

Not knowing what else to do, he went forth to meet them, looking like a bear, but walking upright like a man. He spoke to them, and they knew his voice and spared his life.

"You have done wrong," said they, "and we cannot allow you to remain here. Come back with us -- your poor wife mourns for you as for one dead!"

"I wish for nothing but to come back," the Bear Man declared. "Tell her, however, that for seven days I must neither eat nor speak. That will break the charm, and I shall be once more a man! Otherwise I must die."

Accordingly he betook himself to a solitary teepee on the outskirts of the village, and there continued his fast. His wife was told that he still lived, and was overcome with joy. Five days she waited for him to come to her, and at the end of the fifth day she could wait no longer. She went to him, threw herself into his arms, and compelled him to answer her questions, thus causing his death.




Choctaw Stories


Why Possum Has A Large Mouth

There had been a long dry season, and the Deer had grown very thin. Meeting Possum one day, he could not help noticing how well-fed and contented the other appeared.

"How is it that you are so fat in a time of drouth and famine?" inquired the Deer, whose skin hung loosely upon a rack of bones.

"It is simple enough," replied the Possum. "I live upon persimmons."

"But how do you reach them?" persisted the Deer. "It seems to me they hang very high."

"Oh, that is easy," declared Possum, who is fond of a joke. "I go to the top of yonder hill, run down very fast and hit the tree with my head just as hard as I can. That shakes off the fruit. Then I have only to sit on the ground and eat and eat till I can eat no more."

"It sounds easy, to be sure," agreed the Deer, who was hungry enough to try anything. He went to the very top of the hill, rushed down violently, and struck the tree with such force that he was killed instantly. At this the wicked Possum laughed so hard that it stretched his mouth, which has remained wide to this day.


The Good Little Spirit

Perhaps you have wondered why some men are wise and do good, while others in their ignorance do nothing but harm. If so, I will tell you a secret.

In a cave not far from the homes of men there dwells a good little spirit. He is very old, his hair is long and white, and he is about as tall as a child three years old.

Now every child, when it reaches the age of three or four, sometimes wanders away out of sight of home, and the spirit is constantly on the watch for this to happen. He comes out of hiding, takes the little one by the hand and leads it away to his cave. There he makes it choose one of three gifts: a knife, a bunch of poisonous flowers, and a handful of healing herbs.

If the child takes the knife, he will do only harm all his days. If he is misled by the beauty of the poisonous blossoms, he will never be wise; but if he takes the good medicine, he will be a wise man and a healer, who will bless and help his people.


Followers Of The Sun

There were once four brothers, who as soon as they noticed that the sun rose in one quarter and set in another, made up their minds to follow on to the place of his setting. They were very young when they set out toward the west, and as the years passed they grew to be tall youths, then strong men in their prime, yet they could never overtake the Sun.

Old age had begun to creep upon the travelers when at last they reached the shores of the Everywhere Salt Water (the ocean). Behind its shining rim the golden ball descended, and they were given power to follow, and where sky and water met to reach their journey's end.

"Why are you here who have not yet died?" asked the Sun.

"We have done nothing but follow you all our lives," replied the brothers.

"Only the dead come here," the Sun insisted. "You will have to go back."

He sent them each home on the wings of a buzzard, and thus returned to their amazed people four feeble old men, who had been where no mortal ever went before. When they had told all their strange story, they lay down and died, and so returned to the glories of heaven, which they alone of all men had seen before their time.


The Hunter Who Became A Deer

A hunter who had traveled all day without finding any game shot a doe near sunset, and as he was very tired, he lay down near the body and went to sleep.

In the morning, when he awoke, he perceived the doe looking at him lovingly out of large, soft eyes. As he returned her gaze, she astonished him yet more by speaking.

"Will you come home with me?" she pleaded.

The young man hesitated, but there was something strangely appealing about this beautiful woman, as she now seemed to him to become. Almost without knowing what he did, he arose and followed her.

By and by, they came to a great cave under the mountain, where it seemed that all the Deer lived with their chief, an immense buck with powerful antlers. The hunter was hospitably received; but all along the sides of the cave he noticed piles of deer hides, with hoofs and horns. This puzzled him not a little; nevertheless he ate with them, lay down among them, and presently slept.

Now while the young man slept, the Deer tried skin after skin till they found one which fitted him, and they also fitted a pair of antlers to his head and hoofs to his hands and feet. In the morning, he opened his eyes and perceived that he also was a Deer, and he remained with the herd.

In the meantime, his mother and his relatives continued to search for him throughout the forest. After some weeks, they discovered the lost one's bow and arrows, hanging on the branch of the tree under which he had slept after shooting the doe. They all gathered on the spot and began to sing songs of magic.

Soon a herd of deer appeared in the distance, coming nearer and nearer as they were drawn by the singing. At last one spoke, and immediately they knew his voice for that of the missing hunter. His mother cried bitterly, and insisted that they should take off the deer's hide from her son and restore him to his own shape again.

"We dare not," protested his brothers and his cousins. "It might endanger his life!"

"Even so," she replied, weeping, "I had rather see my son dead than wearing the form of a beast!"

When they began to tear off the deer's hide, behold! it had grown fast to his own skin, and he began to bleed.

"Go on! go on!" exclaimed the mother in agony, and they persisted until the man died. Then at last they carried home his body and gave it honorable burial.


Pretty Woman

Once in time of famine there were two children deserted by their parents, because they could not find food enough for all. The boy and girl were perishing of hunger when they were discovered wandering in the wood by Old Crow Woman. The kind old body took them to her poor teepee and went out to search for something to eat.

While she was gone, the girl, who was very clever, picked four grains of corn out of the dust and tossed them into the air. In this way each grain became a fine full ear, which they roasted and ate. She then threw up the small skin tent, and it came down large and beautiful. She took her little brother in her arms and threw him up, and he was a tall youth. Finally she said to him: "Brother, throw me up, too!" and he did as she asked.

The half-starved little girl came down again a remarkably pretty woman, and when Old Crow returned with a few grains of corn in her beak, she was astonished to find so beautiful a girl sitting and making moccasins before the largest and handsomest lodge she had ever seen.

When the Mole poked his long nose through the earth to look at Pretty Woman, she ordered him back, saying, "I am not the light."

Three times the Hummingbird circled round her head with buzzing wings, but she drove him away. "I am not a flower," said she. He went home and told all the people that he had seen the most beautiful woman in the world, and the woods were soon full of suitors.

Since Old Crow Woman was the girl's chaperon, they all appealed to her. One said: "I will lay down the richest of bear skins for her to walk on, all the way to my village."

"That will never do," replied the old woman. "She might slip on the skins and hurt herself."

The second lover offered to lay down a line of mortars all the way. "You must not do that," said Old Crow. "The mortars might roll and trip her up."

The third man declared: "My people shall lie down on the ground, and she may tread upon them as she comes to me a bride!"

To this the old woman made no objection, and Pretty Woman walked all the way to her future home upon the bodies of the people.


The Crane And The Hummingbird

Once there was a beautiful girl who had many suitors, and among the most persistent were the Crane and the Hummingbird. She rather fancied the latter, since the Crane was a long-legged, awkward fellow, not at all to her taste. In order to rid herself of his pretensions once and for all, she told them that they might fly round the world, and the first one to return should be her husband. As the Hummingbird is very swift, she had no doubt of the result.

At the end of the first day, he had indeed a long start. Well pleased, he tucked his head under his wing and went to sleep. About midnight, the Crane overtook him and flew on. The Hummingbird passed him at breakfast time and again secured a long lead. But in the night time, while he slept, the unwearied Crane flew on, each night overtaking him earlier, till he had gained a whole day and won the race.

After all, he did not win a wife, for the maiden was so much chagrined by the failure of her plan that she has stayed single to this day.




Iroquois Tales


The Thunderers

There were once three comrades who went upon the warpath, and when they were a long way from home, one had the misfortune to fall and break his leg. The other two made a litter in which they undertook to carry him, but there was a ridge of high mountains to cross, and the way grew very painful and difficult. At last they became discouraged, set the litter down, went a little aside and consulted together in whispers.

By and by they took up their burden again, and coming to a deep crevasse they let it fall as if by accident, so that the injured man rolled into the abyss. They went home and reported that they had met the enemy and that their comrade had died of his wounds. To console his weeping wife, they assured her that he had fought bravely; also that they had tended and cared for him until he died and had then given him suitable burial.

In the meantime, the abandoned one fell to the bottom of the pit, where to his surprise he beheld a very old man sitting with his hands clasped about his withered knees.

"What is this?" inquired the old sage. "Is it possible that your comrades have deserted you and left you to perish miserably?"

"It seems that they have done so," calmly replied the youth.

"You may live, nevertheless," the other promised, "if you will agree to my conditions. I am now too old to hunt. Stay here and keep me supplied with game as long as I live, and I will cure your leg."

As the young man had no choice, he agreed without hesitation, and the ancient bound up his limb with healing herbs, fed and tended him until he was able to hunt.

There was game in abundance in that part of the country, and the old man told him that if ever he shot more than he could carry, he should call out and he would come to his assistance. One day the hunter succeeded in killing an immense bear, and while he was skinning it, behold! three very tall strangers clad in garments of cloud appeared close by.

"We are the Thunderers," said they. "We should be glad to help you, for you have not deserved your misfortunes. That old man for whom you hunt is not what he seems to be. Call him, and you shall see!"

Since the youth saw no harm in calling his benefactor to help him with the game, he did as they advised, and the aged man climbed out of the pit very cautiously, first calling aloud to inquire if there were any cloud in the sky.

"There is none," replied the hunter, and the other hobbled forward, continually peering into the heavens as if in fear of some enemy. Suddenly a rumble of thunder was heard, and immediately he turned and fled in the form of a Porcupine, throwing back sharp quills like arrows as he ran. Louder and louder pealed the thunder, and just as he reached the edge of the pit a bolt of lightning struck the Porcupine, and he fell dead into his den.

After this the young man returned to his own people.


The Winged Hunter

A lone hunter had spent all of his arrows, and was at a loss. He was a long way from home. Upon the lake were many wild geese, but how was he to kill them? Finally he swam underneath the flock, caught several by the feet, and tied them to his belt with withes of basswood bark. When the geese flew up into the air, they carried the hunter with them.

Now he planned to loosen one or two of the birds so that he might sink gradually to the ground, but the rest broke loose suddenly, and he fell into a tall, hollow stump where he remained a prisoner. To be sure, it was only a day or two before some women came near after wood, but his cries frightened them, so that they retreated. Later they returned with their men and released him.

Immediately the hunter made new arrows with which he killed both deer and bears, extracting oil from the latter which he kept in leathern bottles. He now wished to return home; but since he had tried flying, walking seemed to him too laborious. After much thought, he made himself a pair of wings out of a thin piece of tanned deerskin, and flew homeward, carrying the bottles for ballast, and letting fall one or two into the wigwams of the women who had set him free.


Great Head

High up on an inaccessible cliff, there dwells an immense Head, very fierce, with long, bushy hair and huge staring eyes. The people call it the Great Head, and fear it very much.

There was once a family of ten boys who lost their parents at about the same time of a mysterious disease. As they knew no near relatives, the brothers continued to live alone in the forest. However, one day the eldest failed to return from the hunt, and in the morning the second brother went to look for him. That night he, too, was missing. On the next day, the third brother set out to search for the others, and so on until only one of the ten was left.

Now the youngest brother had scarcely started on their trail when he stumbled over a queer little old man, half buried in the ground, and entirely covered with green mold.

When he had dug him out and revived him by rubbing him with oil, the boy told the stranger his story.

"I can tell you what has become of your brothers," exclaimed the little old man. "Without doubt, it is my brother, Great Head, who has enticed them away."

"What! the Great Head is your brother?" asked the boy.

"Yes, he is," replied the little old man.

"Then you must know his ways and can help me to outwit him."

"I can tell you what he eats. Huge billets of maple wood -- only maple -- are his favorite tid-bit."

"And is there anything he is afraid of?" the boy inquired.

"He fears my arrows, which grow ever larger as they fly!"

First the boy worked very hard chopping a great maple tree into blocks; then he invited Great Head to a feast. But Great Head would not come.

Then the little man, his brother, crept slyly to the foot of the cliff through the long grass, and sent forth a magic arrow, which grew larger and larger as it sped toward the mark. A great noise arose, like that of a hurricane rushing through a forest. Down tumbled Great Head to the foot of the precipice, and the nine youths whom he had held captive were freed from the spell, and came joyfully home again.




Tsimshian Tales


How The Daylight Came

A long, long time ago the son of the first chief of the animal people set out upon a journey. Dressed in the skin of a raven, and carrying in his beak a magic bag which his father had given him, he flew eastward over a dark and watery waste. When he had flown far and was tired, he dropped a stone in the sea, and it became an island, upon which he rested.

Again he rose up and flew onward upon slow black wings, no blacker than the gloom that covered the face of the world. As he skimmed the surface of the waves, he scattered from his enchanted bag the spawn of every kind of fish, so that the sea was filled with finny life. Then he turned toward shore, and over the dry land he cast berries and seeds of all plants that are good for food, so that the earth too was ready to burst with fruitfulness, only there was no sun to warm it into life.

Raven became very tired of the eternal darkness, and at last he flew straight upward until he found the hole in the sky, and went right through the hole. There he left the raven's skin lying and flew on till he came to a spring of clear water, bubbling up with a sound like maidens' laughter near the wigwam of the Chief of Heaven. He turned himself into a leaf and floated in the pool, waiting for the chief's daughter. When she came, she was indeed very beautiful. Stooping, she dipped up the leaf in her bucket and drank it with the water.

Now the maiden returned to her home, and not long after a child was born to her. The baby grew very fast. He was stronger than any child ever seen, yet he cried continually. Soon he was creeping about the floor and crying all the time in a loud voice. The wise old men were called in to explain these cries, and the wisest one of all told the princess that her son was crying for a large box that hung under the roof. This was the box that held the daylight.

Since nothing else would do, they took down the box and gave it to the child to play with. For four days he rolled it about the floor; then one day, when no one was looking, he lifted it to his shoulders, got to his feet, and ran out of the door with it. He sped as fast as he could to the hole in the sky, put on the raven's skin that he found lying there, and flew down to earth with the precious box.

Now the Frog people were fishing down there, and they made a great noise and confusion in the darkness. Raven called upon them to be silent, but they paid no attention to him. The big frogs were bellowing very loud, and the little frogs were piping high and shrill, and there was no peace or quiet anywhere. Raven told them twice to be less noisy, and when they would not, he said, "Then I shall open the box."

So he opened it, and daylight overspread the earth.


The Old Woman And The Tides

Again Raven flew over the waters till he reached the mainland and the wigwam of the old, old woman who holds the tide lines in her hand. At that time the tide would remain high for many days at a time, so that the people could get no clams or other sea food. It happened that Raven was very hungry for clams, but he entered the hut and sat down, saying pleasantly:

"Good day, grandmother: there is fine digging to-day. I have just had all the clams I could eat."

"Nonsense!" exclaimed the old woman. "What are you talking about, Raven? You know very well that the clams are all covered."

"Yes, but I've had all the clams I want," he insisted.

"That isn't so," she declared.

Upon this he rudely pushed her backward until she fell down, and her mouth and eyes were filled with dust. Of course she was forced to let go the tide lines, so that the tide ran quickly out, and the beach was covered with fine fat clams and other shellfish. Raven did not come back to the hut until he had eaten as many as he possibly could.

"My eyes are blinded with dust," mourned the old woman. "Will you not give me back my sight?"

"I will, if you will promise to slacken the tide lines twice a day," he replied.

So she said that she would, and from that time to this the tides have run in and out twice each day.


How The Fire Was Brought

After a time, Raven saw that the people were discontented without fire, for they could neither cook their food nor warm themselves when it was cold. He remembered that they had fire at home in his father's village, so he flew westward once more until he came to the wigwams of the animal people. But however hard he begged, they would not give him what he had come for.

Raven made a new plan. He went a little way off and sent the Sea Gull to the camp with this message:

"A handsome young chief will come to feast and dance in the dwelling of your chief. See that all is ready."

He knew that the people would prepare for their guest, so he caught a Deer and tied a bundle of pitch-pine to its tail, for at that time the deer had a long tail like that of the fox. He borrowed the canoe of the Great Shark, and with the Deer came in it to the village.

As he expected, the house of his father the chief was full of people, and there was a big fire made and much feasting and merriment. All the creatures were dancing and singing, and the very birds clapped their wings for joy.

The Deer entered, leaping and dancing, and his grace was much admired, but as he danced around the fire he swung his long tail over it, and the pitch blazed up. He ran out, sprang into the sea and swam off, with his lighted tail flaring above the waves like a torch. Many sprang into their canoes and tried to follow him, but he escaped and reached our shores in safety. There he struck a dead fir tree with his blazing tail and said to it:

"You shall burn as long as the years last!"

We should remember that it is to him we owe the gift of fire, for his tail was burned off, and since that day all Deer have had a short black tail.


Raven And The Crab

Raven had been flying all night over the ocean, and he had grown very hungry indeed, but what was there to eat? At sunrise he reached a sand spit, and there sat a large Crab. Raven thought he might be good to eat, but he was a little timid about attacking him, so he merely touched him on the back, saying, "Let us have a game, grandfather!"

"Certainly not," replied the Crab gruffly.

But Raven grew bolder and touched him again and again, crying out teasingly, "Come on, let us have a game, grandfather!"

Presently the tide turned, and about that time the Crab grew angry. He seized Raven by the leg and walked very slowly into the water with him.

"Dear grandfather, only let me go!" begged Raven, for he was terribly frightened.

Crab paid no attention to his prayers and cries, but walked on the bottom of the sea until he felt sure that his enemy was dead, when he let go of him, and Raven came up and floated lifeless on the top of the waves.

A light wind wafted him ashore, and he lay for a long time motionless on the warm sand. At last the sun revived him, and he awoke. He looked at his raven skin and saw that it was sadly draggled and some of the feathers had come off, but he was so thankful to be alive that he only said to himself, "After all, I have not done so badly!"


The Beautiful Blanket

Not long after this, Raven grew tired of the jet-black robe that his father had given him, and one day he exchanged it for a beautiful blanket of many colors, such as is worn to dances. He had not gone very far when the gay blanket fell to pieces, and he was cold and sorrowful.

He did not know what else to do, so he went back to look for his raven skin and found it lying by the roadside. He put it on again, but soon came upon another dance blanket even handsomer than the first. Forgetting the lesson he had just had, he tore his old robe in half and threw it away with contempt, and dressed himself in the other. Then he walked on, thinking how well he must look in the eyes of any whom he might chance to meet.

This fine dandy was greatly pleased when he saw a strange village near at hand, until, glancing downward, he found to his dismay that he was covered with nothing but moss and lichens. Crying bitterly, he was once more forced to go back in search of his raven skin; after hunting a long time he found it, but it was torn in two. Sadly he pinned it about his body as well as he could and again turned his steps toward the village.

While he was still a little way off, Raven plucked up spirit and gathered a piece of rotten spruce wood, which by his magic art he turned into a slave. Lacking a fine blanket, he made for himself some large ear ornaments out of common clam shells which he found on the beach. Then he ordered his slave to walk before him, crying in a loud voice:

"People of the village, here comes my master, who is a great chief! You will know him by the costly ornaments of abalone shell in his ears!"

It is said that the strangers were deceived by this fine talk and invited the pretender to their chief's wigwam, where a feast was given in his honor.


Raven And The Hunters

One day Raven happened to see a boat load of hunters coming home with plenty of game. As usual, he was hungry, and it occurred to him to take the shape of a woman in the hope of obtaining some food.

Sure enough, when the hunters noticed a good-looking young woman on the shore, they beached their canoe and took her on board. She had a child in her arms, and the child cried incessantly.

"It is hungry," the woman explained; so they made much broth of wild ducks and fed the child and its mother. They feasted most of that night, and the head man was so well pleased with the supposed woman that he offered to marry her. All went well till they awoke in the morning, when, to his surprise and disgust, the new wife looked like a man.

"So it is you, up to your tricks again, you good-for-nothing Raven! Be off with you!" exclaimed the angry hunter, and he cast him overboard.

Raven put on his feathered robe and flew off without any trouble, and at the same moment the baby turned to a crow and flew away also.


Raven And The Children

Raven was out for a walk and came upon a crowd of children playing with whale's blubber. Huge piles of it lay at their feet, and they were throwing lumps at one another in great glee. He stopped and spoke to them.

"Where did you get all that blubber?" he asked.

"Oh," answered the oldest boy, "we climb up that tall tree you see over yonder and jump down from the topmost limb. As we land, we cry out, 'Be piled up, all my blubber!' and it is so."

Raven immediately climbed the tree and jumped off the highest branch, shouting, "Be piled up, all my blubber!"

Nothing happened except that he struck the ground so hard that he was lame for several days. Meanwhile the children picked up the blubber and ran off, laughing heartily.


Raven And His Mother-In-Law

Once upon a time Raven came to a small house away from everybody, where lived two women, a widow and her young daughter. The elder woman asked him in and gave him a good supper, and as the house appeared to be well stocked with dried fish and other necessaries, he proposed that evening to marry the daughter and was accepted.

The next day, after a hearty breakfast, he borrowed the old woman's stone ax and went out. He told the two women that he was going to cut down a cedar tree and make a boat for the fishing, and he charged his wife to see that her mother had a good meal ready for him on his return. Before night he came back very hungry, saying that he had felled the tree and would begin next day to hollow out the canoe.

This went on for some time, Raven going forth every morning with the ax and returning in the afternoon, apparently tired out, and with so great an appetite that the widow's stores of food were getting low. They could hear the blows of the ax from time to time in the depths of the forest, but somehow the boat was never quite finished.

At last one morning the old woman said to her daughter, "Go quietly, my child; follow your husband without letting him know it, and see for yourself what progress he is making."

The young wife did as she was told, and there was the trickster pounding a rotten stump with the stone ax so as to make the sounds they had heard. When she told her mother what she had seen, the two women packed up all the goods they had left and went away.

When Raven went home that night, he found only the empty hut, which was as much as he deserved.


Raven And The Salmon Woman

Now Raven had been unfortunate for a long time and was poorer than ever, but he had at last contrived to build a small hut and make a boat and a spear. Just as he was ready to go fishing, a heavy fog came down and covered the face of the water, hiding his boat entirely. When the fog lifted, there sat a beautiful woman in the bow of the canoe.

"You have come to my boat; will you be my wife?" asked Raven.

And the woman consented, saying, "Yes, if you will be always kind to me, my husband. Remember, I am the Salmon Woman."

"Then we shall have plenty of fish in our lodge," exclaimed the pleased bridegroom.

And he was right, for next morning his new wife rose early and stepped barefoot into the little brook that ran close by their hut. Instantly salmon by hundreds came leaping up the stream, and she called to him, saying:

"Husband, come! the creek is full of silver salmon!"

After he had speared many, he went after wood with which to smoke their abundant catch, and as he feared the birds might come down and steal some of his fish while he was gathering the wood, he left one of his eyes to watch the boat, telling it to be sure and call him in case the birds came near the salmon.

Soon the eye cried out, "Master, come quickly! the birds are here." But as he was very busy he merely replied, "Hide the fish under the seat until I come," and went on with his work.

When he came back to the boat with a load of wood, he found to his sorrow that the greedy creatures had not only eaten up all the fish but his eye also.

Crying bitterly, Raven went back to his wife, who asked him what the matter was. When he told her, she had only to touch the empty socket, and immediately he had a new eye quite as good as the other. As for the stolen fish, he did not miss them at all, for the tiny stream was now so full of salmon that there was scarcely any water to be seen.

Although their poor hut was well supplied with food, and his meals well cooked, and his wife was as loving and kind as she was beautiful, nevertheless Raven would leave her in the morning and be gone all day without saying where he went. By and by he began to come home in a bad temper and to speak to her harshly. One evening he exclaimed:

"Well, who has been to see you to-day?"

"No one has been to see me, my husband," she replied. "No one ever comes to this lonely place."

"Don't try to deceive me," said he roughly. "A man has been here in my absence. I know it, because I have been gambling this long time, and at first I had good luck, but to-day my luck was bad; therefore I know you have had a man here."

Then the Salmon Woman felt insulted, and without speaking to him she turned to the dried fish that hung from the ceiling.

"Come, O my tribe!" she cried, and all the fish came to life and followed her. She sprang into the water and swam away, and they all swam after her, leaving the unkind husband alone and hungry once more.


The Animals In Council

It is now many years since the ancient friendship between man and the animal tribes was broken, and since that time the animals have been hunted continually and go about in fear of their lives. One day Grizzly Bear invited all the larger beasts to meet at his wigwam and discuss the matter. Deer, Elk, Wolf, and many others were present when Grizzly Bear made his great speech in which he spoke of the constant danger they were in and the need of finding a remedy, and finally proposed that they petition He-Who-Made-Us to lengthen the winter and cause very deep snows with extreme cold, so that the hunters could not get about.

All agreed to this plan, but Wolf got up and proposed that before acting upon it they should consult the smaller animals and even the Insect tribes. "For," said he, "if we ignore them now they may make trouble for us later on."

The others had no objection, and next day Beaver, Squirrel, Mink, Muskrat, all four-footed creatures down to the little Mouse, and all of the Insect tribes as well, were invited to join in the council.

It was a great gathering. The larger animals sat on one side of a wide semicircle, and the smaller on the other side. Again Grizzly Bear made the first speech, telling of the meeting of the day before and of his suggestion, and asking all present for their opinion on the matter.

After a silence, Porcupine arose and remarked that the idea might do well enough for those who had warm fur coats, but that many of the little people were not so well protected against severe weather, and as for the feeble Insects, if the winters should become any longer or colder than they were already, they would all perish, therefore they could not agree to the proposal.

"I don't care whether you agree or not," growled the Bear. "We larger animals have decided that this is the best thing to do, and we are going to do it anyhow."

"I fear you are short-sighted," replied Porcupine, who found that he had used the wrong argument. "You large animals are always roaming the woods in search of something to eat, and if the winters grow any colder there will be no food for you, that is certain. All life will perish, even the roots of the grass on which the Deer lives, and the berry bushes of which the Bear is so fond will be frozen. You will all starve, but we shall live, for we Porcupines can live on the bark of trees; and as for the smallest Insects, they can burrow into the earth and survive."

The other animals were impressed by this speech and began to say among themselves, "How wise he is!" "Now who would have thought of that?" and "I think we should reconsider the matter."

"Ah, ha, ha!" laughed Porcupine, and he was so pleased with himself that he stuck his thumb into his mouth and then bit it off, which is the reason that he has only four fingers and no thumb.

Now the animals called him the wisest of their number and accepted his decision, and as for those who would not agree, Porcupine filled them full of sharp quills, on which account they all stand in awe of him to this very day.


The Four Winds

Once there were four great chiefs who lived in the four corners of the earth, and their names were North Wind, South Wind, East Wind, and West Wind. The other three all hated North Wind, for he was very rude and boisterous, and insisted upon blowing his bitter blast into their faces at all times of the year, so that the tender fruit buds and fragile blossoms were never safe from his withering breath.

Finally they united to make war upon him, and after a long struggle they succeeded in gaining his promise that he would only blow for half the year, which helped matters a little.

Now the South Wind had four sturdy sons and a beautiful daughter, while North Wind's family consisted of twin boys, one of whom was called Frosted, and the other Frozen. No sooner were the children grown up than Frosted wished to marry the daughter of South Wind, who was as fair and gentle as a summer's day, but she would have nothing to say to him.

The next year Frozen came courting. He was a handsome fellow, very determined, and proved more fortunate than his brother. The wedding feast was the finest ever known in that part of the country. It lasted for seven days, at the end of which Frozen carried home his bride in a tempest of wind and rain.

When South Wind's daughter reached the land of perpetual snow and ice, she very soon regretted her rash choice. There was not so much as a spark of fire in the house, which was built of ice blocks, and day and night she was chilled to the very marrow of her bones. Meanwhile the rest of the family were saying, "What a pleasant season we are having!" and "The weather seems unusually mild for this time of the year!"

At last she could bear it no longer, and one day as she sat sadly on the beach she picked up a bit of yellow driftwood and carved it into the shape of a duck. When she had finished, she tossed the duck into the air, saying:

"Fly south, little duck, and tell my father that I am very unhappy here in the cruel northland!" And the duck flew away southward.

Far in the southland the South Wind's wife stood in the door of their wigwam and called to her husband, "Look, husband! Spring is coming, for I see the ducks returning!"

The little yellow duck came on, and as soon as he was near enough he gave the daughter's message:

"Your child is very unhappy there in the cruel northland!"

When South Wind understood it, he was angry and called his four strong sons to his side. "Boys," said he, "go at once to North Wind's house and bring home your sister!"

The eldest son started first in the shape of a great gray cloud, and when the little bride saw the cloud in the distance she was glad, for she felt sure that it was her brother. But immediately North Wind went out with his two sons to meet him and drove him back, so that she wrung her hands in sorrow.

The second brother went as a very black cloud, and he got a little farther than the first when he too was fiercely attacked and beaten back. Then the bride of Frozen cried bitterly, for she began to be afraid she must stay there forever.

The third brother went as a great storm of rain, and he had nearly reached the spot where his sister was eagerly waiting, when the icy wind turned the rain to hail and drove it back, and the poor girl was in despair.

However, there was still the youngest brother. He went as a sharp-edged and thin cloud which slipped right by North Wind and reached his palace, where he turned all the ice to water. The whole country was flooded, and North Wind and his family were helpless.

"Not only does your son lose his bride," cried the victorious son of South Wind, as he retreated with his sister, "but I shall take away three of your months also. From this time forth you are allowed to blow but three months in the year."

Thereupon the four Winds divided the year among them in this fashion: to North Wind the three winter months, to East Wind the spring, to West Wind the summer, and the autumn to South Wind.


The Feast Of The Mountain Goats

In the old days the hunters were many and skillful. They killed hundreds of mountain goats for their flesh and skins and left their bones lying unburned on the rocks, which was a great dishonor. Moreover, their children were thoughtless.

One day, a young man whose name was Really Black Raven Feather was walking along the beach, and he saw a group of boys making merry with a kid. They would seize it and throw it into the water, watch its struggles for a time, then drag it ashore half drowned, and as soon as the poor creature was able to walk, they would throw it in again. When they tired of this sport, they built a fire and put the kid in the fire, to dry, as they said; but before it was more than scorched this young man pulled it out and scolded the boys severely for their cruelty, so that they all ran away.

Not long after this, a messenger came down from the hills inviting all the villagers to a feast, and as was the custom they followed the messenger. They came to a large wigwam on the mountain side which they had never seen before, and all were seated within this immense tent. Really Black was given a seat immediately behind the tent pole, which was unusually heavy.

Soon a crowd of people wearing goats' headdresses came dancing and singing over the rocks. They danced around and in front of the wigwam, and presently the chief dancer kicked so high that he touched the tent covering with his goat's hoof. Instantly it fell down on the heads of the guests and became a mountain which crushed them to death. Only Really Black was saved. He clung to the tent pole, which became a giant spruce growing out of the side of the mountain. Therefore he and his descendants have always respected the goats, and taken care to burn their bones when it was necessary to hunt them for food or clothing.


The Woman Who Became A Beaver

There was once a man who took his wife with him to hunt raccoons at a distance from the village. They were very successful. Every night the man shot several of the animals, and in the daytime they were both busy skinning them and trying out the fat. One day the young wife became tired of work and she approached her husband and tried to attract his attention, saying playfully:

"Look at me, my husband!"

It is true that she was a pretty woman, but the man was bent on skinning his game just then and took no notice of her. Seeing that he made no answer, she kept on teasing him to look at her. At last he grew provoked.

"Go away," said he crossly; "you are no better than these raccoons!"

At this the young woman was much hurt and went away without speaking. Her husband finished his work and then came to his supper, but no meal had been prepared for him, and no wife was to be seen. He called and called, but no one answered. After searching for her some time, he discovered the woman taking a bath in a small pool, which she had made for herself by piling up sticks and pebbles to dam the stream.

"Come, my wife, it is time to eat," begged the young husband.

"You have said that I am no better than the raccoons," she answered, "and I am very much ashamed. I prefer to stay where I am."

He went back to their hut, but came again later in the evening and tried hard to persuade her.

"My wife, you know that I love you," he protested. "I only spoke as I did because I was thinking of my work and I wanted to get through with it. I am sorry for what I said, and I did not mean anything by it. Come, now, you should not stay in the water so long or you will be sick; and besides, it is time to go to bed."

She would not listen to him, however, and he noticed that the dam had grown higher, and the pool was much bigger than before.

The woman did not come to bed at all that night, and the deserted husband could not sleep for thinking of his wife swimming about in the cold water. He lay awake, listening to the lapping of the little waves and the slap of her leathern apron as it struck the water when she dived.

Next morning the pool had become a pond, and out in the middle of it he could still see her swimming about. For the third time he called to her and pleaded with her to come out, but she would not answer him at all, so he went home very sorrowful.

Now the young woman had six brothers, and when they heard what had happened, they all declared that they would go and bring home their sister. Their brother-in-law guided them to the spot where he had left her and behold! a large lake filled the valley, and there was a beaver house under the dam.

The young men saw several young beavers swimming about, and presently they heard a great beaver tail spank the water. Looking closely, they recognized the woman, but she was covered from head to foot with soft brown fur, and her leathern apron had become the flat tail of a beaver.

At this they wept much, and with one voice implored her to come home.

"No," said the beaver woman. "My husband has said that I am no better than the raccoons, and I am too much ashamed to live with mankind any longer. Do not trouble about me further, for I shall never come back."

"Let us go away and leave her," said the eldest brother, for he did not know what else to do.

"No," said the youngest. "Let us break the dam; then all the water will run out, and she will be compelled to come."

They broke the dam and destroyed the beaver house. The woman lay face downward in the mud at what had been the bottom of the lake. She was quite dead. In all points she was like a beaver, but when they turned the body over, grieving much, the face was the face of the offended wife.


The Ten Princes

The ten sons of a chief went hunting, and all took their wives with them except the youngest brother, who was unmarried. They all camped together at night, and in the morning the eldest prince went out in search of game.

The first thing he saw was a fat porcupine coming toward him, which he easily caught. He wrung its neck, and hung it on the branch of a tree, and went on.

Near the top of a hill, he met a handsome white she-bear and shot her dead. He kept on to the very top, and looking down, perceived a strange town at the foot, which made him very curious. He walked up boldly to the first hut, in which a pretty young woman sat alone. She beckoned to him through the window, but he had scarcely entered when some one called out from the next dwelling:

"You have a visitor. Send him here: the chief wishes to see him."

At the chief's door, several young men met the stranger with much kindness and greatly admired his weapons, which they begged to be allowed to examine. As soon as he went in, the chief greeted him with all hospitality. He ordered that the softest robes be brought for his seat and caused him to be served with the choicest food. While he ate, his weapons were returned to him and laid at his side. When night came, the chief said, "Bring the best blanket for our guest; he will remain with us to-night"; and it was done.

In the morning a cry arose, "The bears are coming!"

"Let my best hunters go out against them," ordered the chief. Now the young prince was an expert hunter and had a mind to display his skill, so he hastened to attack the foremost bear. He drew out his best arrow, but to his astonishment the arrow broke. Hurriedly he seized his spear, and the spear broke. In a moment the grizzly bear was upon him and bore him to the ground.

As soon as he was dead, the young men dragged his body into the chief's hut, where the chief caused it to be cut in pieces and hung up to dry.

Now when this young man did not come back to camp on that day or the next, his wife grew anxious, and the next in age offered to go in search of him. He set out in the same direction, and half-way up the hill he met a fat porcupine, which he clubbed and hung in a tree as his brother had done. A little further on, he saw a white she-bear and killed her, after which he went toward the village which he observed in the distance.

The pretty young woman invited him to come in, and the young men welcomed him cordially and took away his weapons, which they returned to him as he sat feasting in the house of the chief. In short, everything happened to him exactly as it had happened to his brother; and in the morning, when his arrows broke off short, he was at the mercy of the bear, and his body was cut up and hung beside that of the first.

Next day, the third youth went to look for the other two, and so on, until all were gone except the youngest. The nine widows mourned continually, and they begged the last brother not to follow the others, for if he should, they felt sure that he too would be lost and they would all be left without a protector. However, he insisted upon going, assuring them that not only would he come back safe and sound, but would bring back their husbands also.

He took the same path up the hill, and when he saw the fat porcupine coming to meet him, it occurred to him that he had better let her pass unharmed, and he did so. A little later, he met the white she-bear and shot her; but when he came to her he could not help laying his hand gently on her side and exclaiming aloud, "How beautiful she is!"

Instantly the bear became a handsome young woman, who smiled upon him, and warned him of the dangers that he would meet in the Bears' town at the foot of the hill.

"These people are really Bears," said she, "and I am one of them sent to deceive you. But you have no wife, and I like you very much. Do not let the young men take your weapons even for a minute, or they will change them to dry sticks as they did those of your nine brothers, who killed me without remorse."

Finally she gave him two small pups and told him to hide them in his robe, and if ever he was in trouble to set them one by one on the ground, saying, "Red, grow up quick and help me!" "Spot, grow up quick and help me!" and it should be so. Then she kissed and embraced him, and he went on down the hill to the village.

In the first hut he came to he found his sweetheart again, and she greeted him lovingly. When the chief sent for him, she delayed parting with him as long as she could, but was at last forced to let him go, with many charges as to the best way to outwit her kinsmen. Accordingly he kept fast hold of his weapons, when the young men crowded admiringly about him, and even lay awake all night lest they should take them from him while he slept.

In the morning, when the Bears came on as before, and the chief called for men to go out and meet them, the young prince drew his bow and shot the foremost through the heart. More followed, and he killed them one after another until his arrows were all gone. Then he fought with his spear until he was tired out, and still the Bears came on.

Finally he remembered the pups that his sweetheart had given him, and he placed the first one on the ground, saying, "Grow up quick, Red, and help me!"

Instantly the pup became an immense dog which rushed at the Bears and drove them back.

Then he put down the second pup, saying, "Grow up quick, Spot, and help me!" and another savage dog attacked and put to rout the last of his enemies.

Then the young man returned to the Bear chief's wigwam for his nine brothers. He took down the pieces of their bodies and laid them side by side, and they all came to life and followed the hero and his Bear wife back to their own camp, where they were welcomed with great rejoicings.


The Girl Who Rejected Her Cousin

In the old days, a chief's daughter was expected to marry the son of her uncle, and so keep the chieftainship in the family. But there was once a proud princess who behaved very badly to her cousin when he came wooing, according to the custom.

"I must be sure that you love me," she said.

"I do love you," he declared.

Upon which she answered, "Then prove your love by making a cut down your right cheek."

The young man immediately took out his knife and slashed his right cheek so that the blood streamed over his face.

When the cut had healed, he went again to his cousin and asked for her hand with some confidence, but she said:

"First you must cut your left cheek also, and then I shall know that you really love me."

The young man did not like to do it, but he would not give up, and he slashed his left cheek also.

He waited for the second cut to heal and then went to her with his scarred face and begged her to marry him at once.

"Yes," said she, "I will marry you, for you have done well," and she kissed him, so that he became more in love than ever. Finally she told him sweetly that she was not yet entirely satisfied, and that before the wedding he must cut off all his hair.

Now short hair is considered a disgrace to a man, and the prince was most unwilling to cut his off, but at last he yielded and went to her to ask that the wedding day might be set. But she refused to see him, merely sending a servant with the message that he must be quite mad to suppose that she would marry such a hideous object as he had made of himself.

The poor young man was very unhappy, and he left his home and wandered away until he came to a small hut that stood all by itself under a hill.

An old woman opened the door and kindly asked him to come in -- "that is," said she, "if you are the chief's son who was rejected by his cousin."

"I am he," declared the youth.

"What can I do for you?" asked the old woman.

He answered that he wanted nothing more than to be as he had been, before he disfigured himself at the bidding of the cruel young woman.

Accordingly the crone prepared a bath for him, and when he came out his skin was smooth and fine, without any mark upon it. She combed his hair with a comb of ivory, and it became long and splendid and fell over his shoulders like a mantle, so that he was far handsomer than before.

When he went back to the village, all the people admired him as a being from another world, and his cousin put on her best robes and walked to and fro, trying to attract his attention, but he did not even glance at her. Finally she sent her servant with a message, asking him to come and see her.

When he did not appear, she sent a second time, and inquired very humbly what she could do to please him. He told the messenger to say that if she would slash her right cheek with a knife, he would come.

So the princess cut open her right cheek, and when the cut had healed she sent to her cousin again. This time he made answer that she must first cut her left cheek also, and she did as he ordered.

When her messenger came to the prince a fourth time, he directed that her mistress cut off all her beautiful hair, declaring that he would then be entirely satisfied. Crying bitterly, the poor girl cut it off and sent it to her lover, but he threw it on the ground with contempt, saying that nothing would induce him to look upon the face of a woman who had so disfigured herself.

The wise men say that since this happened, women have not been allowed to choose their husbands, or to refuse the men who have been selected for them to marry.


Grizzly Bear And The Four Chiefs

There were once four chiefs who were brothers and lived in one village. In the dead of winter, when food was scarce, a lean stranger came among them and stopped at the hut of the eldest brother.

He was courteously received and seated by the fire, as is the custom, and the chief asked him where he came from.

"I have come a long way," replied the stranger.

"And what have you eaten on the way?"

"I have eaten nothing but snow," he said.

Then the chief ordered a dish of snow and a spoon to be placed before his guest, but he got up without touching it and went on to the house of the second brother.

Here he was again asked where he came from and what he had eaten on the road, and when he answered that he had eaten only snow, he was given a large dish of it with a spoon. The same thing happened at the third house.

When the traveler came to the dwelling of the youngest brother, and the host heard that he had eaten nothing but snow and was starving, he said to his wife, "Wife, see if there is still a dried salmon left."

She looked, and found a single one, half of which she broiled and gave it on a dish to the stranger.

After he had eaten, he made ready to go on, but his host said, "Wife, give our guest the other half of the salmon to eat on the journey," and she did so.

Then the stranger said to him, "All the others ridiculed a starving man, but you were a true host. Your kindness shall be rewarded. Meet me to-morrow at the mouth of the river."

The young chief did as he was told, and behold! a great grizzly Bear, who presented him with leggings, a grizzly-bear headdress, and a magic bow which killed all manner of game. From that day he never went hungry, but became the envy of his elder brothers and the richest man in the village.


The Wooden Wife

Once there was a young man newly married who was very fond of his wife. She was not only a pretty woman, but she wove the most beautiful dancing-blankets of any one in the tribe.

One day this young man went into the mountains to hunt wild goats, from whose hair his wife might weave more of her much-prized blankets, and she went with him to keep his hut and to cook for him. While they were yet far from the village, the girl fell sick, and although he did all that he could for her, the young husband soon saw that she was dying.

"Tell me, my dear, what can I do for you?" he begged, as he hung over her.

"Only do not leave me soon, my husband! Do not soon forget our love," sighed the wife, and she died.

The goat-hunter mourned her truly, and he did as she had asked him to do. He remained on the spot where he had lost her and seemed to have no thought of going back to the village. He kept her body with him in the hut as long as he could, and when at last he was forced to lay it away, he carved an image out of cedar wood and set it up in front of her loom, so that as one entered the hut it seemed that a woman sat there, weaving a dancing-blanket. Every morning he went out hunting goats, and when he returned in the evening he would call out as he came near the hut, saying:

"Come out, my wife, and see what I have brought you!"

Then he would answer himself in a woman's voice, "I cannot come just now, my husband. I am weaving, and the wool may become snarled if I leave my loom."

Presently he would enter the wigwam, come up behind his wooden wife, and kiss her lovingly.

After a time, the story of these strange doings spread to the village, and two young girls, sisters, being filled with curiosity, decided to come and find out for themselves what truth there might be in the rumors that were about. When they reached his lonely hut, the hunter was away as usual, so they raised the door-flap and peeped in. There sat the wooden wife in front of the loom, with her back to them, exactly like a woman weaving.

"Elder sister," said they, "we are hungry." But when she did not move nor speak, they knew that she was not a real woman, and they hid in a corner behind some blankets until the husband should return.

By and by they heard his voice outside the hut, telling his wife to come out and see the game he had brought, and then her usual answer that she was busy weaving and could not come just then. Next he came in, put his arms about the wooden wife, and kissed her fondly.

Upon this the elder girl could not help laughing so that he heard it and discovered them both. But the young man was a courteous host. He begged them to be seated and offered them food, and the elder sister ate heartily; she even over-ate, while the younger was very quiet and took but a taste of each dish. The hunter took note of their conduct, and when supper was over, he asked the younger girl to be his wife.

"I will marry you," said she, "if you will put away your wooden wife." Accordingly he destroyed the image that he had made, and married the girl, and they lived happily together for many years.


Ildini

Ildini lived at End-of-trail, with his wife and two boys. One day he went fishing when the wind blew strong from the shore. It blew his boat so far out that he could not get back. All day and all night he was blown about the cold gray waters. He became very hungry and chilled to the bone.

Ildini prayed and sang for a fair wind. This was his song:

"Ocean Spirit, calm the waves for me! Come closer to me, my Power! Calm the waves, so that I may go home!"

After many days the wind went down and the canoe floated near a strange shore, but by now the man was so weak that he could not land. On the shore he saw no one but a little child, scarcely big enough to talk. He told the child his name, "Ildini", and the little fellow repeated it over and over as if it were a game -- "Ildini -- Ildini -- Ildini!" He ran home still saying over the new name, and exclaimed to his grandfather: "Grandfather, come -- Ildini!" He kept saying this until the old man followed and discovered the canoe and the fisherman, who was by this time unable to stand.

He called his wife to help him and together they carried Ildini to their house, where they rubbed his limbs, warmed him and gave him broth, a little at a time. When he had recovered, he became the chief of that tribe, and learned their ways and their language. He never ceased to mourn for the two sons whom he had left behind at End-of-trail, but he did not weep for his wife, for he believed her faithless and thought that she had been the cause of his misfortune. In truth she supposed him dead and had long since married another.




Alaskan Stories


The Man Who Entertained Bears

There was once a man who had lost all of his family in a terrible sickness that came upon the people of his village. He was all alone in the world and very sorrowful. He did not know what to do. First he thought he would get into his canoe and paddle away till he came to another village. Then it occurred to him that they might think he had run away from home because he had been accused of witchcraft or of some other shameful thing.

He considered taking his own life, but did not like to do it. Finally he concluded to go among the bears and let them kill him. He found a bear trail, and lay down in it till he heard the bushes breaking and saw several grizzly bears coming along the trail. An unusually large bear was at their head.

Suddenly the man became frightened and felt that he had chosen a hard death. He arose and spoke to the leading bear.

"Brother," said he, "I am come to invite you to a feast in honor of my dead. I have lost my children and my wife and there is none left of my blood and of my house. Will you help me to do honor to their spirits?"

The largest bear turned toward the others and whined, as if he were telling them of the invitation. Then they all went back, and the man hurried home to prepare his feast. He took away all the old sand from his fireplace and replaced it with clean sand. He brought a load of wood and picked many berries, both cranberries and huckleberries. He also told his neighbors what guests he expected, and they all supposed him crazed by sorrow.

Next morning he arose early and painted himself with unusual care. When all was ready, he stood in the doorway of his house awaiting his guests. Presently he saw the bears entering the mouth of the creek in single file, the great bear in the lead, just as on the day before. The other villagers saw them too and ran and hid themselves in their houses, terrified out of their wits; but their host stood still to receive them and give them the seats of honor, the chief in the middle seat, as is the custom.

First he served them with large trays of cranberries covered with grease, and as soon as the bear chief began to eat of the food the others followed his example. The other courses were served and eaten in the same way. When all had finished eating and were about to retire, each in turn licked some of the paint from his breast and arms in sign of their sympathy.

On the next day, the smallest bear came back alone in human form, and spoke to his host in his own tongue, telling him that he was a man who had long since been captured and adopted into the Bear tribe. "The Bear Chief," said this person, "is very sorry for you, because he too has lost all of his friends. He understood your sorrow and for that reason refrained from killing you. I was not permitted to speak to you in his presence, but he wishes you to remember him when you mourn for your dead."

Ever since this time, the old men, when they kill a grizzly bear, paint a cross on its skin. It is also commanded that when you give a feast you should invite every one, even your enemies, just as this man invited the Bears, who are the enemies of human kind.


Beaver And Porcupine

Once in the old days Beaver and Porcupine were comrades and went everywhere together. Now Beavers are much afraid of Bears, who break down the beaver dams so as to let off the water, catch them and eat them. But the Bear fears the sharp quills of the Porcupine, therefore the little fellow acted as guard to his friend. Porcupine often visited Beaver in his house, which is dry and comfortable, and unfortunately annoyed his host by leaving some of his quills there.

One day Porcupine proposed to call on his friend, and Beaver offered to carry him on his back, since the prickly one cannot swim. But instead of taking him to his home under the dam, he took him to a tall stump in the very middle of the lake, and there he left him!

There Porcupine was compelled to stay until the lake froze over, and he could walk home on the ice.

Beaver contrived to explain the whole thing as a joke, and the pair appeared to be on as good terms as ever. One fine day the Bear appeared.

"What shall I do? Save me! save me!" cried Beaver in terror.

"Certainly, friend; just get upon my back and I will carry you to safety," replied Porcupine.

Beaver did as he was told, and was taken to the top of a very tall tree and left to himself. He did not know how to climb and was afraid to try to get down alone.

"Oh, do help me down!" he cried; but it was of no use to beg. After staying up there so long that he grew dizzy and almost starved to death, he finally contrived to scramble down the tree; and they say that is why the bark of trees is rough and full of scratches to this day. We are also told that it is on account of this happening that people who have loved each other very much sometimes quarrel, and are no longer friends.


Mountain Dweller

Two sisters belonging to a well-known family one day became very hungry and helped themselves to some of their mother's fat meat, notwithstanding the girls were strictly forbidden to eat anything between meals.

When the mother found it out she was angry, especially with her elder daughter, for the younger was still a child. She not only scolded the girl, but slapped her severely. At last she said: "Since you are so fond of eating, you had better go and marry Mountain Dweller!"

Now Mountain Dweller is a being who lives alone upon the mountains and is supposed to be a great hunter. Up to this time, no mortal had ever seen him. The girls were more deeply offended by her words than by the blows she had given the elder, and that night when their mother slept they ran off into the woods.

They had wandered a long way and were crying with fear and hunger when they heard some one chopping wood in the distance. "Perhaps it is really he," said the elder sister, and they followed the sound.

There stood a man whose face was painted red. He was kind and asked the girls what they were doing so far from home.

As soon as they had told him, he invited them into his house near by, and they found it large and well stored with abundance of meat. They remained there as he asked them, and the elder sister in time became his wife.

Now the mother had soon repented her hasty speech and both parents searched everywhere for their daughters. When they could not find them, they mourned them as dead. A year passed, and the mourners' feast had been given, when one day Mountain Dweller said to his wife and his sister-in-law: "Wouldn't you like to see your father and mother again?"

"Oh, yes, yes!" exclaimed the little girl, but the other thought not, for the insult was hard to forgive. At last she consented to go, whereupon her husband hunted continually and prepared a large quantity of meat for a present to his father-in-law.

"Make a little basket, no larger than the end of your thumb," he told her; and when it was finished, he put into it all those canoe loads of meat, hung it on his finger, and the three of them went down the mountain to the old home of the two girls.

Their little brother was playing outside the hut and saw them first. He ran inside. "Mother, mother!" he cried, "my two sisters are coming!"

"Nonsense," scolded his mother. "Your sisters have been dead a long time, as you well know. Did we not give the mourners' feast for them this last moon?"

"Nevertheless I ought to know my own sisters, and I do know them," the boy persisted. "They are coming -- they are here!"

The mother came to the door and saw them, and instantly she threw herself upon their necks, crying for joy.

The next morning, the elder daughter said to her: "Mother, back there in the woods a little way there is a basket for you. Send my brother to bring it."

The boy went and soon came back saying that it was too heavy for him. The whole village went, but all of them together could not carry the basket. Finally the young wife went herself, and she brought it easily in one hand. But when she set it down in the house and began to unpack it, behold! the place was filled and running over with meat of all kinds. There was a great feast and every one was pleased, but unfortunately the girls' mother ate so much that in the night she became very ill, and by morning she was dead.

This is a story told to discourage greediness.


The Eagle Crest

It is well known that there is a certain clan which claims the Eagle for its crest or totem, and this is how it happened.

There was once a very poor man, so poor that he could not even get enough to eat. He was always cruising around in a small canoe, trying to catch a few little fish with which to keep himself alive. One day he caught nothing, and as he had brought no food with him in the boat he became very hungry.

Early in the morning, as he lay on the shore, he heard a voice but could not tell where it came from. The voice said: "I have come after you." The man looked all around him, but saw only a young Eagle perched upon the branch of a tree. Then the voice said quite plainly: "My grandfather has sent me to get you." This time the Eagle looked to him like a real person, and he followed it into the woods.

The trail led to a fine large house high up on a cliff, and inside there was plenty of good food. There were also mats to sit upon and all the comforts to be found in good houses. The Eagles treated the poor man well, and since he was wretched and despised among his own people, he wanted to stay with them always. He married one of the Eagle women and became one of them.

Now the mother and brothers of this man were just as poor and contemptible as he had been, and he pitied them, now that he himself was well off. Whenever he saw his brother out fishing, he would leave some fish where the other could find it. The brother was astonished at his luck and could not account for it.

One night his mother had a dream. She dreamed that a large fish might be found upon a certain point of land, and when they went there, the fish was where she had dreamed she saw it. Soon afterward she dreamed that they must camp on a certain spot, where they would find much food. While they camped there, they all saw an Eagle bring a fish ashore, after which he sat upon a branch not far from them, and exclaimed: "Do not be afraid; it is I!"

Such is the origin of the Eagle clan, which is now a large one and respected of all the people.


The Girl Who Married The Fire Spirit

Many men wished to marry the chief's pretty daughter, but she laughed at them all. One day as she sat quite close to the fire, a spark snapped upon her dress and burned a tiny hole in it. She pointed at the fire and called it a bad name in her anger, for it must be admitted that the girl had a quick temper.

That night the chief's daughter was missing. All the people sought for her. They searched every house in the village and in the other villages, wherever men lived who had proposed for her hand. When she could not be found anywhere, they employed the wisest medicine men. In a far distant village there lived one whose power was much talked about, and when he was consulted he said to the chief:

"Your daughter may have said something to displease the Fire Spirit. Let your fire go out, and have every one in your village do the same; then you may hear something."

The chief came home and sent his crier through the village to ask that every fire be allowed to go out. When this had been done, the girl came up between the stones of the fireplace. The Fire Spirit had taken her to be his wife!

After this, she was permitted to spend a part of her time with her family, but whenever the burning wood whistled (as you have sometimes heard it do) she knew that her spirit husband wanted her, and she was obliged to go to him at once.

One day, as she was sitting in her father's house stirring a dish of boiling soap-berries, a young man who was in love with her, and who was encouraged by her mother in the hope that he might be able to keep her always with them, took hold of the spoon. Instantly the fire whistled loudly, and the young wife was terrified.

"He wants me," she murmured, as she disappeared. They never saw her again.


The Shadow Wife

A certain young man lost his wife when they had been married only a few days, and he was very sorrowful. All night he lay awake thinking about her. The next night and the next it was the same. In the morning they took away her body to bury it, and he put on his best clothes and started off.

All day he walked and all night; he could not stop; daylight found him still walking. He heard voices a long way off, and he followed them. At last he saw light through the thick trees and came out of the woods upon the shore of a quiet lake. All this time he had been walking upon the death road, the road of spirits, but he did not know it.

On the other side of the lake he saw people and called to them, but to his surprise no one seemed to hear him. After he had grown hoarse with shouting, he whispered to himself: "Why is it, I wonder, that no one hears me? It is not so far over there!"

Immediately they heard him, and one said: "It is a person come up from Dreamland. Let us go and bring him across!"

They came in a canoe and carried him across the lake, and when he reached the other side, the very first person he saw was his wife! Her eyes were red, and he saw that she had been crying for him. What joy to see her again! He was so happy that he could hardly bear it. The people offered him food, but his wife warned him not to eat, for if he did so, she said, he could never return to earth.

As it was, they went back together in the canoe, which is called "Ghost's Canoe", and started hand-in-hand down the long trail that led to his father's house. They walked for a day and a night, and when they arrived, he left her standing outside and went to speak to his father.

"Father," said the young man, "I have brought my wife home!"

"Why don't you bring her in?" asked his father.

So they arranged robes to make a soft seat, and he went out to fetch her and came in again, but the people saw him alone. There was something like a shadow that came after. Wherever the young man went, this shadow could be seen to follow him. The shadow wife never spoke, at least not in the day time, but at night her voice could be heard plainly. The people in the house complained that it kept them awake. It seemed as if the two were talking and playing together all the night long.

There was a former lover of the girl who grew very jealous when her husband by his love brought her back from Ghost Land, and one night he hid himself behind their bed and suddenly raised the curtain. As he did so, there was heard a rattling of dry bones and then silence. In the morning the young husband lay dead, and the spirits of both went back to Ghost Land.


The Self-Burning Fire

One winter there was a great famine on the Copper River. The people began to die of hunger, first the children, then the old people, and finally the young and strong, until at last but eight men were left.

These eight men set out to walk to another village where food might be found, but they had not gone far when one perished of cold and starvation. They buried him and went on. Soon another froze to death, and a third lay down exhausted, and so on until only one was left.

Now this man felt wonderfully strong and walked on rapidly, notwithstanding he felt great sorrow at the loss of his comrades. Late that evening, he heard a shout ahead of him on the trail. He followed the sound and came to a great fire burning in the midst of snow and ice. Then he knew that it was the fire he had heard calling to him.

When he had warmed himself thoroughly and was about to start on again, he heard a crackling of bushes behind him. He looked back, and one by one his frozen comrades came up the trail and warmed themselves at the fire, followed by all the people who had starved to death in the village. This is the Self-Burning Fire which has mysterious power and is worshiped by the Indians.


The Long Winter

It was almost summer time when some boys who were playing in a boat pulled out of the water a long piece of drifting seaweed and put it in again on the other side of the canoe. For this trifling, not only the mischievous boys were punished, but all the people in their village.

For winter at once came on again with fresh fury, and snow was piled so high in front of the houses that the people were soon in want of food. Their winter stores were exhausted, and they would have starved to death, had it not been for a bluejay which one day perched on the edge of a smoke hole with a spray of fresh elderberries in its beak.

"Kilnaxe! Kilnaxe!" screamed the jay. Now this was the name of a neighboring town. So all the people took the cedar bark they had prepared to make their summer houses of and went to Kilnaxe, where they found it was full summer and the berries already ripe. Winter lingered only about their own village.

From this story we learn that one must not insult anything -- not even a piece of seaweed.

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Tales Of Giants From Brazil

By

Elsie Spicer Eells



I

The Princess Of The Springs


Once, long ago, the Moon Giant wooed the beautiful giantess who dwells in the Great River and won her love. He built for her a wonderful palace where the Great River runs into the sea. It was made of mother-of-pearl with rich carvings, and gold and silver and precious stones were used to adorn it. Never before in all the world had a giant or giantess possessed such a magnificent home.

When the baby daughter of the Moon Giant and the Giantess of the Great River was born it was decreed among the giants that she should be the Princess of all the Springs and should rule over all the rivers and lakes. The light of her eyes was like the moonbeams, and her smile was like moonlight on still waters. Her strength was as the strength of the Great River, and the fleetness of her foot was as the swiftness of the Great River.

As the beautiful Spring Princess grew older many suitors came to sing her praises beneath the palace windows, but she favoured none of them. She was so happy living in her own lovely palace with her own dear mother that she did not care at all for any suitor. No other daughter ever loved her mother as the Spring Princess loved the Giantess of the Great River.

At last the Sun Giant came to woo the Spring Princess. The strength of the Sun Giant was as the strength of ten of the other suitors of the fair princess. He was so powerful that he won her heart.

When he asked her to marry him, however, and go with him to his own palace, the Spring Princess shook her lovely head. "O Sun Giant, you are so wonderful and so powerful that I love you as I never before have loved a suitor who sang beneath my palace window," said she, "but I love my mother, too. I cannot go away with you and leave my own dear mother. It would break my heart."

The Sun Giant told the Spring Princess again and again of his great love for her, of his magnificent palace which would be her new home, of the happy life which awaited her as queen of the palace. At length she listened to his pleadings and decided that she could leave home and live with him for nine months of the year. For three months of every year, however, she would have to return to the wonderful palace of mother-of-pearl where the Great River runs into the sea and spend the time with her mother, the Giantess of the Great River.

The Sun Giant at last sorrowfully consented to this arrangement and the wedding feast was held. It lasted for seven days and seven nights. Then the Spring Princess went away with the Sun Giant to his own home.

Every year the Spring Princess went to visit her mother for three months according to the agreement. For three months of every year she lived in the palace of mother-of-pearl where the Great River runs into the sea. For three months of every year the rivers sang once more as they rushed along their way. For three months the lakes sparkled in the bright sunlight as their hearts once more were brimful of joy.

When at last the little son of the Spring Princess was born she wanted to take him with her when she went to visit her mother. The Sun Giant, however, did not approve of such a plan. He firmly refused to allow the child to leave home. After much pleading, all in vain, the Spring Princess set out upon her journey alone, with sorrow in her heart. She left her baby son with the best nurses she could procure.

Now it happened that the Giantess of the Great River had not expected that her daughter would be able to visit her that year. She had thought that all the rivers and lakes, the palace of mother-of-pearl, and her own mother heart would have to get along as best they could without a visit from the Spring Princess. The Giantess of the Great River had gone away to water the earth. One of the land giants had taken her prisoner and would not let her escape.

When the Spring Princess arrived at the beautiful palace of mother-of-pearl and gold and silver and precious stones, where the Great River runs into the sea, there was no one at home. She ran from room to room in the palace calling out, "O dear mother, Giantess of the Great River, dear, dear mother! Where are you? Where have you hidden yourself?"

There was no answer. Her own voice echoed back to her through the beautiful halls of mother-of-pearl with their rich carvings. The palace was entirely deserted.

She ran outside the palace and called to the fishes of the river, "O fishes of the river, have you seen my own dear mother?"

She called to the sands of the sea, "O sands of the sea, have you seen my darling mother?"

She called to the shells of the shore, "O shells of the shore, have you seen my precious mother?"

There was no answer. No one knew what had become of the Giantess of the Great River.

The Spring Princess was so worried that she thought her heart would break in its anguish. In her distress she ran over all the earth.

Then she went to the house of the Great Wind. The Giant of the Great Wind was away, but his old father was at home. He was very sorry for the Spring Princess when he heard her sad story. "I am sure my son can help you find your mother," he said as he comforted her. "He will soon get home from his day's work."

When the Giant of the Great Wind reached home he was in a terrible temper. He stormed and raged and gave harsh blows to everything he met. His father had hid the Spring Princess in a closet out of the way, and it was fortunate indeed for her that he had done so.

After the Great Wind Giant had taken his bath and eaten his dinner he was better natured. Then his father said to him, "O my son, if a wandering princess had come this way on purpose to ask you a question, what would you do to her?"

"Why, I'd answer her question as best I could, of course," responded the Giant of the Great Wind.

His father straightway opened the closet door and the Spring Princess stepped out. In spite of her long wanderings and great anguish of mind she was still very lovely as she knelt before the Giant of the Great Wind in her soft silvery green garments embroidered with pearls and diamonds. The big heart of the Giant of the Great Wind was touched at her beauty and at her grief.

"O Giant of the Great Wind," said the Spring Princess, as he gently raised her from her knees before him, "I am the daughter of the Giantess of the Great River. I have lost my mother. I have searched for her through all the earth and now I have come to you for help. Can you tell me anything about where she is and how I can find her?"

The Giant of the Great Wind put on his thinking cap. He thought hard. "Your mother is in the power of a land giant who has imprisoned her," he said. "I happen to know all about the affair. I passed that way only yesterday. I'll gladly go with you and help you get her home. We'll start at once."

The Giant of the Great Wind took the Spring Princess back to earth on his swift horses. Then he stormed the castle of the land giant who had imprisoned the Giantess of the Great River. The Spring Princess dug quietly beneath the castle walls to the dungeon where her mother was confined. You may be sure that her mother was overjoyed to see her.

When the Spring Princess had led her mother safely outside the castle walls she thanked the Giant of the Great Wind for all he had done to help her. Then the Giantess of the Great River and the Spring Princess hastened back to the wonderful palace of mother-of-pearl set with gold and silver and precious stones, where the Great River runs into the Sea. As soon as she had safely reached there once more the Spring Princess suddenly remembered that she had stayed away from her home in the palace of the Sun Giant longer than the three months she was supposed to stay according to the agreement. She at once said good-bye to her mother and hastened to the home of the Sun Giant, her husband, and to her baby son.

Now the Sun Giant had been very much worried at first when the three months had passed and the Spring Princess had not come back to him and her little son. Then he became angry. He became so angry that he married another princess. The new wife discharged the nurses who were taking care of the tiny son of the Spring Princess and put him in the kitchen just as if he had been a little black slave baby.

When the Spring Princess arrived at the palace of the Sun Giant the very first person she saw was her own little son, so dirty and neglected that she hardly recognized him. Then she found out all that had happened in her absence.

The Spring Princess quickly seized her child and clasped him tight in her arms. Then she fled to the depths of the sea, and wept, and wept, and wept. The waters of the sea rose so high that they reached even to the palace of the Sun Giant. They covered the palace, and the Sun Giant, his new wife, and all the court entirely disappeared from view. For forty days the face of the Sun Giant was not seen upon the earth.

The little son of the Spring Princess grew up to be the Giant of the Rain. In the rainy season and the season of thunder showers he rules upon the earth. He sends upon the earth such tears as the Spring Princess shed in the depths of the seas.




II

The Fountain Of Giant Land


Long ago there lived a king who was blind. He had employed all the wise physicians in the kingdom, but all to no avail. Not one of them did a single thing to restore his lost eyesight.

One day a little old woman came to the door of the palace begging alms. She said to the servant at the door, "I wish to say a word to the king who is blind. I know a sure cure for his blindness."

The servant led the little old woman into the king's presence. He was sitting upon the royal throne with his royal crown upon his head, but his blind eyes were bandaged and his royal face was sad because he could no longer see the bright sunlight shining upon the deep blue sea from the window of the palace, nor the lords and ladies of the court before him in their gorgeous garments of purple and cloth of silver and cloth of gold, nor of the face of the queen.

"O royal majesty," said the little old woman as she bowed low before him, "there is only one thing in the whole world which will restore your lost eyesight. It is the water of the fountain of Giantland. Bathe your eyes in that water and your lost eyesight will be restored at once."

"How can I obtain this wonderful water?" asked the king. "Giantland is a long distance from my kingdom and I do not know the way there." The king, the queen, and all the courtiers held their breaths to listen to the reply of the little old woman.

"Your Majesty will need to build a strong fleet to sail up the great river which leads to Giantland," she said. "The expedition will need as its leader a prince with a brave heart, for there will be many perils on the way to test his mettle. The fountain of Giantland is at the summit of a long steep rocky mountain, and it can be reached only by a prince who ascends the mountain looking neither to the right nor to the left. All along the way stand huge giants ready to enslave one the moment he stops looking straight ahead. If one should succeed in climbing the mountain the fountain is there at the summit, but it is guarded by a dragon. One can approach it only when the dragon is asleep. Many princes have tried this quest and all have failed. If you should be able to send a prince brave enough and wise enough to succeed, there at the top of the mountain he will find a little old woman who will tell him whether or not the dragon is asleep."

With these words the little old woman withdrew from the royal presence. The king pondered over her advice. Then he sent for the three princes and told them the story.

"O my father, I am brave and wise," said the eldest prince as soon as he had heard his father's words. "I will go upon this quest. I will bring you a bottle of the water of the fountain of Giantland that your sight may be restored."

The king ordered a great fleet to be prepared to sail up the river to Giantland. He collected an enormous sum of money to provide for the prince. The whole kingdom buzzed with preparation for the journey.

The prince planted an orange tree in the palace garden and said to his younger brother, "Keep close watch of this tree. If its leaves begin to wither you will know that some evil has befallen me. Come to my aid."

The eldest prince set out with a great fleet and his pockets lined with gold. He anchored in many harbors along the way. The prince was very fond of gaming and there were many opportunities to play. Before he had reached Giantland he had lost the golden linings from his pockets.

After the prince had sailed up the great river which leads to Giantland he saw the steep rocky mountain towering before him. He set a bottle for the water of the fountain of Giantland carefully upon his head and slowly ascended the steep path. He kept his eyes fixed straight ahead.

Soon, however, he heard giant voices shouting at him. From the corners of his eyes he could see giant forms along the pathway. He forgot that he must look neither to the right nor to the left.

The moment the prince turned his eyes a giant immediately seized him and made him his slave. "You shall be my slave for ever and a day," said the giant, "unless you have gold enough in your pockets to pay your ransom." The prince had no gold.

At home in the palace garden the leaves of the orange tree which the eldest prince had planted began to wither. His younger brother noticed it at once and went to the king. "O my father," said he, "I know that my brother has fallen into trouble. I must go to his aid."

The king at once prepared another great fleet. He provided the prince with even more gold than his brother had taken with him. Every one in the whole kingdom did his best to hasten the preparations.

In the palace garden the prince planted a lemon tree and called the youngest prince into the garden. The youngest prince was playing with his dogs. He was a mere boy. "Keep close watch of this lemon tree while I am away," said the prince. "If its leaves begin to wither you will know that I am in trouble. Come to my aid."

The prince sailed up the great river which leads to Giantland. He anchored at many harbors and took part in many festas. By the time he had reached Giantland he had spent all his gold.

At home in the palace garden the youngest prince watched the lemon tree carefully every day. He watered it and pruned it. He took splendid care of it.

When at last the prince set out to climb the mountain which leads to the fountain of Giantland he felt very brave and very wise. He climbed steadily on and on, looking neither to the right nor to the left, even though he heard the voices of the giants shouting at him, and from the corners of his eyes could see the giant forms along the pathway.

Suddenly he heard the voice of his own brother, the eldest prince, weeping as the giant gave him blows. At that sound he forgot all about looking straight ahead.

The moment the prince turned his eyes from the pathway straight ahead of him a giant seized him and made him his slave. "You shall be my slave for ever and a day," said the giant, "unless you have gold enough to pay your ransom."

At home in the palace garden his little brother was watching the lemon tree. The very moment its leaves began to wither he noticed it and ran at once to the king. "O my father," he cried as soon as he was in the king's presence. "My brother is in trouble. I must go to his aid."

"You, my son, are only a lad," said the king. "How can you succeed when your two older brothers have failed? I cannot bear to let you go. You are all I have left. I prefer to remain blind the rest of my days. O, why did I ever listen to the story the little old woman told me about the water of the fountain of Giantland?"

The youngest prince begged so hard to go that at length his father granted his request and prepared a fleet for him. He gave him all the gold he could collect in the kingdom.

The prince set out with brave heart. He sailed on his way steadily although at every harbour there were voices which bade him linger. There were games and feasting and fair maidens.

Soon the youngest prince had reached Giantland. Above him rose the rough steep rocky mountain. Before he started to make the ascent he first stuffed cotton in his ears. Then he carefully placed upon his head a bottle to fill with the water of the fountain of Giantland.

He climbed up the steep mountain looking neither to the right nor to the left. Through the cotton in his ears he could faintly hear the giant voices calling him. From the corners of his eyes he could see the giant forms along the pathway. He resolutely kept his eyes fixed straight ahead and steadily climbed upward though the path was very rough and full of stones. The cotton in his ears prevented him from hearing the voices of his two brothers crying out when the giants beat them.

At length the lad was in sight of the fountain at the summit of the mountain. The little old woman was standing in the path, watching his ascent. As soon as he came near to her he took the cotton out of his ears so that he might hear what she had to say to him.

"You have arrived at a safe moment," the little old woman told him. "The dragon is asleep."

The little old woman helped the prince fill the bottle with water from the fountain. Then she said, "The dragon which guards the fountain is an enchanted princess. No prince has ever before been brave enough and wise enough to reach this spot. In a year and a day from this moment her enchantment will be broken. Come again and claim her as your bride."

The little old woman gave the prince a ring, and the prince drew a ring from his own finger and gave it to the little old woman. "When the enchantment is broken put my ring upon the finger of the princess," he said. "Expect me back in a year and a day. I'll be sure to come."

The prince made his way back down the steep slope of the mountain, guarding his bottle full of the water of the fountain of Giantland with the utmost care. When he was half way down the mountain he saw his two brothers standing in his path.

"Viva," cried they. "You have been successful. You have a bottle full of the water from the fountain. Now if you also have your pockets full of gold you can pay our ransom and we will return with you to our father's kingdom."

"My pockets are still lined with gold which my father gave me," said the youngest prince. "Help yourselves. It is yours if it can serve you." There was more than enough money to pay the ransom of his two older brothers.

When they were sailing down the great river towards home the two older brothers plotted against the youngest prince. "Come," said one to the other. "How can we let our father know that it was our little brother who succeeded in this quest? Let us cast our brother ashore. Then we will go together to our father with the water from the fountain of Giantland. When his sight is restored we will share his blessing and the honors of the kingdom. We will claim no knowledge of our youngest brother."

This is what the two eldest princes did. The youngest prince was cast ashore when he was asleep. After many long weary wanderings he found refuge in the hut of a poor fisherman and hired out to work for him.

The king's eyesight was restored immediately when he had bathed his eyes in the water from the fountain of Giantland. The two princes were given all the honors of the kingdom. The whole kingdom, however, mourned the loss of the little prince. The king and queen never gave up hoping that he would come back to them. The queen carefully laid away all the clothes which had belonged to the youngest prince so that they would be ready for him if he should return to the palace. Every day she shook them out with loving care, so that the baratas and white ants would not eat holes in them.

A year and a day flew swiftly by. The huge dragon which had guarded the fountain of Giantland escaped from her enchantment and was restored to the form of a beautiful princess.

The little old woman and the princess watched and waited for the return of the prince according to his promise. "Some evil must surely have befallen the lad," said the little old woman. "Let us go in search of him. I know he was a lad who would not break his word."

The little old woman and the beautiful princess who wore the prince's own ring upon her finger came to the palace of the king. When the king had listened to the story they told, the guilty princes were called before him. They were forced to confess their evil deed. They were immediately thrown into prison. The anger of the whole kingdom was kindled against them.

Then the king and the queen and all the court sailed in their swiftest ships to the place where the little prince had been cast ashore. The little old woman and the beautiful princess who wore the prince's own ring upon her finger went with them. At length after much searching they found the fisherman's hut and the prince working for the fisherman.

The king and the queen and all the court wept tears of joy when they beheld the youngest prince alive and well. The queen wept again when she noticed the poor rough clothing which the prince was wearing. She had brought with her the prince's favourite suit of cloth of gold which she had laid away carefully. When the prince put it on it was a trifle tight and a little bit too short for him, as he had grown so much in the year. Nevertheless he looked very handsome in it when he stood before the beautiful princess and claimed her as his bride.

The fisherman was greatly astonished at all the proceedings, for he had never dreamed that it was the king's son who had been working for him all the year and sleeping on a mat at his side on the floor of his rude hut.

"He may be a prince, but he is the most faithful lad who ever worked for me," said the fisherman.

"He is indeed a prince," cried the courtiers, "and the bravest, most faithful prince which any land in all the world ever boasted of."

"His princely deeds have proven to all the world that he is fit to reign as king over our fair land when I no longer live," said the king as he gave the prince and the beautiful princess his royal blessing.




III

The Boy And The Violin


Once upon a time there was a man who had an only son. When the man died the son was left all alone in the world. There was not very much property -- just a cat and a dog, a small piece of land, and a few orange trees. The boy gave the dog away to a neighbour and sold the land and the orange trees. Every bit of money he obtained from the sale he invested in a violin. He had longed for a violin all his life and now he wanted one more than ever. While his father had lived he could tell his thoughts to his father, but now there was none to tell them to except the violin. What his violin said back to him made the very sweetest music in the world.

The boy went to hire out as shepherd to care for the sheep of the king, but he was told that the king already had plenty of shepherds and had no need of another. The boy took his violin which he had brought with him and hid himself in the deep forest. There he made sweet music with the violin. The shepherds who were near by guarding the king's sheep heard the sweet strains, but they could not find out who was playing. The sheep, too, heard the music. Several of them left the flock and followed the sound of the music into the forest. They followed it until they reached the boy and the cat and the violin.

The shepherds were greatly disturbed when they found out how their sheep were straying away into the forest. They went after them to bring them back, but they could find no trace of them. Sometimes it would seem that they were quite near to the place from which the music came, but when they hurried in that direction they would hear the strains of music coming from a distant point in the opposite direction. They were afraid of getting lost themselves so they gave up in despair.

When the boy saw how the sheep came to hear his music he was very happy. His music was no longer the sad sweet sound it had been when he was lonely. It became gayer and gayer. After a while it became so gay that the cat began to dance. When the sheep saw the cat dancing they began to dance, too.

Soon a company of monkeys passed that way and heard the sound of the music. They began dancing immediately. They made such a chattering that they almost drowned the music. The boy threatened to stop playing if they could not be happy without being so noisy. After that the monkeys chattered less.

After a while a tapir heard the jolly sound. Immediately his threetoed hind feet and fourtoed front feet began to dance. He just couldn't keep them from dancing; so he, too, joined the procession of boy, cat, sheep, and monkeys.

Next the armadillo heard the music. In spite of his heavy armour he had to dance too. Then a herd of small deer joined the company. Then the anteater danced along with them. The wild cat and the tiger came, too. The sheep and the deer were terribly frightened, but they kept dancing on just the same. The tiger and wild cat were so happy dancing that they never noticed them at all. The big snakes curled their huge bodies about the tree trunks and wished that they, too, had feet with which to dance. The birds tried to dance, but they could not use their feet well enough and had to give it up and keep flying. Every beast of the forests and jungles which had feet with which to dance came and joined the gay procession.

The jolly company wandered on and on until finally they came to the high wall which surrounds the land of the giants. The enormous giant who stood on the wall as guard laughed so hard that he almost fell off the wall. He took them to the king at once. The king laughed so hard that he almost fell off his throne. His laugh shook the earth. The earth had never before been shaken at the laugh of the king of the giants, though it had often heard his angry voice in the thunder. The people did not know what to make of it.

Now it happened that the king of the land of giants had a beautiful giantess daughter who never laughed. She remained sad all the time. The king had offered half his kingdom to the one who could make her laugh, and all the giants had done their very funniest tricks for her. Never once had they brought even a tiny little smile to her lovely face. "If my daughter can keep from laughing when she sees this funny sight I'll give up in despair and eat my hat," said the king of the land of giants, as he saw the jolly little figure playing upon the violin and the assembly of cat, sheep, monkeys and everything else dancing to the gay music. If the giant king had known how to dance he would have danced himself, but it was fortunate for the people of the earth that he did not know how. If he had, there is no knowing what might have happened to the earth.

As it was, he took the little band into his daughter's palace where she sat surrounded by her servants. Her lovely face was as sad as sad could be. When she saw the funny sight her expression changed. The happy smile which the king of the land of giants had always wanted to see played about her beautiful lips. A gay laugh was heard for the first time in all her life. The king of the land of giants was so happy that he grew a league in height and nobody knows how much he gained in weight. "You shall have half my kingdom," he said to the boy, "just as I promised if any one made my daughter laugh."

The boy from that time on reigned over half of the kingdom of giants as prince of the land. He never had the least bit of difficulty in preserving his authority, for the biggest giants would at once obey his slightest request if he played on his violin to them. The beasts stayed in the land of the giants so long that they grew into giant beasts, but the boy and his violin always remained just as they were when they entered the land.




IV

The Most Beautiful Princess


Long ago there was a king who was very ill. He wanted a hare killed to make him some broth. His only son, the prince, set out to find one. As the prince walked along the path to the forest a pretty little hare ran out of the hedge and crossed his path. He at once started in pursuit. The hare was a very swift runner. The prince followed her into the deep forest. Suddenly the hare ran into a hole in the ground. The prince kept in sight of her and soon found to his dismay that he was in a big cave. At the very rear of the cave there was the most enormous giant he had ever seen in his life.

The prince was terribly frightened. "Oh, ho!" said the giant in such a deep savage voice that the cave echoed and re-echoed with his words. "You thought you'd catch my little hare, did you? Well, I've caught you instead!"

The giant seized the prince in one of his enormous hands and tossed him lightly into a box at one end of the cave. He put the cover on the box and locked it down with a big key. The prince could get only a tiny bit of air through a little hole in the top, and he thought that he never could live. Hours passed. Sometimes the prince slept, but more often he lay there thinking about his sick father and what he could ever do to get out of the box and back once more to his father's side.

Suddenly he heard the key turn in the lock. The cover was lifted, and he saw standing before him the most beautiful maiden he had ever seen or dreamed of. "I am the hare you followed into the cave," said she with a smile. "I am an enchanted princess and, though I have to take the form of a hare in the daytime, at night I am free to resume my own shape. You got into this trouble following me into the cave and I am so sorry for you that I am going to let you out."

"You are so beautiful that I could stay here for ever and gaze into your lovely eyes," said the prince.

"You would see only a hare in the daytime," replied the princess. "It is not always night. Besides, the giant may return at any moment. He just went out on a hunting trip because he thought that you would not make a sufficiently big supper for him. Don't be foolish. I'll show you the way out of the cave and then you must hurry home as fast as possible."

The prince thanked her for all her great kindness to him and acted upon her advice. He went home by the nearest path, but when he reached the palace his father was already dead. The palace was wrapped in mourning.

The prince was so overcome with grief that he felt that he could not keep on living in the palace. After his father's funeral he went away as a wanderer. He changed clothes with a poor fisherman whom he met by the river, for he did not wish to be recognized as the prince.

Dressed as a poor fisherman he wandered from one kingdom to another. He caught fish for his food, and he soon recognized the fact that the net which the fisherman had given him as part of his outfit was a most wonderful net. The biggest fish in the sea could not break through. "This net must have the special blessing of Nossa Senhora upon it," said the prince.

In the course of his wanderings the prince arrived at a city where a great festa was being held. The palace was decked with gay banners. Every afternoon the messenger of the king rode up and down the city streets proclaiming, "The princess of our kingdom is the most beautiful princess in all the world."

The prince remembered the beautiful princess who had let him out of the giant's cave. "Surely this princess cannot be as beautiful as she," said the prince. "I am going to see this princess with my own eyes and find out."

Accordingly the prince went to the palace gate to watch for the princess. Soon she came to the balcony and leaned over the railing. She was very beautiful, but her nose was just a tiny bit crooked. She did not compare at all with the princess of the cave.

"This princess is not by any means the most beautiful one in the world," said the prince dressed as a fisherman. "I know where there is a princess who is much more beautiful."

The people standing by heard him. His words were at once reported to the royal guards. They seized him roughly and took him to the king.

"So you are the fisherman who says that my daughter is not the most beautiful princess in the world?" said the king sternly. "You say, I hear, that you know a princess who is much more beautiful. I am a just king or else I should order that you be put to death immediately. As it is, I'll give you the chance to prove what you say. If you are unable to fulfil your boast and show me this princess who in the opinion of my court is more beautiful than my daughter, you shall lose your life. Remember that you will have to bring her here to my court to have her beauty proven."

"Thanks, your majesty," said the prince. "If you will allow me two weeks to fulfil the contract, and if you'll prepare a festa for the night two weeks hence, I'll endeavour to present the most beautiful princess in the world to your assembled court."

The king was astonished at the fisherman's words, for he had not thought that a poor fisherman like him knew many princesses. However, he allowed him to depart in search of the princess.

Then the prince hurried home and once more walked toward the forest by the same path he had gone the day he went in search of the hare for his father's broth. He soon found the place where the hare had crossed his path, and he did his best to remember the course they had followed as he pursued her into the forest.

In the forest he saw evidences of what looked like a flood. The water had washed away every trace of the entrance of the cave. He dug and dug at the place where he thought it ought to be. He found nothing which seemed like the cave's entrance.

He dug and dug at a new place near by and soon he found his way barred by a massive door. The entrance to the cave was securely shut by it. The prince knocked at the door with all his might.

Soon the door was opened a tiny bit and the face of a little old woman looked out. "I am the ama of the princess," she said. "I think you are the prince she was expecting to return to deliver her from all the terrible calamities which have befallen her."

"What has happened to my beautiful princess who saved my life?" asked the prince. "I am indeed the prince, but I am surprised that you should recognize me in my fisherman's garb."

"The princess told me that I would know you by the smile in your eyes," replied the old ama. "I did not look at your clothes at all. I looked at your eyes. You have the smile in them though your face is sad. Come into the cave, and I will tell you all that has happened."

When the prince was inside the cave she hastily barred the door and said, "When the giant returned he was terribly angry at the princess because she had let you escape. He seized her roughly and put her into the box in your place. The princess had thrown away the key to the box when she let you out; and, search as he would, the giant was unable to find it again anywhere. That made him even angrier than before. All day he sits on the top of the chest when the princess is in the form of the hare. At night when he goes away he causes a great river to flow around the entrance to the cave. He has placed a huge fish as guard to the entrance. This fish swims up and down before our door and calls out such vile names at the princess, that, when she is in her own form, she stays in the box and stuffs cotton in her ears. You got here just as the giant had left. The water must have risen as soon as you were inside our door. I hear the fish now."

Even as she spoke the prince heard the voice of the fish. It said such terrible words that the prince was glad that the princess was in the box with cotton in ears. "You get into the box with the princess," he said to the ama. "I am a good swimmer and I am going to open the door and swim out. The box is made of wood that will float; so, inside of it, you and the princess will float out to safety."

"How will you ever swim past this terrible fish?" asked the old ama.

"Do not fear," replied the prince. "I have with me a net which is so strong that the biggest, fiercest fish in the world cannot break it. I will catch the fish in it. Just wait and you will see. In the meantime take the cotton out of the ears of the princess and tell her that I am here. Quiet her fears and stay in the box for a few moments."

The old ama got into the box as the prince had commanded. Then he unbarred the great door. The fish swam at him fiercely, but the prince quickly entangled him in his strong net. Holding him fast in the net, the prince swam up to the surface of the water and was soon on the bank of the raging river. Then he killed the fish and scaled it and put the scales in his pocket.

The box had floated up to the surface of the water as the prince had said it would. The prince threw his net over it and drew it to land. The ama and the beautiful princess stepped out. The princess was so lovely that the prince fell upon his knees before her. The sight of her great beauty almost blinded his eyes.

"I knew all the time that you would come back again," said the princess. "I knew that you would deliver me from my troubles, but you have been a long time getting here."

The prince told the princess all that had happened to him. "You saved my life from the giant," said he. "I am very glad to have had an opportunity to save your life for you. Now I must ask you to again save my life." Then he told about the festa at which he must display the most beautiful princess in the world or forfeit his life.

"I'll gladly go to the festa with you," said the princess. "It is fortunate that it is held at night."

The Princess and her ama travelled quickly with the prince to the kingdom which claimed to possess the most beautiful princess in the world. It was already the night of the appointed festa when they arrived. The king's army was drawn up to slay the prince. No one dreamed that the poor fisherman would be able to bring any princess at all with him, much less a beautiful one. The prince hid the princess in the box which the old ama carried on top of her head.

When the poor fisherman stood before the king with an old ama standing by his side, a great laugh ran through the king's court. "We knew that the fisherman would never be able to bring a princess more beautiful than our own lovely princess," said the courtiers one to another. "But see what he has brought in her place!" Then they laughed and laughed until they could hardly stand.

The king's soldiers stepped forward to seize the fisherman to put him to death. "Grant me just one moment more of life," begged the prince.

The king nodded his head and the prince put his hand into the pocket of his fisherman's coat. He pulled out a handful of silver scales. The most beautiful silvery cloud filled the room.

"Just a moment more," begged the prince. Then he pulled a handful of golden scales from out his pocket. The most beautiful golden cloud filled the room.

"Please just another little minute," asked the prince and he pulled out a handful of jewelled scales from his pocket. The most wonderful sparkling cloud of jewels fell about them. As the cloud cleared away there stood the most beautiful princess any one had ever seen or dreamed of between the old ama and the prince in the fisherman clothes.

The soldiers drew back. The king looked at the floor and so did all the courtiers. "You have won your wager," said the king when he could find his voice. "Our daughter is not the most beautiful princess in the whole world. I see myself that her nose is a tiny bit crooked."

The prince and princess and the old ama went back to the prince's own kingdom where the wedding of the prince and princess was celebrated with a great feast. From the moment that the fish scales fell upon the princess her enchantment was broken and she never became a hare again. She and the prince lived together happily in the prince's palace, and the giant never troubled them again, though they were always careful to keep away from the forest.




V

The Little Sister Of The Giants


Once upon a time there was a little girl who was very beautiful. Her eyes were like the eyes of the gazelle; her hair hid in its soft waves the deep shadows of the night; her smile was like the sunrise. Each year as she grew older she grew also more and more beautiful. Her name was Angelita.

The little girl's mother was dead, and her father, the image-maker, had married a second time. The step-mother was a woman who was renowned in the city for her great beauty. As her little step-daughter grew more and more lovely each day of her life she soon became jealous of the child. Each night she asked the image-maker, "Who is more beautiful, your wife or your child?"

The image-maker was a wise man and knew all too well his wife's jealous disposition. He always responded, "You, my wife, are absolutely peerless."

One day the image-maker suddenly died, and the step-mother and step-daughter were left alone in the world. They both mourned deeply the passing of the kind image-maker.

One day as they were leaning over the balcony two passers-by observed them, and one said to the other, "Do you notice those beautiful women in the balcony? The mother is beautiful, but the daughter is far more beautiful." The step-mother had always been jealous of the daughter's loveliness, but now her jealousy was fanned into a burning flame. The wise image-maker was no longer there to tell her that she was peerless.

The next day the mother and daughter again leaned over the balcony. Two soldiers passed by and one said to the other: "Do you observe those two beautiful women in the balcony? The mother is beautiful, but the daughter is far more beautiful." The step-mother flew into a terrible rage. She now knew that it was true as she had long feared. The girl was more beautiful than she. Her jealousy knew no bounds. She seized her step-daughter roughly and shut her up in a little room in the attic.

The little room in the attic had just one tiny window high up in the wall. The window was shut, but Angelita climbed up to open it in order to get a little air. The next afternoon she grew weary of the confinement of the little room, so she dug a foothold in the wall where she could stand and look out of the window. Her step-mother was leaning over the balcony all alone when two cavalheiros passed by. One said to the other, "Do you observe the beautiful woman in the balcony?" "Yes," replied the other. "She is a beautiful woman, but the little maid who is kept a prisoner in the attic is far more beautiful."

The step-mother became desperate. She ordered the old negro servant to carry the girl into the jungle and kill her. "Be sure that you bring back the tip of Angelita's tongue, so that I may know that you have obeyed my order," she said.

Angelita was very happy to be taken out of the little attic room, and set out for a walk with the old negro with a light heart. They walked through the city streets and out into the open country. Soon they had reached the deep jungle. "Where are we going?" the girl asked in surprise.

"We are taking a walk for our health, yayazinha," replied the old negro.

Soon they were so far in the jungle that the path was entirely overgrown. No ray of light penetrated through the deep foliage. Angelita became frightened. "I'll not go another step if you do not tell me where you are taking me," she said as she stamped her little foot upon the ground.

The old negro burst into tears and told Angelita all that her step-mother had commanded. "I could not hurt one hair of your lovely head, much less cut off the tip of your little tongue, yayazinha," sobbed the old man.

Angelita stood still and thought. "Go back to my step-mother," she said to the old man. "On the way you will see plenty of dogs. Cut off the tip of a little dog's tongue and carry it home to my step-mother."

This is what the old negro did. The step-mother believed him and thought that he had slain her step-daughter according to her command.

Angelita, in the meantime, wandered on and on through the jungle. The big snakes glided swiftly out of her path. The monkeys and the parrots chattered to keep her from being lonely. She wandered on and on until finally she came to an enormous palace. The front door was wide open. She went from room to room, but the palace was entirely deserted. There was not a neat, orderly room in the entire palace.

"I can make these lovely rooms neat and clean," said Angelita. "They surely need some one to do it!" She found a broom and went to work at once. Soon the whole palace was in order once more. Everything was clean and bright.

Just as Angelita was finishing her task she heard a great noise. She looked out of the door, and there were three enormous giants entering the house. She had never dreamed that giants could be so big. She was frightened nearly to death and scrambled under a chair as fast as she could.

When the giants came into the house they were amazed to find everything in such splendid order. "This is a different looking place from what we left," said the biggest giant.

"What dirty, disorderly giants we have been, living here all by ourselves," said the middle-sized giant. "I just realize it, now that I see what our house looks like when it is neat and clean."

"What kind fairy could have done all this work while we were away?" said the littlest giant, who was not little at all, but almost as big as his enormous brothers.

The three giants fell to discussing the question. They could not guess how their house could have been made so clean. Their voices were so very kind, in spite of being so loud and heavy, that Angelita decided she dare come out from under the chair and let them see who had done the work for them. She quickly crawled out from her hiding place.

"What lovely fairy is this?" asked the biggest giant, looking at her kindly. He thought that she really was a fairy.

"This is the loveliest fairy I ever saw in all my life," said the middle-sized giant.

"How did such a lovely fairy ever happen to find our dirty, disorderly palace?" asked the littlest giant who was not little at all.

Angelita told the three giants her story. Her beauty and her sweet ways completely entranced them.

"Please live with us always here in our palace in the jungle and be our little sister," said the biggest giant, and the middle-sized giant and the littlest giant, speaking all at once. Their three big deep voices all together made a noise like thunder.

Angelita lived in the palace with the three giants after that. Every day when they went out to hunt she would take the broom and make the palace neat and clean. They called her "little sister" and loved her with all their big giant hearts.

All was well until a little bird went and told Angelita's step-mother that she was alive and living in the depths of the jungle with the three giants. When the step-mother heard about it she was so angry that she thought she could never be happy as long as Angelita was living in the world. She consulted a wicked witch as soon as she could find her shawl.

The wicked witch gave the step-mother some poisoned slippers. "These will cause the immediate death of any person who puts them on," said the wicked witch. Then she showed the step-mother just how to reach the palace where Angelita lived in the depths of the jungle with the three giants.

Angelita's step-mother followed the directions which the witch had given her and easily found the giants' palace. Angelita was so happy living with the giants and keeping house for them that she had forgotten what fear was like. She was not frightened at all when she heard some one clap hands before the door one day when the giants were away. She went to the door; and, though she was very much surprised to see her step-mother, she invited her into the house. Her step-mother gave her a loving embrace and kissed her upon both cheeks. "Dear child, it is a long time since I have seen you," she said. "I have brought you a little gift to show you that I have not forgotten you. It is only a poor, mean little gift, but it is the best I could bring."

Angelita was touched at her step-mother's gift and accepted it with hearty thanks. As soon as her step-mother had gone she untied the red ribbon around the package and opened it. Inside was a pair of leather slippers. Angelita looked at the little slippers. They were like the slippers which her dear father, the image-maker, had once brought home to her. "How kind it was in my step-mother to bring these slippers to me," she said as she put them on.

As soon as the slippers were on Angelita's feet, she fell dead just as the wicked witch had promised the step-mother she would do. Her step-mother was watching through the window, and when she saw Angelita dead she hurried home in joy. "Now I, alone, am the peerless beauty," she said.

When the three giants came home to dinner they knew at once that there was something wrong. There were dirty tracks on the floor and dirty finger prints upon the door. "Who made these dirty marks?" said the biggest giant.

"What has happened to our dear little sister that she has not cleaned them away?" asked the middle-sized giant.

"I am afraid there is something wrong with little sister," said the littlest giant who was not little at all.

They clapped their big hands before the door, but no smiling little sister ran to meet them. They entered the big hall of the palace with a bound. There in the middle of the floor lay Angelita, just as she had fallen when she put on the poisoned slippers which her step-mother had given her.

"What evil, has befallen our dear little sister?" said the biggest giant.

"Who could have slain our little sister whom we loved so much?" said the middle-sized giant.

"Who will keep house for us now that our dear little sister is dead?" asked the littlest giant.

Then the biggest giant and the middle-sized giant and the littlest giant all began to sob so loud that it shook the earth. "Our dear little sister is dead! What shall we do! What shall we do!"

The giants could not go into the city to give their little sister Christian burial, but they built a beautiful casket out of silver and carried it to the path which led to the city. Then they hid themselves to watch and make sure that some one found it to carry to the burying place.

Soon a handsome prince passed by on horseback. He noticed the silver casket at once and opened it. The girl whose still form lay inside was the most beautiful maid he had ever gazed upon. "This dead maid is my own true love," he said and he carried the silver casket home to his own palace.

He commanded that no one should enter the room where he placed the silver casket, and this aroused the curiosity of his little sister at once. At the very first opportunity she slipped into the room. She opened the casket and was surprised to see the beautiful quiet maid. "You are very lovely," she said to the still form, "all except your slippers. I think they are very ugly." With these words she pulled off the leather slippers.

Angelita gave a deep sigh, opened her beautiful eyes, and asked for a drink of water.

The little sister called the prince at once. When he saw Angelita was really alive he could hardly believe the good fortune. He asked that the wedding night be celebrated immediately.

Angelita begged that she might go back into the deep jungle and invite the three giants to the wedding. The biggest giant, the middle-sized giant, and the littlest giant who was not little at all, came to the wedding feast. After that they visited their little sister often at her new home; and, when she had children of her own, it was the funniest sight one ever saw to see the biggest giant hold the tiny babes upon his knee.




VI

The Forest Lad And The Wicked Giant


Once upon a time there was a man who took his wife and tiny baby son into the deep forest to make their home. With his own hands he built the house out of mud, and he made for it a thatched roof from the grass of the forest. For food they depended upon the fruits of the forest and the beasts which they killed in the hunt. They lived like hermits, seeing no one.

As the baby son grew into a large strong boy he learned from his father all the secrets of the forest. He grew wise as well as strong. From his mother he heard stories of their former life in the great city which had been their home before they went to live in the forest. These were the tales he loved to hear best of all. Very often when his father went out into the forest to hunt the boy would beg to remain at home with his mother. While his father was away she would sit on the ground before their hut and unfold to the boy all her memories of their old life.

"Father," said the lad one day after his father had returned from his hunting trip, "I am tired of living here in the forest all by ourselves. Let us return to the city to live."

"Your mother has been telling tales to you," replied his father. "I will see to it that she never mentions the city to you again. We left the city to save our lives. Let me never hear from you another word about returning to the city."

After that the lad was made to accompany his father when he went out hunting. There was no more opportunity to hear the tales he loved from his mother's lips. Nevertheless he hid away in his mind all that his mother had told him of their old life; and at night, when the fierce storms in the forest or the sound of the wild beasts would not let him sleep, he often lay awake upon his mat on the floor of the hut, pondering over the stories she had told.

At last the father grew sick of a fever and died. Now that the lad and his mother were left alone in the forest the lad said, "Come, let us return to our home in the city. Let us not stay here alone in the forest any longer. I must live in my own life the tales you have told me of the festas and the dancing, the great tournaments, and the songs at night under the balconies of the fair maidens."

The lad's request was so urgent that his mother could not have refused him, even if she, in her own heart, was not longing for a return to the life of the city. Accordingly, they took all their possessions, which consisted only of a horse and a sword, and set out for the city.

The lad and his mother reached the city at nightfall. They went from one street to another, but saw no living being. They knocked and clapped their hands before all the doors of the city, but no one responded. At last they reached the street where their old home had been. The lad was delighted to see what a big handsome house it was. "No wonder my mother longed to return to a home like this," he thought. "How could she ever have endured the rude hut in the depths of the forest?"

The doors of the beautiful house stood wide open. The lad and his mother entered, and passed from one room to another. His mother saw one room after another with everything unchanged. She recognized one object after another just as she had left it. There was one room in the house which was securely barred on the inside, however.

The lad and his mother spent the night in their old home. In the morning they again walked about the deserted streets of the city. They saw no one and heard no living sound. It was like a city of the dead. They grew hungry at length; and the lad went outside the city to seek for food in the forest, according to the custom which he had known all his life.

The mother returned to her old home to await the coming of her son. As soon as she went upstairs she saw that the barred door was wide open. There in the hall stood the most enormous giant she had ever seen. The great halls of the house were high, but the giant could not stand up in them without stooping.

"Who are you and what are you doing in my house?" roared the giant in such a terrible voice that the house trembled.

The woman who had lived so many years in the forest was not easily frightened. "Who are you and what are you doing in my house?" she shouted at the giant in the loudest tones she could muster.

One might have expected that the giant would have killed her instantly, but on the contrary her bold answer pleased him exceedingly. He laughed so hard that he had to lean against the wall to keep from falling.

"So you think that this is your house, do you?" said the giant as soon as he could regain his voice. "Well, I'll tell you what we can do. I like you, and we can share this house if you will consent to be my wife."

"I am not alone," said the lad's mother as soon as she could recover from her surprise sufficiently to find words. "My son is with me and I am expecting him any moment to return from the forest whither he has gone to procure food for us."

"I can dispose of your son very quickly, just as I have destroyed all the inhabitants of this city," said the giant with a frown.

"You cannot dispose of my son so easily as you may think," replied his mother. "He has grown in the deep forest and is very strong, far stronger than the city dwellers. Besides his great strength, he is surrounded by the magic circle of his mother's love."

"I do not know what the magic circle of a mother's love is like," said the giant. "I don't remember having seen one anywhere. Nevertheless I like you, and because I like you I will endeavour to dispose of your son as painlessly as possible. I believe you say you are expecting him any moment. Just lie down here and pretend that you are sick. When the boy comes in tell him that you have a terrible pain in your eyes. As you have lived long in the forest you will know that the best remedy for a pain in your eyes is the oil of the deadly cobra of the jungle. Send the lad out into the jungle to obtain this oil for you, and I promise you he will never return alive. I'll go back into my room and bar the door so the boy will never see me, but I shall listen through the wall to know whether you carry out my command."

At that very moment they heard the lad's footsteps and his gay voice at the door. The giant went inside his room and barred the door. The lad's mother lay down with a cloth over her eyes, moaning in loud tones. "The giant little knows the strength and skill of the lad whose mother I am," she said to herself as she smiled amidst her moans and groans.

"O dear little mother, what evil has befallen you during my absence?" asked the boy as he entered the room.

His mother complained of the pain in her eyes just as the giant had instructed. "The only thing which will cure me of this terrible affliction is the oil of the cobra," she said.

The boy well knew the dangers which attended securing the oil from the deadly cobra of the jungle, but never in his life had he disregarded a request from his mother. He at once set out for the jungle; and, in spite of the perils of the deed, he succeeded in obtaining the oil which his mother had requested.

On the way back to the city, the boy met a little old woman carrying a pole over her shoulder from which there hung, head downward, several live fowls which she was taking to market. It was really the Holy Mother herself who had come to aid the lad in answer to his mother's prayer.

"Where are you going, my lad?" asked the old woman. The boy told his story and showed the precious oil which he had obtained from the cobra. "The day is coming, the day is coming, my lad, when you will, in truth, need the cobra's oil," said the little old woman. "But that day is not today. Today hen's oil will serve your purpose just as well. You may kill one of my hens and use the hen's oil, but leave the cobra's oil with me so that I may keep it safely for you until the day when you will require it."

The boy heeded the advice of the little old woman and killed one of her hens. He left the cobra's oil with her and took the hen's oil in its place to his mother. Because his mother had nothing at all the matter with her eyes, the hen's oil cured them just as well as the cobra's oil. There was no one who knew the difference, except the boy and the little old woman.

When the boy had gone out the giant came in from his own room and said, "In truth your son is a brave lad. I did not dream that he would have the courage to go in search of the oil of the deadly cobra, much less succeed in his quest."

"You do not know the great love we bear each other," said the lad's mother.

"I am going to demand a new proof of your son's strength and skill," said the giant. "Tomorrow you must complain of the pain in your back and send the boy in search of the oil of the porcupine to cure it. This is my command."

The next day the woman had to complain of a pain in her back just as the giant had commanded. There was nothing else which she could do. The boy at once went in search of a porcupine, and succeeded in slaying one and getting the oil.

On his way back to the city the lad again met the little old woman who was really Nossa Senhora. "Leave the oil of the porcupine with me, my son," said she when she had heard his story. "I will keep it for you until the morrow when you will have great need of it. Today hen's oil will serve your purpose just as well."

Because the boy's mother had nothing at all the matter with her back she was cured with the hen's oil which the boy brought, just as easily as if it had been the porcupine's oil. The giant came out of his room and said, "In truth, lad, you are a boy of great skill and strength."

The boy had not seen the giant before and he was very much surprised. Before he even had time to recover from his amazement the giant had seized him and bound him securely with a great rope. "If you are really a strong boy you will break this rope," said the giant. "If you are not strong enough to break it I shall cut you into five pieces with my sword."

The boy struggled with all his might to break the great rope. It was no use. He was not strong enough. The giant stood by laughing.

When the lad's mother saw that he could not break the rope she fell upon her knees before the giant and cried, "Do what you will to me, but spare my son!"

The cruel giant laughed at her request. When she saw that she could not keep him from slaying the boy, she said, "If you will not grant my large request I beg that you will listen to just a tiny, tiny, little one. When you cut my son into five pieces do it with his father's sword which he has brought with him from the little hut in the forest where we used to live. Then bind his body upon the back of his father's horse which he brought with him out of the forest and turn the horse loose, so it may travel, perchance, back to the forest from which I brought my lad to meet this terrible death."

The giant did as she requested, and the horse bore the slain boy's body along the road to the forest. Outside the city they met the little old woman who was really Nossa Senhora. She took the parts of the lad's body and anointed them with the porcupine's oil. Then she held them tight together. They stayed securely joined. "Are you lacking anything," she asked the boy.

The boy felt of his legs, his arms, his ears, his nose, his hair. "I am all here except my eyesight," he said. The little old woman anointed his eyes with the cobra's oil. His sight was immediately restored. Then he knew that the little old woman was indeed the Holy Mother. She vanished as he knelt to receive her blessing.

The boy in his new strength quickly hastened back to the city. It was night and the giant was asleep. He seized his father's sword and plunged it into the giant's body. The giant turned over without awakening. "The mosquitoes are biting me," he muttered in his sleep.

The boy saw the giant's own enormous sword lying on the floor. It was so heavy he could barely lift it, but mustering all his strength he drove it into the giant's body. The giant died immediately.

"The magic circle of a mother's love, with the Holy Mother's help, will guard a lad against all perils," said the boy's mother when she heard her son's story and saw the giant lying dead.




VII

How The Giantess Guimara Became Small


Once upon a time a prince called D. Joao went hunting with a number of companions. In the deep forest he became separated from his comrades and soon found out that he was lost. He wandered about for a long time, and at last he spied what looked like a mountain range in the distance. He journeyed toward it as fast as he could travel, and when he got near to it he was surprised to find out that it was really a high wall. It was the great wall which bounds the land of the giants. The ruler of the country was an enormous giant whose head reached almost to the clouds. The giant's wife was nearly as enormous as he was, and their only child was as tall as her mother. Her name was Guimara.

When the giant saw D. Joao he called out, "O, little man, what are you doing down there?" D. Joao narrated his adventures to the giant, and the giant said, "Your story of your wanderings interests me. It is not often that little men like you pass this way. If you like you may live in my palace and be my servant." D. Joao accepted the giant's offer and stayed at the palace.

The giant's daughter Guimara was very much pleased with D. Joao. He was the first little man she had ever seen. She fell deeply in love with him. Her father, however, was very much disgusted at her lack of good taste. He preferred to have a giant for a son-in-law. Accordingly he thought of a plot to get D. Joao into trouble.

The next day he sent for D. Joao to appear before him. "O little man," he said to him, "they tell me that you are very proud of yourself and that you are boasting among my servants that you are able to tear down my palace in a single night and set it up again as quickly as you tore it down."

"I never have made any such boast, your majesty," replied D. Joao.

He went to Guimara and told her about it. "I am an enchantress," said Guimara. "Leave it to me and we will surprise my father."

The very next night Guimara and D. Joao tore down the giant's palace and set it up again exactly as it was before. The giant was greatly surprised. He suspected that his daughter had meddled with the affair.

The next day he sent for D. Joao and said to him, "O little man, they tell me that you say that in a single night you are able to change the Isle of Wild Beasts into a beautiful garden full of all sorts of flowers and with a silvery fountain in the centre."

"I never said any such thing, your majesty," replied D. Joao.

He told Guimara about it and she said that it would be great fun to escape from her room that night and make over the Isle of the Wild Beasts into a lovely garden.

Accordingly Guimara worked hard all night long helping D. Joao to make the Isle of the Wild Beasts over into a garden full of all sorts of beautiful flowers and with a silvery fountain in the centre. The king was greatly surprised to see the garden in the morning and he was very angry at Guimara and D. Joao.

Guimara was so frightened at her father's terrible wrath that she decided to run away with D. Joao. She counselled him to procure the best horse from her father's stable for them to ride.

At midnight Guimara crept out of her room and ran to the place where D. Joao was waiting for her with the horse, which travelled one hundred leagues at each step. They mounted the horse and rode away.

Early the next morning the princess Guimara was missed from the royal palace. Soon it was discovered that D. Joao was gone too, and also the best horse from the stables. The giant talked over the matter with his wife. She told him to take another horse which could travel a hundred leagues a step and go after them as fast as he could. The giant followed his wife's advice, and soon he had nearly caught up with the fugitives, for they had grown tired and had stopped to rest.

Guimara spied her father coming and turned herself into a little river. She turned D. Joao into an old negro, the horse into a tree, the saddle into a bed of onions, and the musket they carried into a butterfly.

When the giant came to the river he called out to the old negro who was taking a bath, "O, my old negro, have you seen anything of a little man accompanied by a handsome young woman?"

The old negro did not say a single word to him, but dived into the water. When he came out he called the giant's attention to the bed of onions. "I planted these onions," he said. "Aren't they a good crop?"

The bed of onions smelled so strong that the giant did not like to stay near them. The butterfly flew at the giant's eyes and almost into them. He was disgusted and went home to talk it over with his wife.

"How silly you were," said the giant's wife. "Don't you see that Guimara had changed herself into a river and had changed D. Joao into an old negro, the horse into a tree, the saddle into a bed of onions, and the musket into a butterfly? Hurry after them at once."

The giant again went in pursuit, promising his wife that next time he would not let Guimara play any tricks on him. The next time that Guimara saw her father coming she thought of a new plan. She changed herself into a church. She turned D. Joao into a padre, the horse into a bell, the saddle into an altar and the musket into a mass-book.

When the giant approached the church he was completely deceived. "O, holy padre," he said to the priest, "have you seen anything of a little man, accompanied by a handsome young woman, passing this way?"

The padre went on with his mass and said:

"I am a hermit padre Devoted to the Immaculate; I do not hear what you say. Dominus vobiscum."

The giant could get no other response from him. At last he gave up in despair and went home to talk things over with his wife.

"Of all stupid fools you are the most stupid of all," said his wife when she had heard the tale. "Don't you see that Guimara has changed herself into a church, D. Joao into a priest, the horse into a bell, the saddle into the altar, and the musket into the mass-book? Hurry after them again as fast as you can. I am going with you, myself, this time, to see that Guimara does not play any more tricks on you."

This time the fugitives had travelled far when Guimara's parents overtook them. They had almost reached D. Joao's own kingdom. Guimara threw a handful of dust into her parents' eyes, and it became so dark that they could not see. Guimara and D. Joao escaped safely into his own kingdom.

When they had started out on the journey, Guimara had said, "O, D. Joao, whatever happens, don't forget me for one single minute. Think of me all the time." He had promised and he had remembered her every instant on the journey. However, when they reached his own kingdom, he was so happy to see home once more after all his adventures that he thought he had never before been so happy in all his life. After one has been living in Giantland it is very pleasant to get home where things are a few sizes smaller and a bit more convenient. Then, too, it was very pleasant for him to see all his friends again. He was so happy at being home that, just for one little minute, he forgot all about Guimara.

When D. Joao remembered Guimara he turned around to look at her. When he saw her he could hardly believe his eyes. Instead of being a tall, tall giantess with her head up in the clouds, she reached just to D. Joao's own shoulder. D. Joao was so surprised that he had to sit down in a chair and be fanned. He couldn't say a single word for eighteen minutes and a half -- his breath had been so completely taken away.

"It is a good thing that you happened to think of me just as soon as you did," remarked Guimara. "I was getting smaller and smaller. If you had neglected to think of me for another minute I should have faded away entirely and you would have never known what had become of me."

When Guimara became small she lost her power as an enchantress entirely. Her lovely eyes were always a trifle sad because D. Joao had forgotten her that one little minute. She never went back to Giantland but reigned as queen of D. Joao's kingdom for many years.




VIII

The Adventures Of A Fisherman's Son


Long ago there was a man and woman who lived in a little mud hut under the palm trees on the river bank. They had so many children they did not know what to do. The little hut was altogether too crowded. The man had to work early and late to find food enough to feed so many. One day the seventh son said to his father, "O, father, I found a little puppy yesterday when I was playing on the bank of the river. Please let me bring it home to keep. I have always wanted one."

The father consented sadly. He did not know how to find food for the children, and an extra puppy to feed seemed an added burden. He went to the river bank to fish that day with a heavy heart. He cast his net in vain. He did not catch a single fish. He cast his net from the other side with no better luck. He did not catch even one little piabinha.

Suddenly he heard a voice which seemed to come from the river bed itself, it was so deep. This is what it said: "If you will give me whatever new you find in your house when you go home I will give you fisherman's luck. You will catch all the fish you wish."

The man remembered the request which his seventh son had made that morning. "The new thing I'll find in my house when I get home will be that puppy," said the man to himself. "This will be a splendid way to get rid of the puppy which I did not want to keep anyway."

Accordingly the man consented to the request which came from the strange voice in the depths of the river. "You must seal this covenant with your blood," said the voice.

The man cut his finger a tiny bit with his sharp knife and squeezed a few drops of blood from the wound into the river. "If you break this vow the curse of the river giant will be upon you and your children for ever and ever," said the deep voice solemnly.

The fisherman cast his net where the river giant commanded, and immediately it was so full of fish that the man could hardly draw it out of the water. Three times he drew out his net, so full that it was in danger of breaking. "Truly this was a fortunate bit of business," said the man. "Here I have fish enough to feed my family and all I can sell in addition."

As the fisherman approached his house with his enormous catch of fish one of the children came running to meet him. "O father, guess what we have at our house which we did not have when you went away," said the child.

"A new puppy," replied her father.

"O no, father," replied the child. "You have not guessed right at all. It is a new baby brother."

The poor fisherman burst into tears. "What shall I do! What shall I do!" he sobbed. "I dare not break my vow to the river giant."

The fisherman's wife was heartbroken when she heard about the business which her husband had transacted with the river giant. However she could think of no way to escape from keeping the contract which he had made. She kissed the tiny babe good-bye and gave it her blessing. Then the fisherman took it down to the river bank and threw it into the river at the exact spot from which the deep voice had come.

There in the depths of the river the river giant was waiting to receive the new born babe. He took the little one into his palace of gold and silver and mother-of-pearl with ornaments of diamonds, and there the baby received excellent care.

Time passed and the little boy grew into a big boy. At last he was fifteen years old and a handsome lad indeed, tall and straight, with eyes which were dark and deep like the river itself, and hair as dark as the shades in the depths of the river. All his life he had been surrounded with every luxury, but he had never seen a single person. He had never seen even the river giant. All he knew of him was his deep voice which gave orders in the palace.

One day the voice of the river giant said, "I have to go away on a long journey. I will leave with you all the keys to all the doors in the palace, but do not meddle with anything. If you do you must forfeit your life."

Many days passed and the lad did not hear the voice of the river giant. He missed its sound in the palace. It was very still and very lonely. At last at the end of fifteen days he took one of the keys which the river giant had left and opened the door which it fitted. The door led into a room in the palace where the boy had never been. Inside the room was a huge lion. The lion was fat and well nourished, but there was nothing for it to eat except hay. The boy did not meddle with anything and shut the door.

Another fifteen days passed by, and again the lad took one of the keys. He opened another door in the palace which he had never entered. Inside the room he found three horses, one black, one white, and one chestnut. There was nothing in the room for the horses to eat except meat, but in spite of it they were fat and well nourished. The boy did not touch anything and when he went out he shut the door.

At the end of another fifteen days all alone without even the voice of the river giant for company, the lad tried another key in another door. This room opened into a room full of armour. There were daggers and knives and swords and muskets and all sorts of armour which the boy had never seen and did not know anything about. He was very much interested in what he saw, but he did not meddle with anything.

The next day he opened the room again where the horses were kept. This time one of the horses, -- the black one, -- spoke to him and said, "We like hay to eat very much better than this meat which was left to us by mistake. The lion must have our hay. Please give this meat to the lion and bring us back our hay. If you will do this as I ask I'll serve you for ever and ever."

The boy took the meat to the lion. The lion was very much pleased to exchange the hay for it. The lad then took the hay to the horses. All at once he remembered how he had been told not to meddle with anything. This had been meddling. The boy burst into tears. "I shall lose my life as the punishment for this deed," he sobbed.

The horses listened in amazement. "I got you into this trouble," said the black horse. "Now I'll get you out. Just trust me to find a way out."

The black horse advised the boy to take some extra clothes and a sword and musket and mount upon his back. "I have lived here in the depths of the river so long that my speed is greater than that of the river itself," said the horse. "If there was any doubt of it before, now that I have had some hay once more I am sure I can run faster than any river in the world."

It was true. When the river giant came back home and found that the boy had meddled he ran as fast as he could in pursuit of the lad. The black horse safely and surely carried the lad beyond his reach.

The black horse and his rider travelled on and on until finally they came to a kingdom which was ruled over by a king who had three beautiful daughters. The lad at once applied for a position in the service of this king. "I do not know what you can do," said the king. "You have such soft white hands. Perhaps you may serve to carry bouquets of flowers from my garden every morning to my three daughters."

The lad had eyes which were dark and deep like the depths of the river, and when he carried bouquets of flowers from the garden to the king's daughters the youngest princess fell in love with him at once. Her two sisters laughed at her. "I don't care what you say," said the youngest princess. "He is far handsomer than any of the princes who have ever sung of love beneath our balcony."

That very night two princes from neighbouring kingdoms came to sing in the palace garden beneath the balcony of the three princesses. The two oldest daughters of the king were proud and haughty, but the youngest princess had love in her heart and love in her eyes. For this reason she was one whom all the princes admired most.

The lad from the river listened to their songs. "I wish I looked like these two princes and knew songs like theirs," said he. Just then he caught sight of his own reflection in the fountain in the garden. He saw that he looked quite as well as they. "I too will sing a song before the balcony of the princesses," he decided.

He did not know that he could sing, but in truth his voice had in it all the music of the rushing of the river. When he sang even the two rival musicians stopped to listen to his song. The two older princesses did not know who was singing, but the youngest princess recognized him at once.

The next day a great tournament took place. The lad from the river had never seen a tournament, but after he had watched it for a moment he decided to enter. He went to get the black horse which had carried him out of the depths of the river and the arms he had brought with him from the palace of the river giant. With such a horse and such arms he carried off all the honours of the tournament. Every one at the tournament wondered who the strange cavalheiro could be. No one recognized him except the youngest princess. She knew who it was the moment she saw him and gave him her ribbon to wear.

The next day all the cavalheiros who had taken part in the tournament set out to slay the wild beast which often came out of the jungle to attack the city. It was the lad from the river who killed the beast, as all the cavalheiros knew. When they returned to the palace with the news that the beast had been slain, the king said, "Tomorrow night we will hold the greatest festa which this palace has ever witnessed. Tomorrow let all the cavalheiros who are here assembled go forth to hunt for birds to grace our table."

The next day the cavalheiros went out to hunt the birds, and it was the lad from the river who succeeded in slaying the birds. None of the other cavalheiros were at all successful. The two neighbouring princes who were suitors for the hand of the youngest princess made a contract. "We cannot let this stranger carry off all the honours," said one to the other. "You say that you killed the beast, and I will say that it was I who killed the birds."

That night at the festa one prince stood up before the king and told his story of slaying the beast, and the other prince stood up and told how he had killed the birds. The other cavalheiros knew that it was false, but when they looked around for the cavalheiro who had done the valiant deeds they could not find him. The lad from the river had on his old clothes which he wore as a servant in the garden and stood at the lower part of the banquet hall among the servants.

When the king had heard the stories of the two princes he was greatly pleased with what they had done. "The one who killed the beast shall have a princess for a bride," said he, "and the one who killed the birds he too shall have a princess for his bride."

The youngest princess saw the lad from the river standing among the servants and smiled into his eyes. The lad came and threw himself before the king. "O my king," said he, "these stories to which you have listened are false, as all these assembled cavalheiros will prove. It is I who killed the beast and all the birds. I claim a princess as my bride."

All the assembled cavalheiros recognized the lad in spite of his changed appearance in his gardening clothes. "Viva!" they shouted. "He speaks the truth. He is the valiant one of us who killed the beast and the birds. To him belongs the reward."

The youngest princess had a heart filled with joy. The wedding feast was celebrated the very next day. The river giant found out about it and sent a necklace of pearls and diamonds as a wedding gift to the bride of the lad whom he had brought up in his palace. The fisherman and his wife, however, never knew the great good fortune which had come to their son.




IX

The Beast Slayer


Once upon a time there was a man and his wife who were very poor. The man earned his living making wooden bowls and platters to sell and worked early and late, but wooden bowls and platters were so very cheap that he could barely support his family no matter how hard he worked. The man and his wife were the parents of three lovely daughters. They were all exceedingly beautiful, and the man and his wife often lamented the fact that they did not have money enough to educate them and clothe them fittingly.

One day there came to the door of the poor man's house a handsome young man mounted on a beautiful horse. He asked to buy one of the poor man's daughters. The father was very much shocked at this request. "I may be poor," said he, "but I am not so poor that I have to sell my children."

The young man, however, threatened to kill him if he refused to do his bidding; so finally, after a short struggle, the father consented to part with his eldest daughter. He received a great sum of money in return.

The father was now a rich man and did not wish to make bowls and platters any longer. His wife, however, urged him to keep on with his former occupation. Accordingly he went on with his work. The very next day there came to his door another young man, even handsomer than the other, mounted upon even a finer horse. This young man made the same request that the other had done. He wanted to buy one of the daughters.

The father burst into tears and told all the dreadful happenings of the day before. The young man, however, showed no pity and continued to demand one of the daughters. He made fearful threats if the man would not yield to his request, and the father became so frightened that he at length parted with his second daughter. The first young man had paid a great sum of money, but this one paid even more.

Though he was now very rich the father still went on making bowls and platters to please his wife. The next day when he was at work the handsomest young man he had ever seen appeared riding upon a most beautiful steed. This young man demanded the third daughter. The poor father had to yield just as before, though it nearly broke his heart to part with his only remaining child. The price which the young man paid was so very great that the family was now as rich as it had once been poor.

Their home was not childless very long, for soon a baby son came to them. They brought up the boy in great luxury. One day when the child was at school he quarrelled with one of his playmates. This taunt was thrown in his face: "Ah, ha! You think your father was always rich, do you? He is a rich man now, it is true, but it is because he sold your three sisters." The words made the boy sad, but he said nothing about the matter at home. He hid it away in his mind until he had become a man. Then he went to his father and mother and demanded that they should tell him all about it.

His parents told the young man the whole story of the strange experiences through which they had obtained their wealth. "I am now a man," said the son. "I feel that it is right that I should go out into the world in search of my sisters. Perhaps I might be able to find them and aid them in some way. Give me your blessing and allow me to go."

His father and mother gave him their blessing, and the young man started out to make a search through all the world. Soon he came to a house where there were three brothers quarrelling over a boot, a cap, and a key. "What is the matter?" asked the young man. "Why are these things so valuable that you should quarrel over them?"

The brothers replied that if one said to the boot, "O Boot, put me somewhere," the boot would immediately put him anywhere he wished to go. If one said to the cap, "O Cap, hide me," immediately the cap would hide him so he could not be seen. The key could unlock any door in the whole world. The young man at once wanted to own these things himself, and he offered so much money for them that at last the three brothers decided to end their quarrel by selling the boot, the cap, and the key and dividing the money.

The young man put the three treasures in his saddle bag and went on his way. As soon as he was out of sight of the house he said to the boot, "O Boot, put me in the house of my eldest sister."

Immediately the young man found himself in the most magnificent palace he had ever seen in his life. He asked to speak with his sister, but the queen of the palace replied that she had no brother and did not wish to be bothered with the stranger. It took much urging for the young man to gain permission from her to relate his story; but, when she had once heard it, everything sounded so logical that she decided to receive him as her brother. She asked how he had ever found her home, and how he had come through the thicket which surrounded her palace. The young man told her about his magic boot.

In the afternoon the queen suddenly burst into tears. Her brother asked what the trouble was. "O dear! O dear! What shall we do! What shall we do!" sobbed the queen. "My husband is King of the Fishes. When he comes home to dinner tonight he will be very angry to find a human in his palace." The young man told her about his magic cap and comforted her fears.

Soon the King of Fishes arrived, accompanied by all his retinue. He came into the palace in a very bad temper, giving kicks and blows to everything which came in his way, and saying in a fierce, savage voice, "Lee, low, lee, leer, I smell the blood of a human, here. I smell the blood of a human, here."

It took much persuasion on the part of the queen to get him to take a bath. After his bath he appeared in the form of a handsome man. He then ate his dinner, and when he had nearly finished the meal his wife said to him, "If you should see my brother here what would you do to him?"

"I would be kind to him, of course, just as I am to you," responded the King of the Fishes. "If he is here let him appear."

The young man then took off the magic cap by which he had hidden himself. The king treated him most kindly and courteously. He invited him to live for the rest of his life in the palace. The young man declined the invitation, saying that he had two other sisters to visit. He took his departure soon, and when he went away his brother-in-law gave him a scale with these words: "If you are ever in any danger in which I can help you, take this scale and say, 'Help me, O King of the Fishes.'"

The young man put the scale in his saddle bag. Then he took out his magic boot and said, "O Boot, put me in the home of my second sister." He found his second sister queen of even a more wonderful palace than his eldest sister. Her husband was King of Rams and treated the newly found brother of his queen with great consideration. When the young man had finished his visit there the King of Rams gave him a piece of wool saying, "If you are ever in any peril in which I can help you pull this wool and ask help of the King of Rams."

With the aid of his magic boot the young man went to visit the home of his youngest sister. He found her in the most magnificent palace of them all. Her husband was King of Pigeons. When the young man departed he gave him a feather telling him if he was ever in any danger that all he had to do was to pull the feather and say, "Help me, O King of the Pigeons."

All three of the young man's brothers-in-law had admired the power of his magic boot and they had all advised him to visit the land of the King of Giants by means of it. After having left each of his three sisters full of happiness in her costly palace he felt free to act upon this advice, so by means of his magic boot he again found himself in a new country.

He soon heard on the street that the King of the land of Giants had a beautiful giantess daughter whom he wished to give in marriage if she could be persuaded to choose a husband. She was such a famous beauty that no one could pass before her palace without eagerly gazing up in hopes of seeing her lovely face at the window. The giant princess had grown weary of being the object of so much attention, and she had made a vow that she would marry no one except a man who could pass before her without lifting his eyes.

The young man became interested when he heard this and at once rode past the palace with his eyes fixed steadily on the ground. He did not give a single glance upward in the direction of the window where the beautiful giant princess was watching him. The princess was overcome with joy at the sight of the handsome stranger who appeared as if in response to her vow. The king summoned him to the palace at once and ordered that the wedding should be celebrated immediately.

After the wedding the giant princess soon found out that her husband carried his choicest treasures in his saddle bags. She inquired their significance and her husband told her all about them. She was especially interested in the key. She said that there was a room in the palace which was never opened. In this room there was a fierce beast which always came to life again whenever it was killed. The giant princess had always been anxious to see the beast with her own eyes, and she suggested that they should use the key to unlock the door of the forbidden room and take a peep at the beast.

Her husband, however, gave her no encouragement to do this. He decided that it was too risky a bit of amusement; but one day when he had gone hunting with the king and court the princess was overjoyed to find that the magic key had been left behind. She at once picked it up and opened the forbidden door. The beast gave a great leap, roaring out at her, "You are the very one I have sought," as he seized her with his sharp claws.

When her husband and father returned from their hunting trip they were very much worried to find that the princess had disappeared. No one knew where she was. After searching through the palace and garden all in vain they went to the place where the beast was always kept. The prince recognized his magic key in the door, but the room was empty. The beast had fled with the giant princess.

Once more the young man made use of his magic boot and soon was by the side of the princess. The beast had hidden her in a cave by the sea and had gone away in search of food. The giant princess was delighted to find her husband whom she had never expected to see again and wanted to hasten away from the cave with him at once.

"You have got yourself into this affair," said her husband. "I can get you out again, I think, but I believe that it is your duty to at least make an effort to take the beast's life. Perhaps when he comes back to the cave you can extract from him the secret of his charmed life."

The princess awaited the return of the beast. Then she asked him to tell her the secret of his charmed life. The beast was very much flattered to have the giant princess so interested in him, and he told it to her at once. He never thought of a plot. This is what he said: "My life is in the sea. In the sea there is a chest. In the chest there is a stone. In the stone there is a pigeon. In the pigeon there is an egg. In the egg there is a candle. At the moment when that candle is extinguished I die."

All this time the prince had remained there, hiding under his magic cap. He heard every word the beast said. As soon as the beast had gone to sleep the prince stood on the seashore and said: "Help me, O King of the Fishes," as he took out the scale which his brother-in-law had given him. Immediately there appeared a great multitude of fishes asking what he wished them to do. He asked them to get the chest from the depths of the sea. They replied that they had never seen such a chest, but that probably the sword-fish would know about it.

They hastened to call the sword-fish and he came at once. He said that he had seen the chest only a moment before. All the fishes went with him to get it, and they soon brought the chest out of the sea. The prince opened the chest easily with the aid of his magic key, and inside he found a stone.

Then the prince pulled the piece of wool which his second brother-in-law had given him and said, "Help me, O King of the Rams." Immediately there appeared a great drove of rams, running to the seashore from all directions. They attacked the stone, giving it mighty blows with their hard heads and horns. Soon they broke open the stone, and from out of it there flew a pigeon.

The beast now awoke from his sleep and knew that he was very ill. He remembered all that he had told the princess and accused her of having made a plot against his life. He seized his great ax to kill the princess.

In the meantime the prince had pulled the feather which his third brother-in-law had given him and cried, "Help me, O King of the Pigeons." Immediately a great flock of pigeons appeared attacking the pigeon and tearing it to pieces.

Just as the beast had caught the princess and was about to slay her, the prince took the egg from within the slain pigeon. He at once broke the egg and blew out the candle. At that moment the beast fell dead, and the princess escaped unharmed.

The prince carried the giant princess home to her father's kingdom and the king made a great festa which lasted many days. There was rejoicing throughout the whole kingdom because of the death of the beast and because of the safety of the lovely princess. The prince was praised throughout the kingdom and there is talk of him even unto this very day.

The prince had cut off the head of the great beast and the tip of its tail. The head he had given to the king, but the tip of the tail he kept for himself. The beast was so enormous that just the tip of its tail made a great ring large enough to encircle the prince's body. One day, just in fun, he twined the tip of the beast's tail around his waist. He immediately grew and grew until he became a giant himself, almost as tall as the king of the land of giants, and several leagues taller than the princess. It is not strange that a man who became a giant among giants should be famous even until now.




X

The Quest Of Cleverness


Once long ago there lived a king who had a stupid son. His father sent him to school for many years hoping that he might learn something there. His teachers all gave him up as hopelessly stupid, and with one accord they said, "It is no use trying to teach this lad out of books. It is just a waste of our valuable time."

At length the king called together all the wisest men of his kingdom to consult with them as to the best way to make the prince wise and clever. They talked the matter over for a year and a day. It was the unanimous opinion of the wise men of the kingdom that the lad should be sent on a journey through many lands. In this way he might learn many of the things which his teachers had not been able to teach him out of books.

Accordingly the prince was equipped for his journey. He was given fine raiment, a splendid black horse upon which to ride, and a great bag full of money. Thus prepared, he started forth from the palace one bright morning with the blessing of the king, his father, and of all the wise men of the kingdom.

The prince journeyed through many lands. In one country he learned one thing, and in another country he learned another thing. There was no country or kingdom so small or poor that it did not have something to teach the prince. And the prince, though he had been so insufferably stupid at his books, learned the lessons of his journey with an open mind.

After long wanderings the prince arrived at a city where there was an auction going on. A singing bird was being offered for sale. "What is the special advantage of this singing bird?" asked the prince.

"This bird, at the command of its owner, will sing a song which will put to sleep any one who listens to it," was the reply.

The prince decided that the bird was worth purchasing.

The next thing which was offered for sale was a beetle. "What is the special advantage of this beetle?" asked the prince.

"This beetle will gnaw its way through any wall in the world," was the reply.

The prince purchased the beetle.

Then a butterfly was offered for sale. "What is the special advantage of owning this butterfly?" asked the prince.

"This butterfly is strong enough to bear upon its wings any weight which is put upon them," was the answer.

The prince bought the butterfly. With his bird and beetle and butterfly he travelled on and on until he became lost in the jungle. The foliage was so dense that he could not see his way, so he climbed to the top of the tallest tree he saw. From its summit he spied in the distance what looked like a mountain; but, when he had journeyed near to it, he saw that it was really the wall which surrounds the land of the giants.

A great giant whose head reached to the clouds stood on the wall as guard. A song from the singing bird put this guard to sleep immediately. The beetle soon had gnawed an entrance through the wall. Through this opening the prince entered the land of the giants.

The very first person whom the prince saw in the land of the giants was a lovely captive princess. The opening which the beetle had made in the wall led directly to the dungeon in which she was confined.

The prince had learned many things on his journey, and among the lessons he had learned was this one: "Always rescue a fair maiden in distress." He immediately asked what he could do to rescue the beautiful captive princess.

"You can never succeed in rescuing me, I fear," replied the princess. "At the door of this palace there is a giant on guard who never sleeps."

"Never mind," replied the prince. "I'll put him to sleep."

Just at that moment the giant himself strode into the dungeon. He had heard voices there. "Sing, my little bird, sing," commanded the prince to his singing bird.

At the first burst of melody the giant went to sleep there in the dungeon, though he had never before taken a wink of sleep in all his life.

"This beetle of mine has gnawed an entrance through the great wall which surrounds the land of the giants," said the prince to the captive princess. "To escape we'll not have to climb the high wall."

"What of the guard who stands on top of the wall with his head reaching up to the clouds?" asked the princess. "Will he not spy us?"

"My singing bird has put him to sleep, too," replied the prince. "If we hurry out he will not yet be awake."

"I have been confined here in this dungeon so long that I fear I have forgotten how to walk," said the princess.

"Never mind," replied the prince. "My butterfly will bear you upon his wings."

With the lovely princess borne safely upon the butterfly's wings the prince swiftly escaped from the land of the giants. The giant on the wall yawned in his sleep as they looked up at him. "He is good for another hour's nap," remarked the prince.

The prince returned to his father's kingdom as soon as he could find the way back. He took with him the lovely princess, and the singing bird, and the gnawing beetle, and the strong-winged butterfly.

His father and all the people of the kingdom received him with great joy. "Never again will the prince of our kingdom be called stupid," said the wise men when they heard the account of his adventures. "With his singing bird and his gnawing beetle and his strong-winged butterfly he has become the cleverest youth in the land."




XI

The Giant's Pupil


Long years ago there lived a little boy whose name was Manoel. His father and mother were so very poor that they could not afford to send him to school. Because he did not go to school he played all day in the fields on the edge of the forest where the giant lived.

One day Manoel met the giant. The giant lived all alone in the forest, so he was very lonely and wished he had a little boy like Manoel. He loved little Manoel as soon as he saw him, and after that they were together every day. The giant taught Manoel all the secrets of the forests and jungles. He taught him all the secrets of the wind and the rain and the thunder and the lightning. He taught him all the secrets of the beasts and the birds and the serpents.

Manoel grew up a wise lad indeed. His father and mother were very proud of him and so was his kind teacher, the giant.

One day the king's messenger rode up and down the kingdom with a message from the king's daughter. The king's daughter, the beautiful princess of the land, had promised to wed the man who could tell her a riddle she could not guess. All the princes who had sung of love beneath the palace window had been very stupid. The princess wished to marry a man who knew more than she did.

When Manoel heard the words of the messenger he said to his father and mother, "I am going to the palace to tell a riddle to the princess. I am sure I can give her one which she cannot guess."

"You are an exceedingly clever lad, I know, my son," replied his mother, "but there will be many princes and handsome cavalheiros at the palace to tell riddles to the princess. What if she will not listen to a lad in shabby clothing!"

"I will make the princess listen to my riddle," replied Manoel.

"What riddle are you going to ask the princess?" asked Manoel's father.

"I do not know yet," replied the lad. "I will make up a riddle on the way to the palace. I am going to start at once."

The kind giant who had been the lad's friend gave him his blessing and wished him luck. The lad's mother prepared a lunch for him to carry with him. His father sat before the door and boasted to all the neighbours that his son was going to wed the king's daughter. Manoel took his dog with him when he went on his journey, because he wanted some one for company.

Manoel journeyed on and on through the forests and jungles and after a time he had eaten all the lunch his mother had given him when he went from home. When he became hungry he spent his last vintem for some bread from a little venda in the town he passed through. He went on to the forest to eat the bread, and before he tasted of it himself he gave a piece to his dog. The dog died immediately. The bread was poisoned.

Even as Manoel stood by weeping for his faithful dog, three big black buzzards flew down and devoured the dead beast. They fell dead immediately. Just then the lad heard voices, and soon he saw seven horsemen approaching. The men were robbers, and though they had much gold in their pockets they had no food. "I am hungry enough to eat a dead buzzard," said the captain of the robbers. The robbers greedily seized the three buzzards and devoured them at once. The seven men immediately died from the poison.

"The buzzards stole the body of my dog, so they became mine," said Manoel. "The seven robbers stole my three buzzards, so they became mine, too." He took all the gold from the pockets of the seven robbers and dressed himself in the garments of the captain of the robbers because they were finest. He mounted the horse of the captain of the robbers because that was the best horse.

The lad rode on toward the palace of the king. After a time he became thirsty and pushed the horse into a gallop. The horse became covered with sweat, and with the horse's sweat he quenched his thirst. Soon he arrived at the royal palace.

Dressed in the robber's fine garments and mounted upon the robber's fine horse, Manoel had no difficulty in being admitted to the palace. He was taken at once before the princess to tell his riddle.

The princess saw in Manoel's eyes all the secrets of the forests and jungles which the kind giant had taught him. "Here is a youth who will tell me a riddle which will be worth listening to," said the princess to herself. All the princes and cavalheiros from all the neighbouring kingdoms had told her such stupid riddles that she had been bored nearly to death. She could always guess the answers, even before she had heard the end of the riddle.

This is the riddle which Manoel told the princess:

"I went away from home with a pocket full; Soon it became empty; Again it became full. I went away from home with a companion; My pocket-full killed my companion; My dead companion was the slayer of three; The three killed seven. From the seven I chose the best; I drank water which did not fall from heaven. And here I stand Before the loveliest princess in the land."

The princess listened to the riddle carefully. Then she asked Manoel to say it all over again. The princess thought and thought, but she did not have a good guess as to the answer to the riddle.

No one in all the palace could understand Manoel's riddle. "You have won my daughter as your bride," said the king, after he had used all his royal wits to solve the riddle and could not do it.

When Manoel explained his riddle to the princess, she said, "Nossa Senhora herself must have sent you to me. I never could have endured a stupid husband."




XII

Domingo's Cat


Once upon a time there was a man who was very poor. He was so poor that he had to sell one thing after another to get food to keep from starving. After a while there was nothing left except the cat. He was very fond of his cat, and he said, "O, Cat, let come what will, I'll never part with you. I would rather starve."

The cat replied, "O good master Domingo, rest in peace. You will never starve as long as you have me. I am going out into the world to make a fortune for us both."

The cat went out into the jungle and dug and dug. Every time he dug he turned up silver pieces. The cat took a number of these home to his master so that he could purchase food. The rest of the pieces of silver the cat carried to the king.

The next day the cat dug up pieces of gold and carried them to the king. The next day he carried pieces of diamonds.

"Where do you get these rich gifts? Who is sending me such wonderful presents?" asked the king.

The cat replied, "It is my master, Domingo."

Now the king had a beautiful daughter. He thought that this man Domingo must be the richest man in the whole kingdom. He decided that his daughter should marry him at once. He made arrangements for the wedding through the cat.

"I haven't any clothes to wear at the wedding," said Domingo when the cat told him that he was to marry the daughter of the king.

"Never mind about that. Just leave it to me," replied the cat.

The cat went to the king and said, "O King, there has been a terrible fire in the tailor shop where they were making the wedding garments of my master, Domingo. The tailor and all of his assistants were burned to death, and the entire outfit of my master Domingo was destroyed. Hasn't your majesty something which you could lend him to wear at the wedding?" The king sent the richest garments which his wardrobe afforded. Domingo was clothed in state ready for the wedding.

"I have no palace to which to take my bride," said Domingo to the cat.

"Never mind. I'll see about it at once," replied the cat.

The cat went into the forest to the great castle where the giant dwelt. He marched straight up to the big giant and said, "O Giant, I wish to borrow your castle for my master Domingo. Will you not be so kind as to lend it to me a little while?"

The giant was very much insulted. "No, indeed, I'll not lend my castle to you or your master Domingo or anybody else," he shouted in his most terrible voice.

"Very well, then," replied the cat. He changed the giant to a piece of bacon in the twinkling of an eye and devoured him on the spot.

The palace of the giant was a very wonderful palace. There was one room decked with silver, and one room decked with gold, and one room decked with diamonds. A beautiful river flowed by the garden gate.

As Domingo and his bride sailed down the river to the garden gate in the royal barge, they saw the cat sitting in the window singing. After that they never saw him again. He disappeared in the jungle and went to make some other poor man rich. Perhaps he will come your way some day. Who knows? "Quem sabe?" they say in Brazil.

<eob>

Dorothy Page

By

Eldridge B. Hatcher



Chapter I.

Dorothy Arrives.


"You may see her tonight," said Mrs. Sterling to her son Gilbert.

"When does she arrive?"

"At six-twenty this afternoon. They say, son, she is beautiful."

"From what point of the compass does the lovely paragon come?" asked Sterling with a smile.

"She has just graduated from some college in the North. Her father and mother went to be with her in the closing exercises and will bring her home today."

The subject of this conversation was Dorothy Page, whose palatial home was next door to the home of the Sterlings. The two families had become friends as well as neighbors.

"Come over this evening, Sterling, and help me to celebrate the arrival of the family," called out Roland Page from his porch.

Sterling agreed.

At half past eight o'clock, as he entered the library of the Page home, he looked upon what seemed to him the most beautiful girl his imagination had ever pictured. He knew in a moment that he was a captive. As he walked down the front steps after his visit he felt sure that an epoch in his life had occurred.

"A splendid young fellow!" remarked Mr. Page after Sterling had left. "Although he is only twenty-nine years of age, he has in his own right a cool two million-dollar fortune. He inherited it from his father and he himself is one of the most progressive business men in the state and seems bent on using his fortune for the good of society."

"He was very quiet," remarked Dorothy.

Mr. Page's statements concerning Sterling were very true. He might have added that Sterling was an elder in the Presbyterian church and was one of its most devoted members.

Sterling found his mother in the sitting-room on his return home that night.

"Well, son," she said, "how do you like your new neighbor?"

"Mother, don't ask me to describe her," he replied; and then for half an hour he continued talking about her. Before retiring he said:

"Mother, how is it that I have never been told about Miss Page before?"

"Well, son, I have known very little myself. The Pages, you know, have lived here less than a year and Dorothy has never been here before. A few days before Mrs. Page left to bring Dorothy home she told me a good many things about her."

"How long was Miss Page at the college?"

"Three years. The Pages were born in Virginia, but when Dorothy was six years old the father, because of failing health, purchased a large ranch in the West and he moved his family there and became very prosperous."

"She is a child, therefore, of the South and West," said Sterling.

"Yes, she has Southern blood and Western experience. Mrs. Page said their home was ten miles from the nearest store and the nearest neighbor was seven miles distant."

"That must have been a dismal life for Dorothy. You say she lived on the plains from six years of age until three years ago, when she went to the college? Did she have no other schooling?"

"Oh, yes. Her education was directed at home by a governess of unusual culture and refinement. I learned also from Mrs. Page that none of the family make any pretensions to religion, and that the governess was as irreligious as they."

"What a home!"

"She said that there was no church near them in the West and that Dorothy had never been in a church up to the time she went off to the college, and that she doubted if she had ever attended church while there."

"You make her out a wild girl of the plains," remarked Sterling with a smile. "I could easily see the traces of it tonight in her open, eager, almost wild manner, and yet through it all there was a culture, a sweetness, a loveliness that is indescribable."

Mrs. Sterling continued: "Mrs. Page said that Dorothy, perfectly at home on the wildest horse, roamed untrammeled over the ranch, and reveled in its beauty and its freedom. But let me continue the story. At seventeen she went to Carrollton College and at the end of three years she won her diploma."

"I'll venture she came out at the head of the list, mother; she is as bright and sparkling as a diamond."

"You are right, for she took the honors of her class. A year ago Mr. Page sold his ranch and came here to Kentucky to live, but this is Dorothy's first sight of her Kentucky home."




Chapter II.

Dorothy's Conversion.


"Oh, a tennis court! How glorious!" exclaimed Dorothy next morning as she stepped out on the porch and caught her first glimpse of the side lawn.

Sterling considered it a special providence that no intervening fence separated the two residences, and nearly every afternoon found him on the tennis grounds, an eager contestant in the game with Dorothy.

"Good-bye, Mr. Sterling," she said to him one afternoon at the close of the game. "I must hurry in and do some packing. I shall turn traveler tomorrow."

"What -- going away?" he asked with a startled expression.

"Yes, I am going to Chicago for a few weeks to visit a girl friend."

The light fled from the sky for Sterling. For the next three weeks not only Dorothy, but the center of the universe seemed to him to be located in Chicago.

During Dorothy's visit a crisis occurred in her life. While attending a church service with her girl friend she heard a strange sermon. How new and startling it sounded. The preacher's theme was "Salvation Through Christ", and she heard things she had never dreamed of before. Wild questionings set her heart aflame and there was no rest for her that night. Her soul's destiny was a subject to which she had never given serious reflection.

She felt that the man whose sermon had thrown her into this dark confusion was the only one who might give her light. She sought him out. A father in Israel he was -- Rev. Dr. Moreland, one of the most eminent ministers in that city. He saw that as a little child she was eagerly groping in the dark, and with the Bible as a lamp he led her step by step into the light. She saw herself in God's sight a sinner, guilty and condemned, and how helpless and hopeless to her seemed her condition.

The story of the Gospel sounded to her like music from Heaven. The love of Christ for sinners melted her heart and she yielded herself in child-like trust to him. In her own room at night the surrender was made and it was complete.

"Son, I could easily tell that Dorothy is coming tomorrow," said Mrs. Sterling.

"How do you know, mother?"

"By your face. You would have passed for an undertaker during the past three weeks, and I have tried by every art, but in vain, to chase away your funereal countenance."

Sterling broke into a hearty laugh.

"Mother, your imagination is out on a frolic. You will have to put a bridle on it."

Mrs. Sterling was right. Gilbert had learned that Dorothy would arrive on the morrow.

Dorothy had written her parents about her new-found joy, but they understood it not. They thought that it was some girlish emotion that her home life would quickly dissipate.

The news of her conversion came to Sterling as a burst of sunlight. In speaking of it to his mother he said:

"Of one thing I am sure, and that is that she will make a glorious Christian. What a light she will be in her home. And, mother, how fine to have her in my church!"

Dorothy had shortened her visit that she might hurry home and tell her loved ones of the change in her life. She could not explain the change, but she knew that for her old things had passed away and all things had become new.

She was anxious to tell her parents the simple story of Christ's love and sacrifice for sinners. She recited it almost immediately after her return, but their eyes seemed holden that they could not see. Possibly they did not want to see. At any rate, Dorothy received her first biting disappointment in the reception that her parents gave to her report about her new-found Savior.

With Mr. Sterling it was different, and in him she found a sympathetic listener to her story. Not that she impulsively bared her secrets to him; he was eager to know it all, and his keen interest in contrast to the utter lack of responsiveness on the part of the parents encouraged her to confide in him, and to Dorothy, with her new and trembling faith, Sterling was a friend in need.

A week had passed after her return, and one afternoon Sterling said to her at the close of a tennis game that her coming into his church would make their membership exactly 300.

"Mr. Sterling," she replied, "I am anxious to talk with your pastor, Dr. Vincent, about which church I ought to join."

Her words smote him. The possibility of her uniting with any other church than his own had not occurred to him, and the bare thought of it put a load on his heart. He asked her what she meant by her remark regarding Dr. Vincent.

"Dear old Dr. Moreland," she said, "whose church I attended in Chicago, and who so kindly led me into the light, told me that I must be sure to join some church, and when I asked him what church it should be he told me that I must study my New Testament and let that guide me. I have carefully read it through twice, and I cannot see that it has helped me at all to decide about my church membership. I really do not know what he meant."

Sterling was relieved and the load rolled off his heart, for he felt sure that with her New Testament as her guide she would turn her steps towards the Presbyterian church.

By this time they had reached the front porch, where the rest of the family were seated, and when Dorothy made her last remark the brother, who was sitting nearby, heard and said:

"What's the need, sister, of your joining any church? You don't think the church will take you to Heaven, do you?"

"Hold on, son," spoke up the father, "I am not an expert on religious matters, but it is a plain proposition to me that if Dorothy has accepted Christianity and become a Christian, the place for her is the church."

"But what good will it do, father?"

"I believe in a person being one thing or the other," said Mr. Page. "If you are not a Christian, then of course keep out of the church; if you set up to be a Christian, then take your medicine; if you claim to be a soldier, then march up and put on the uniform and join the army."

"Oh, I never thought of not joining a church," said Dorothy.

"But I still hang to my point," said the brother. "Why does Dorothy have to join the church? Do you think, sister, joining the church will save you?"

"What a question, brother! Of course not. I hope I am saved already. I have faith in Christ and I am looking to him for my salvation. Simply having my name entered as a church member will not save me; I am very ignorant about these matters, but Dr. Moreland told me that Christ founded the church as the place in which he wished all who believed in him to be gathered. If he formed the church for his believers, then is it not the place for me?"

"Daughter, you are right there to a dot. If Christ organized the church for his followers and you have given yourself to him, then if you should refuse to enter the church I should doubt whether you had given yourself to him; but I think you are wrong on one point. You spoke just now about studying the Bible to learn what church you ought to join. That's one on me. I never knew the Bible told a person what church he ought to join; in fact, I did not think it made any difference what church or denomination a person selected. I thought it was just pay your money and take your choice."

"I thought," said the mother, "that all the churches were aiming in the same direction and that all claimed to be founded on the Bible. Do you think, daughter, that the Bible will tell you to join one particular church or denomination rather than some other?"

"Mother, you are right there, as you generally are," said the father. "Here is the Presbyterian church, the only strong church in town, and it seems to be a mighty good one from all that I can hear of it. Do you imagine, daughter, that you must study the Bible to learn whether it will tell you to join this church or some other church that may be off somewhere nobody knows where?"

Dorothy seemed lost in reflection.

"I wonder what Dr. Moreland could have meant?" she said. "I notice there are different names by which the churches are known: for example, the Presbyterians, the Methodists, etc. They call them, I believe, denominations. Are these denominations the same? Why do they have the different names, and why do some people join one denomination and some another?"

"That is not strange, daughter," spoke up the father. "There are different kinds of dresses, and one woman prefers one kind and another another. Some people like the Presbyterian church, some the Methodist church and so on. It is not a Bible question, simply a question of taste."

"Miss Dorothy, the denominations differ in matters of doctrine," said Mr. Sterling.

"You mean, then," said Dorothy, a light coming into her eye, "that the people who believe that the Bible teaches certain doctrines go into one church, and the people who believe that it teaches another set of doctrines go into another church, and that each one joins the church of his own beliefs?"

"You are entirely correct," said Sterling, confident that when she compared the denominations his church would win the day. "The Presbyterian church is founded on the bed rock of Scripture and draws its life blood from its sacred pages."

"Do you not see, father," said Dorothy, "that in order for me to decide which church I ought to join I must study the Bible for myself and then join the church that seems to come nearest to what the Bible seems to me to teach?"

"I don't agree with you, sister," said Roland. "You say you must join the church that comes nearest to what the Bible seems to you to teach. But you know very little about what the Bible teaches. Had you not better take what old Dr. Vincent, who has been a life-long student of the Bible, says the Bible teaches than to take what you, after a few readings, decide it teaches? Why, certainly. I'd rather a thousand times trust him to tell me what that Book teaches than for me to decide myself."

"But, brother, I think you miss the point. Dr. Vincent can tell me what he thinks the Bible teaches, but some learned minister in another denomination might tell me the Bible taught something different. Mr. Sterling says each denomination has its own doctrines which it believes the Bible teaches. If I am going to take what some learned Bible student says, then which one must I follow? One will tell me that the Bible teaches the Presbyterian doctrines and another will tell me it teaches the Methodist doctrines."

"Exactly; and no matter what you do you cannot be sure you are right. I think one is about as apt to be right as the other. The only thing is to take a man that you believe is an honest and wise student of the Book and ask him to tell you its teachings."

"Oh, brother, that doesn't appeal to me at all. I dare not take another person's word for what this Bible teaches. I can take his counsel and the counsel of everybody else that I can secure, but I must give the final decision, I must study this Book for myself. Dr. Vincent is a good and wise man, of course, but I cannot look into his heart for all the thoughts that have led him to his decision. The question before me is not what church does Mr. Vincent think comes nearest the Bible, but what church do I think comes the nearest."

"Daughter," said Mr. Page, "you are on the right track. You can get all the light possible from Dr. Vincent and anybody else you choose, but you are the judge that must bring in the verdict, and when you make the decision there is no court of appeals. But you have a huge job on your hands. You must first study all the denominations and then you've got to master your Bible to see which one of all the denominations squares with the Book."

"Oh," said Dorothy in a tone of despair, "how can I ever decide such a big question? Won't you help me, Mr. Sterling?"

Sterling felt that he would like to spend several centuries, beginning with that very second, in the single matter of helping her. He remarked with a smile: "Miss Dorothy, I think you need not be alarmed; you are not as much in the wilderness as you imagine. Suppose on examination you find that the doctrines of our church are in accord with the teachings of the Bible, then your duty is plain, is it not?"

"Yes," she replied with a sigh of relief, "and won't you tell me what are the doctrines of your church?"

His eyes answered her request before his lips had an opportunity to respond.

"Now you are getting out into the road," said the father. "Tell it to her, Friend Sterling, and I guess she will find that your church plumbs the track. In fact, I reckon most of them do."

"Dinner is ready," called the mother.

"There, now," said the father, "that breaks up the meeting at the critical point, but come in to dinner, Sterling, and we will open the campaign again after dinner."

"Yes, please do come, Mr. Sterling," said Dorothy. "I am so anxious to know what are the doctrines of your church."

Sterling was compelled to decline, inasmuch as he had promised to be at home for dinner to meet a business friend of his father's, but he assured them that he would be on hand for the discussion very soon after dinner.




Chapter III.

Sterling States His Case.


At eight o'clock they gathered in the library.

"Now, Sterling," said Mr. Page, "we are all attention. Open up your Presbyterian treasures, for you have our curiosity aroused."

Sterling was anxious to bring to Dorothy's attention the facts about his denomination. He felt confident that the history and doctrines of Presbyterianism would prove very attractive to her and lead her into his church.

"I fear I cannot do my denomination justice," he said. "It deserves an abler champion. It has had an illustrious history and on our honor roll are such notable names as John Calvin, John Knox, Thomas Chalmers and a host of others."

"What are the doctrines of your church, Mr. Sterling?" asked Dorothy.

"We believe in God as the creator and preserver of the world, in Christ as the Savior of sinners, and in the Bible as the Word of God."

"How about those doctrines, daughter?" asked Mr. Page. "Can you accept them?"

"Of course, father. The Bible teaches them plainly."

"Good! Give us some more, Sterling."

"We believe that Christ offered himself on the cross as a sacrifice for the sins of men, that he was buried, rose from the dead and ascended to Heaven, where he sits at the right hand of the Father. We believe in the Holy Spirit as being sent by the Father to convict men of sin and righteousness and judgment to come."

"What about that, daughter?"

"Father is pinning me down, Mr. Sterling, as we go along," she said with a smile. "I think I can accept those doctrines because the New Testament teaches them -- at least that is my recollection from my reading of the New Testament."

"We believe that Christ in organizing the church gave two ordinances, baptism and the Lord's Supper; that baptism is a sign and seal of God's regenerating grace and that the Lord's Supper is a memorial of his death -- the bread typifying his broken body and the wine his shed blood. We believe that Christ speaks of his church as his bride."

"Yes, I remember that."

"Sterling, you seem to be making good progress," said the father. "Do you accept the doctrines as he has announced them thus far, daughter?"

"I think so. They seem to be in accord with what I have read. I have only read the New Testament through twice."

"In mentioning our doctrines," he said, "I am not attempting a logical order, nor am I confining myself to strict theological terminology. I am giving our doctrines just as they come before my mind."

"Go ahead," said the father. "I think Dorothy will soon find herself a Presbyterian."

"I ought to have stated," continued Mr. Sterling, "that we believe that salvation comes by faith in Christ. All of the redeemed in Christ will be received by him when he shall come again and shall live with him in everlasting happiness, but the unbelievers will be banished into everlasting punishment."

"Hold on," said Mr. Page; "you don't endorse that last awful doctrine, do you, daughter?"

"It is awful, father, but I have to endorse it, for I have read it in the Bible with my own eyes and I remember it was declared by Christ himself."

Sterling was delighted at the progress he was making. The thought of Dorothy coming into his church filled him with joy.

"Another doctrine," he said: "We believe in Christ's words concerning the little children -- 'of such is the Kingdom of Heaven' -- and that, as Peter said, God's promise is unto his people and to their children and their children's children, and as baptism is the door to the church -- "

"Oh, yes," exclaimed Dorothy, "I saw a baptism once. Do I have to be baptized, too, Mr. Sterling?"

"Yes, indeed."

"That was a very interesting baptism I saw in Nebraska, where I was visiting. It was in a river and they put the people under the water."

"Oh, Miss Dorothy, that was not baptism," exclaimed Sterling, apparently horrified by her remark.

"It was not? What was it, Mr. Sterling?"

"It was merely an odd practice observed by certain curious sects. I beg that you will get that well fixed in your mind."

"Well, you know I have to learn about these things. What do you mean then by baptism?"

"Baptism is performed by having water sprinkled or poured gently upon the head of the candidate. It is a very impressive ceremony."

"That is strange, for do you know I saw in the Bible just the kind of baptism that I witnessed that day in Nebraska?"

"Oh, never. Bible baptism is by sprinkling and sprinkling alone."

"Well, I read in one or two places about people being baptized by being put under the water; that is, unless I am very much mistaken."

"Hold on," said the father. "I guess you had better clear up that point about baptism before you go any further."

"Not at all," said Sterling very earnestly; "there is nothing to clear up. It is a plain fact of history as well as of Bible teaching that baptism was done by sprinkling."

"Do the denominations differ about baptism?" asked Dorothy.

"Not worth talking about; nearly all the denominations agree that the baptism of the Bible is by sprinkling or pouring."

"Daughter, get your Bible and let's see that passage where you say the people were put under the water."

"I must not be too sure," she replied. "I know so little about the Book that I may have been mistaken, but I don't think I can be."

The Bible was brought in, and as Dorothy opened it and began turning its pages she said: "One passage was the account of the baptism of Jesus."

"What!" exclaimed Mr. Page. "Was he baptized -- Jesus Christ? Well, well, that's one on me."

"Oh, father, how can you speak so?"

"I beg your pardon, daughter. I surely did not mean to be irreverent. But let us have that passage telling how he was baptized. That ought to be mighty interesting."

"It is the third chapter of Matthew," said Mr. Sterling.

Dorothy read: "'Then cometh Jesus from Galilee to Jordan unto John to be baptized of him.'"

"The Jordan was a river, was it not?" asked the father.

"Yes," replied Sterling.

"And you say that Jesus went to that river to be baptized?" asked the father.

"Yes," answered Sterling.

"And you say he went there to have some water sprinkled on him instead of being put under the water?"

"Certainly he did."

"Do people generally go to rivers now to be sprinkled?" asked Dorothy.

"I do not know that they do, but they could certainly do so if they should so desire."

"Did you ever hear of anybody doing so?" asked the father.

"Why, possibly not; but that doesn't prove that it never has been done; but let us have the rest of the passage."

She read: "'And Jesus, when he was baptized, went up straightway out of the water.'"

"Hello!" said the father, "that sounds curious. Why did he go down into the water, Sterling, if he was simply to be sprinkled?"

"Why, he simply walked a little way into the stream and stood there while John gently sprinkled the water on him. It must have been a beautiful ceremony."

Dorothy was consulting her concordance.

"Here is another passage in the third chapter and twenty-third verse."

"Let us have it," said the father.

She read: "'And John also was baptizing in Aenon, near to Salem, because there was much water there.'"

"Much water!" exclaimed Mr. Page. "What about that, Friend Sterling?"

"I think that is plain. There were great multitudes following John and camping around him, and he selected a place where there would be abundant water for the cattle. The country was dry in many places."

"But it says he was baptizing there because there was much water there," said Dorothy.

"That simply means that he did his baptizing in that section because of the abundance of the water for the cattle," insisted Sterling.

"What is your reason, Mr. Sterling," asked Dorothy, "for saying it was the cattle that John had in mind?"

"You mentioned the passage as indicating immersion," continued Sterling, "and I replied that the mention of much water did not necessarily prove immersion, because it may have had reference to the cattle rather than to the mode of the baptism. And besides, the dryness of that Oriental country is another fact that indicates that John selected the place for watering the cattle."

"But is it necessary to have a place of much water in order to water cattle?" asked Dorothy. "Would not a small stream be sufficient for many cattle?"

"Come, come, children," said the father, "why not take the words as you find them? By the way, did John do anything for the crowds except baptize them?"

"Oh, yes," said Sterling, "he was a great preacher for the crowds. That was his principal work. Baptism was a very small and almost insignificant part of it. They did not make the ado about it then that certain sects do now."

"Exactly; that is what I am getting at. You say preaching was the main thing John was doing. I should think, then, that if it was the cattle that made him select the place, it would have read 'John was preaching at Aenon because there was much water there'. But it says he was baptizing there, and that would indicate that the baptizing part of his work brought him to that place. He could have preached where there was not much water. You think, Sterling, that his baptizing had nothing to do with his selecting that place. Why, then, did it say he was baptizing there because of the much water? It looks mighty plain to me that the baptizing was mentioned because of the much water."

Dorothy was puzzled.

"I don't see how I am ever to get at the meaning of the Bible," she said, "if I am not to take what seems to be the natural meaning of the passages, but must rather suppose that something else was intended."

"Evidently we can't agree on that verse," said Sterling with a smile. "Let us have another, Miss Dorothy."

"Here is a passage, Acts 8:35-39: 'Then Philip opened his mouth and began at the same Scripture and preached unto him Jesus. And as they went on their way they came unto a certain water and the Eunuch said: "See, here is water; what doth hinder me to be baptized?" Philip said: "If thou believeth with all thy heart thou mayest." And he answered and said: "I believe that Jesus Christ is the Son of God." And he commanded the chariot to stand still and they went down both into the water, Philip and the Eunuch, and he baptized him. And when they came up out of the water the Spirit of the Lord caught away Philip that the Eunuch saw him no more, and he went on his way rejoicing.'"

"You see they stepped down to the water's edge," said Sterling, "and Philip sprinkled him."

"But it says they both went down into the water and both came up out of the water. Why did they go down into the water if the Eunuch was simply to be sprinkled?"

"Look here," said the father; "life is too brief to be squandering it on debating a question like that. That's as plain as a chimney on a house. You could never make me think that all that going down into the water and coming up out of the water was simply to have a few drops of water sprinkled on the man. Sterling, I know you don't mean to do so, but it looks as if you are afraid of the natural meaning that lies on the surface."

"But the surface meaning in the Bible is not always the true one. We know from other passages that baptism was by sprinkling, and when we come to one like this, that may mean either kind of baptism, we know from the general teaching of Scripture that sprinkling and not immersion was the mode here intended."




Chapter IV.

Getting Into Deep Water.


"Here is another passage about baptism," said Dorothy, "in Luke 12:50: 'I have a baptism to be baptized with, and how am I straitened till it be accomplished?'"

"But hold on, Miss Dorothy," said Sterling. "Why should we be spending so much discussion simply on the question as to the quantity of water in baptism? It seems a waste of effort. There are far more important doctrines than this."

"It is not simply the quantity of water we are considering, Mr. Sterling. We are trying to find out how baptism is performed. Surely we ought to try to get it right."

"That's good logic," said the father. "Get one point settled before you proceed to another."

"All right," said Sterling with a smile, "I'm all attention. Read that passage again, Miss Dorothy."

She read: "'I have a baptism to be baptized with, and how am I straitened till it be accomplished!'"

"Who is that talking?" asked Mr. Page.

"It is Christ," said Sterling, "and he is talking about his coming sufferings which were to end in his death."

"And what is it he says about his sufferings? Read it again, daughter."

She read it once more.

"You say, Sterling, that Christ here speaks of his future sufferings and said he was to be baptized in them?"

"No, he does not say he will be baptized 'in' them, but 'with' them, thus showing that he was not to be immersed but sprinkled."

"You mean, then," said Dorothy, "that Christ said he was to be sprinkled with his sufferings?"

"Yes."

"But is it not far more impressive to think of Christ being immersed in his terrible sufferings than simply of his having a few drops of suffering sprinkled on him?"

"Certainly," said Mr. Page; "we often speak of people being plunged, overwhelmed, in sorrow or suffering, and that is nothing but an immersion."

"But," said Sterling, "if he had meant immersion, why did he not say he had a baptism that he had to be baptized 'in'? But no; he said he had a baptism to be baptized 'with'."

"I don't think it makes any difference whether you use the word 'in' or 'with'," said Dorothy. "When a person is immersed he is baptized 'with' water as well as 'in' water, and when Christ said he had a baptism to be baptized with -- and Mr. Sterling says he referred to his sufferings -- why, it is far more natural to think he had in mind an immersion, an overwhelming, rather than a mere sprinkling."

"Have you any more passages, daughter?"

After some examination she answered: "Here is a strange passage, Romans 6:4: 'Therefore we are buried with him by baptism into death, that like as Christ was raised up from the dead by the glory of the Father even so we also should walk in newness of life.'"

"Isn't that a wonderful passage?" exclaimed Dorothy; "'buried with him by baptism'. That looks like immersion."

"That verse seems to be against you, Sterling," remarked Mr. Page.

"Not at all. Christ is not talking here about water baptism."

"What is that?" asked Mr. Page quickly; "not talking about water baptism? Have you got still another kind of baptism?"

"Certainly. The Bible speaks of a baptism of the Spirit. It is mentioned in several places."

"All correct," said Mr. Page, "and now proceed with your argument to show that the passage just read about baptism does not mean water baptism."

"Paul here speaks of a spiritual baptism."

"Why do you say that?" asked Dorothy.

The fire of questions seemed to stun Sterling somewhat. He had never had these passages pressed upon him in this fashion, but all his life he had had an open track for his Presbyterian tenets. He continued his explanation of the passage:

"Paul is here writing to people about their conversion and he is trying to show them that if they have been truly converted they must forsake sin. He says here in the verse: 'We who died to sin, how shall we longer live therein?' You see he speaks of dying to sin, and that brings him to the idea of a burial. He wants to show them that when they were converted -- if they were really converted -- that their conversion was a baptism of the Spirit; that just as Christ died, was buried and rose to a new life, so the converted soul through the work (or the baptism) of the Spirit on him died to his old life and rose to a new life, and therefore such an one must not sin. The passage therefore reads: 'Therefore we are buried with him by baptism into death, that like as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, even so we also must walk in newness of life.'"

"Well, now, let me see," said the father. "You say the writer compares the conversion of a soul to a baptism of the Spirit?"

"Yes, he speaks of it as a spiritual experience; not a mere outward reformation, but an inward spiritual experience, and when he says buried with him by baptism he means a baptism of the Spirit."

"Why does he call it a baptism?" asked Dorothy.

"That's the point exactly," said the father. "Sterling says the writer is not talking about a water baptism. Well, I don't see why it may not be a water baptism. It says nothing about a spiritual baptism. But anyhow let it be a spiritual baptism; the important point in this argument is that he calls it a baptism, and note carefully he calls the baptism a burial. No matter whether it is a water or a spiritual baptism that he is talking about, he shows what his idea of a baptism was. It was like a person being buried and being raised again."

"I think, Mr. Sterling," said Dorothy, "that the verse shows that the important thing about baptism is the way it is performed; that it is not water that makes the baptism; that it may be water, or it may be the Spirit, or possibly it may be something else; but that the important thing is the way it is performed. In other words, it must be like a burial and a rising again. It looks to me as if Paul is showing what a wonderful experience a person's conversion is."

"Exactly," said the father, "and I suppose the writer could not express that spiritual change in conversion better than to call it a baptism by the Spirit, and he showed mighty clearly his notion about baptism; to him it was a burial and a rising again.'

"I think there is something more wonderful still about that passage," said Dorothy. "I think you can see two baptisms in the verse, the water baptism and the Spirit baptism. Paul draws a picture of the conversion of a soul. It is a change worked in the soul by the Spirit, and as the Spirit works on the soul the soul dies to his old life and rises to a new life. But that is just like what takes place when the person is baptized in water. He is buried out of sight in the water and then rises again, and the water baptism is an exact picture of the spiritual baptism. Surely Paul must have had the two baptisms in mind when he wrote this."

"It looks mightily that way," said Mr. Page.

"Another thing," said Dorothy, all aglow with her interpretation of the passage, "doesn't this show why Christ commanded baptism? You see, he knew that every true Christian must pass through this spiritual experience at conversion -- the baptism of the Spirit -- and he decided to give his people an outward ceremony that would be a sign, or picture, of the inward spiritual change that they must have, and so he commanded immersion, as if he would say: 'Here is a picture of what I command of everyone -- this burial in the water and rising again; it is the picture of that spiritual change that must occur in everyone that would be my follower'. He commands two things, a spiritual burial and rising and a material burial and rising; two baptisms, one of the Spirit to come first and a baptism of the water to come second as a sign of the first baptism."

"If that is true, Friend Sterling," said the father, "then it would seem a pretty serious thing to change the form of the baptism. If the founder of Christianity commanded these two baptisms, one a picture of the other, then it looks to me mighty risky to tamper with either of them. Now, if you put sprinkling in the place of immersion you destroy the whole meaning in the work of conversion. The two don't go together at all. You don't have a burial by sprinkling a few drops of dirt on a person. It is not a matter of much water or little water. The important thing is that it be a burial and rising again."

It was a new experience for Sterling, He had begun the discussion with the thought that Dorothy would be delighted with the doctrines of his great church. She had seemed on the point of joining. He was irritated that the conversation had been hung up on the baptismal controversy. Besides, the passages in favor of immersion bewildered him. His religious life had been spent largely among close adherents of Presbyterianism and he had rarely heard his doctrines called in question. Whenever he had heard allusions to the Baptists and their beliefs it was generally accompanied with a smile or a sneer and he had come to regard the dippings of the Baptists as a joke. The passages which they had just considered unveiled New Testament baptism before him in a new light, and while he could not believe that immersion was Bible baptism, yet he felt that he could never as formerly treat immersion in a joking manner.

The discussion was becoming exciting for him. He saw that the battle was on. As he thought of Dorothy drifting away from his faith and his church he had a sinking of heart, and yet he also felt that if he could not win her by the truth to his position he would not win her in any other way. Consequently he warmed to the fray.

He had promised to join the family circle on the next evening and resume the discussion. His work kept him closely confined at his office during the morning. He hurried home for a tennis game in the afternoon, and promptly that evening he appeared in the library at the Page's ready for the contest.




Chapter V.

Handling The Three Thousand.


That evening Sterling opened the discussion: "Miss Dorothy, I have listened in these discussions to what are evidently stock passages of the immersionists. But let us go deeper into the matter."

"But why do you call them stock passages of the immersionists?" asked Dorothy in surprise. "I did not get them from any immersionists. I told you I thought I saw passages in the Bible teaching immersion and you said no. I was asked to show these passages and I have been showing them."

"Very well, we will not dispute on that point, my fair debater, but I will try now to show you that it was impossible that immersion could have been intended in these Bible passages. I think I can show you that certain baptisms could not have been immersions."

"Good for you," said the father. "Now the contest is getting spicy. Show that immersion was impossible and you have won the day."

"Father, you speak as if Mr. Sterling and I were engaged in a battle. My only desire is to learn what the Bible teaches about baptism, and I shall certainly follow its command as nearly as I can, cost what it may. Why do you say immersion was impossible, Mr. Sterling?"

"Because in the account of the baptisms on the day of Pentecost we are told that three thousand persons were baptized and that of course could not have been done by immersion in one day."

"Were they all baptized in one place?" asked Dorothy.

"Yes, all were baptized at Jerusalem on the day of Pentecost after a great sermon by the Apostle Peter."

"How many persons did the baptizing?" asked Dorothy, as if she was trying to picture the scene.

"That is not stated."

"Let us have the passage, Sterling. My curiosity is excited," said Mr. Page.

Sterling read from Acts 2:41: "Then they that gladly received his Word were baptized and the same day there were added unto them about three thousand souls."

Dorothy read the verse over carefully and then remarked: "Why, that doesn't say they were all baptized on the same day. Notice it says there were added to them on the same day about three thousand. Why may not some of the number have been baptized before that and during Christ's life?"

"That is a fact," said the father, looking over the passage. "The verse does not say that they were all baptized that day; but do you suppose, Sterling, that it would have taken a great deal longer to immerse them than it would to have sprinkled them? Not if the sprinkling ceremony that I saw was a sample of the way the three thousand were baptized. Do you not have a ceremony connected with sprinkling just as they have one connected with immersion?"

"Oh, yes, there is always a little ceremony connected with the sprinkling."

"Who did the baptizing that day?" asked Dorothy.

"Good for you, daughter," said the father. "That is a stunner. One man would have had quite a job on his hands whether he sprinkled or dipped that host of folks. But with several baptizers it was a different proposition."

"Oh, father, why do you speak so jokingly about these Bible matters?"

"You are right, Dorothy. Forgive me. I always make a muss of it when I tackle religion. I'd better call in my tongue before I get into trouble."

"I repeat my question," said Dorothy: "Who did the baptizing on that day?"

"I guess that Peter, one of the apostles, did it."

"Oh, yes," said Dorothy, "there were twelve apostles, were there not? And if they all took part in the baptizing, that would have made it much easier. And I notice back here in the fifteenth verse of the preceding chapter it says there were one hundred and twenty disciples there when Peter preached his sermon and that three thousand were converted."

"Hello," said the father with a smile, "you keep on and you will get more than enough people to baptize two or three times three thousand persons."

"You don't imagine," said Sterling with a smile, "that the one hundred and twenty disciples all took a hand in putting the three thousand under water? That would have been a spectacle indeed."

"I think it would have been a spectacle no matter how it was done," said Dorothy.

"Another thing," said Sterling: "Supposing that they had enough administrators for the ordinance that day, where could they have performed the baptisms? Do you think they all marched off to the river Jordan? Of course not. But they did not need to go off anywhere in order to be sprinkled. Besides, what about a change of clothing for the three thousand persons if they were all put under water? Remember most of them -- according to the account -- were strangers from different countries visiting Jerusalem."

"I hope," said Dorothy, "that they had not come from their different countries without some change of clothing."

"Isn't it true," asked the brother, "that over in these Eastern lands, with their loose garments and their sunny climate, they could have arranged for a dipping if they had so desired it? But that other point mentioned by Mr. Sterling has not been answered."

"What is that?" asked Dorothy.

"He asked where in Jerusalem could so many have been baptized?"

"Does it say they were baptized in Jerusalem?" asked Dorothy.

"No, it does not say so, but do you think they went off to a river?" asked Sterling.

"The passage does not state. But are you sure there were not places in Jerusalem where they could have been immersed?" asked Dorothy.

"Wait," said the brother, "let me get an encyclopedia." He went to the shelf and was soon examining the article on Jerusalem. "Here is a long article on Jerusalem," he said, running his eye down the pages. "Hello, here is something about its water facilities. Here is a reference from Strabo in these words 'Jerusalem a rocky, well-enclosed fortress; within, well watered; without, wholly dry'."

"Now you are making discoveries, son," said Mr. Page. "Give us some more about the water."

"Here is another statement. Dr. Robinson states there were six immense public pools in the city, the largest being five hundred and ninety-two feet long and two hundred and seventy-five feet broad."

"That is enough, son," exclaimed the father. "Sterling, history seems on the side of the immersionists there. I think that five hundred and ninety-two foot pool could have taken care of the whole three thousand."

"I think the important question," said the brother, "is the meaning of the Greek word originally used for baptism. In other words, does the word baptize mean to sprinkle or to immerse? When the people in Christ's day used the word, what did they mean by it -- sprinkle or immerse?"

"That hits the target exactly," said the father. "What does the word baptize mean? Let's see, I think you said that the Bible was written in Greek."

"The New Testament was," said Sterling.

"The question is, then, what word did the people use in Christ's day in talking about a baptism? When Christ told the people to be baptized, what word did he use and what did that word mean? Did the Greek word which he used for baptism mean for the people in that day 'immerse' or 'sprinkle'? When they heard the word from him, did they think of immersion or of sprinkling?"

"'Baptizo', or baptize, is the word which he used," said Sterling.

"But baptize is our English word that we use. What was the Greek word which Christ used and which meant baptism?" asked Roland.

"That is the point," said Sterling. "'Baptizo' is the Greek word, and the people who translated our English from the Greek Bible did not translate the Greek word 'baptizo' into any English word, but simply put the Greek word 'baptizo' or baptize into our language as it was without translating it. You see, if they had translated it 'immerse', that would have made the Presbyterians mad, and if they had translated it 'sprinkle' that would have made others mad, and so they did not translate it at all, but simply put the Greek word 'baptizo' in the English Bible, leaving each person to translate it as he thought proper."

"But why did they not translate it?" said Dorothy, as if vexed by their neglect. "It must mean something, and if they translated the other words, why did they not translate this word right, no matter who might have liked it?"

"They ought to have done so," said Sterling, "and they ought to have put the English word 'sprinkle' instead of the Greek word 'baptizo'."

"Oh, I see," said the father. "I guess the Presbyterians, when they came to translate the word into English, would put it 'sprinkle', and those who believed in dipping would translate it 'dipping'."

"That's it exactly," said Sterling. "The translators, in order not to offend the different denominations, agreed not to translate the word at all, but simply to put the Greek word 'baptizo' in the English Bible and let each one translate it for himself as he thought proper."

"Can't we find out what that Greek word 'baptizo' means?" asked Dorothy.

"Certainly, here is the Greek scholar," said Mr. Page turning to his son. "Tell us, Roland, what did the Greeks understand by that word 'baptizo' when they used it?"

"I must get my Greek lexicon for that." And upstairs he hurried and soon returned with Liddell and Scott's Greek and English Lexicon. He turned to the word "baptizo" and read its meaning as follows: "To dip repeatedly, to dip under."

"What is that?" exclaimed the father, almost bouncing out of his chair, "'to dip under'?"

"Here it is on page 130."

"It seems to me," said the father, "that would settle it. If the Greek word that Christ used meant to dip under, what right has anyone to say that baptism is to be done by sprinkling?"

"What do you do with a passage like this in 1 Cor. 10:2?" said Mr. Sterling -- "'were all baptized unto Moses in the cloud and in the sea.' They were all baptized, but do you see any immersion in that? It refers, you know, to the time when the Israelites passed through the sea dry shod with a cloud over them. They were baptized, but they were surely not immersed, for they would have been drowned."

"I did not know of such an event," said Dorothy. "What do you mean by saying that they went through the sea dry shod?"

"God banked up the waters on both sides and let them walk through untouched by the water."

"Did you say the waters were banked on both sides of them and that a cloud covered them?"

"Yes."

"Isn't that a picture of immersion? The ground was under them, the water on both sides and the cloud covered them. It was much more like an immersion than a sprinkling."

"Hold on," said Sterling. "The cloud was not over them, but back of them. The cloud was always either before or behind them, but never over them; consequently they were not covered up and the water did not even touch them -- unless perhaps they were sprinkled by the spray from the wall of waters."

"Let me see the passage," said Dorothy. She turned to Exodus 14:21. "But look!" she exclaimed, "it reads, 'and the children of Israel went into the midst of the sea'."

"You don't think, Miss Dorothy, that they actually plunged into the middle of the sea?" asked Sterling with a smile.

"Of course not, Mr. Sterling; and yet their position in that sea gave the idea to the writer of their being in the midst of the sea. To his mind it looked as if they were covered or buried in the sea, and that is immersion. The Old Testament writer calls it a baptism and the Old Testament historian speaks of them as being in the midst of the sea. Which does that look more like -- sprinkling or immersion?"

Sterling was getting excited. It seemed to him that Dorothy was moving further and further away from him, and he imagined he saw a chasm opening between her views and his own. But he braced himself for the struggle. To him the mode of baptism was by no means a life and death matter, but Dorothy seemed to recoil from the practice of sprinkling. Sterling cheered himself with the thought that he had certain passages to show her that would turn the tide. He said to her with a confident ring in his voice:

"Miss Dorothy, I have an arrow here from the Bible quiver which I think will give the death blow to the immersion theory and prove beyond the glimmer of a doubt that pouring is the scriptural mode of baptism."

"I thought you believed in sprinkling; why do you say 'pouring'?"

"We make no distinction between sprinkling and pouring. They are practically the same thing. I want now to show you a statement from Christ himself indicating that he believed that pouring was the mode of baptism."

"Do let us have it," said Dorothy.

"In the first chapter of Acts Christ said to the apostles: 'Ye shall be baptized with the Holy Ghost not many days hence.' The day of Pentecost, which came not many days hence, was the day which he was talking about. He tells them they would be baptized on that day with the Holy Ghost, and I can show you that this baptism was done by pouring."

"Hold a bit," said the father. "Let me see if I get that point. You say Christ promised that the apostles would be baptized on a certain day with the Holy Ghost, and that when this promised baptism came to pass it came not by immersion, but by pouring. Is that your claim?"

"You have it exactly correct."

"All right, and now for your proof."

"Ten days after Christ ascended to Heaven this baptism of the Spirit came. The disciples were in an upper room and were waiting for this baptism of the Spirit that had been promised, when suddenly the Holy Spirit came. But how did it come and in what way were they baptized? It was poured on them. Don't forget that. When the outsiders, bewildered at the strange manifestation, asked what it meant, Peter stood up and explained it by saying: 'This is that which was spoken by the prophet Joel.' In other words, Peter said it was what Joel the prophet long ago had prophesied would come to pass. And what did Joel say would happen? Listen to Peter: 'And it shall come to pass in the last days, saith God, that I will pour out of my Spirit upon all flesh.'"

"Hello, daughter, he has the dots on you there. The verse declares for pouring."

"Certainly," exclaimed Sterling. "He does not use the word immerse, but says 'I will pour out of my Spirit'. That was the form that the baptism took -- pouring -- and Peter was quoting the prophecy to explain the baptism. And look here in the thirty-third verse; he continues in the same strain by saying 'having received of the Father the promise of the Holy Ghost, he hath shed forth, this which ye now see and hear."

"Let me see that passage," said Dorothy. She looked it over intently and in a few moments said: "Mr. Sterling, notice the whole account. It doesn't read as if the Spirit was poured on them as you would pour a little water on a person in baptism. A previous verse reads: 'Suddenly there came a sound from Heaven as of a rushing mighty wind and it filled all the house where they were sitting.' And in the fourth verse it reads: 'And they were all filled with the Holy Ghost.' Think of that, Mr. Sterling. The Holy Spirit came not in a few drops by pouring, but came so abundantly that it filled the house and they were all filled with the Holy Spirit. I guess if you were to pour water on a person as the Spirit came upon these persons the person would be drowned. The disciples were surrounded by the Spirit, and that looks like immersion rather than like pouring."

"But not too fast," said Sterling. "It does not say that the Holy Spirit filled the house. It speaks of the wind, but it does not say even the wind filled the house, but simply a sound as of a wind. It was therefore only a sound that filled the house, and sound could not fill the house because sound has no existence except in the ears of those who hear it. Where, then, is your immersion? You say they were immersed in sound that day, and you call that baptism of the Spirit?"

"Mr. Sterling," said Dorothy in surprise, "you amaze me. The writer must mean that the Spirit filled the house. I saw in my reading this week a foot note that the wind in Scripture often symbolizes the Spirit."

"Certainly," spoke up the brother. "Pneuma in Greek means both 'spirit' and 'wind'."

"Is that so?" exclaimed Dorothy eagerly. "That makes it plain. It was the wind that filled the room and they knew it by sound. They heard this sound like a wind and it filled all the house -- notice, 'all the house' -- and this wind symbolized the Spirit and it was called the baptism of the Spirit, and it certainly looked more like an immersion than a pouring. Why, Mr. Sterling, I think it would lose all its impressiveness if you make it simply the coming of a few drops of the Spirit on them."

"Just listen to that," said the father with a laugh. "She is actually trying to turn your guns on you, Sterling, and to make this verse prove immersion rather than pouring."

"I note one striking fact," said Sterling, "and do not forget it. The passage speaks of pouring, and I do not see the word immersion."

"But I see the picture of immersion," said Dorothy. "The important fact about that scene seems to me to be the abundant way in which the Spirit came. It was a rushing, in fact, a mighty wind. It filled all the house. Suppose some people were in a room and water was poured on them in such a deluge that the room was filled with the water. Wouldn't that look like an immersion rather than like pouring?"

"No," said Sterling; "you don't immerse people by pouring water on them and covering them up. You don't put the water around them, but you put them in the water. You must put them in the water to have an immersion, but nothing like that was done on that day. Besides, in an immersion you not only put the person in the water, but you bring him up again out of the water to show a resurrection as is claimed. There was nothing like this on the day of Pentecost in the baptism of the Spirit. The disciples were not plunged into the Spirit and they were not taken immediately up out of the Spirit again. If you should use water in baptizing people as the Spirit was used that day, then you must pour water on the candidate until he is covered up, and then instead of taking the candidate immediately up out of the water you must let him remain submerged."

"Sterling," said Mr. Page, "you are getting in some good licks. I don't see that that baptism that day was exactly like either pouring or immersion. It was like an immersion in that they were surrounded by the Spirit, but not like it in any other respect; and it was like a pouring because it came down on them."

"Why, Mr. Page," exclaimed Sterling, "it is actually called a 'pouring'. The word 'pour' is used. Joel prophesied that the Spirit would be poured out on them. How could you wish it plainer than that? And it was called a baptism of the Spirit."

"Daughter, what have you to say to that?"

"But let me add another word," interrupted Sterling. "People are mistaken in saying that baptism was intended to be a picture of a burial and a resurrection. The real truth intended to be taught in baptism is that the power and grace comes from above, comes down on the person and has its origin in Heaven, and I think the idea of divine grace coming down from above is a higher truth than the idea of something that the person himself experiences."

"I think the truth pictured in immersion is much greater," said Dorothy. "It is not only the idea that the person has died to his old life and risen to a new life, but it also points to Christ's death and resurrection and puts the two together and says that, as Christ died and was raised, even so the Christian must have the same experience. I don't see how you can have a more glorious truth than that. Your idea in pouring is that grace comes on the person and comes in a few drops, but in immersion you have not merely grace come down, but the giver of grace, Christ himself come down -- in fact, come down to death and rising again. Oh, I think it is a wonderful double picture showing Christ and the converted soul bound together in these experiences of death and resurrection. Besides, Mr. Sterling, where does the Bible say that baptism was intended to show forth that truth about grace coming from above?"

"I don't know that it says so in express terms, but the ceremony of pouring indicates it and the descent of the Spirit shows it."

"Of course the Spirit when he first came had to come down," said Dorothy. "If Christ promised to send the Spirit from Heaven to baptize the disciples, of course the Spirit had to come down before he could surround them, but it does not seem to have been the fact of his coming down that was the impressive fact that day, but the overwhelming way in which the Spirit came and surrounded them. That is what the writer used a good many words to describe."

"You will notice," said the father, "that it says that not only was the house filled, but the disciples were filled with the Holy Spirit."

"Yes," said Dorothy, "it says that the wind filled the house and the disciples were filled with the Spirit. The idea seems to be that the Spirit came so abundantly that day that he not only filled all the house, but filled the disciples themselves. That was the great fact, the overwhelming abundance of the Spirit."

"I still remind you that Peter calls it pouring," said Sterling.

"Dorothy, he has not surrendered, you see; his guns are still firing," said the father with a smile.

"Mr. Sterling," said Dorothy, "but your pouring is not like the pouring that day. When you pour the water in your baptism, does it come down with a rush and fill the house? The passage does not teach your form of baptism, because you do not imitate it."

"Immersionists do not imitate, in all respects, the baptism of Christ," said Sterling, "for they do not all baptize in a river as he was."

"Neither did the apostles when they baptized in Jerusalem on the day of Pentecost," said Dorothy. "We have seen that they probably baptized in some of the immense pools in the city. And look here," examining the passage about which they had been arguing, "isn't this interesting? Here in the margin of the passage which we have been discussing are the words 'in the Spirit' as if he had promised to baptize them in the Spirit."

"What is that?" exclaimed the father.

"Here where Christ promised that he would not many days hence baptize them with the Holy Spirit it reads on the margin 'in the Holy Spirit', and a baptism 'in' the Spirit was surely by immersion."

"I guess," said the brother, "that the Greek word translated 'in' there on the margin is the word 'en'. Let's see your Greek Testament, Mr. Sterling." He examined it and found that the original word was "en."

"It is 'en' and it means 'in', and the right reading of that passage is 'ye shall be baptized in the Holy Ghost'. Here, look at this. In this Revised Version it reads just that way. If you had read it that way at first in your King James' Version of the Bible it might have saved you all this argument."

"You must remember, Mr. Sterling," said Dorothy, "that I did not bring this passage up to prove immersion, but you brought it up to prove pouring. You spoke very positively about it, but I think you found that if it represented the coming down of water it was like a cloudburst more than anything else."

Sterling was compelled to admit to himself that the Pentecostal baptism was more a picture of immersion than of pouring. He turned the conversation now into another line.

"Even granting," he said, "that immersion is the baptism practiced in New Testament times, it has never seemed to me to be such a prodigiously important matter."

"Oh, Mr. Sterling," said Dorothy with some impatience, "I can't understand such a remark. What do you mean by the word important? If Christ was immersed and commanded it of his followers; if the early Christians were all immersed, and immersion, as Paul indicates, was selected as an outward picture of the spiritual baptism that takes place in conversion, then how can you say it is not important?"

"The fact is, Miss Dorothy, I have never made an exhaustive study of the matter of baptism. I never thought Christ laid any stress upon form, but rather upon the condition of the heart."

"If it is simply a matter of the heart, why baptize at all? Maybe the whole matter is unimportant," said Dorothy. "Would your church like to give up baptism altogether?"

"By no means."

"Would your church accept any kind of baptism except sprinkling or pouring?"

"No, I am sure it would not."

The matter had reached a puzzling stage for Sterling. The question stared him in the face as to whether he had been Scripturally baptized. In infancy he had been sprinkled, but he had to confess to himself that the Bible teaching seemed to lean towards immersion. In fact, in the recent investigation and discussions he had hardly been able to see anything else but immersion.

He did not return to his office that afternoon, but spent the time at his home searching through the Bible. The discussions at the Page's had filled his mind with passages about immersion, but upon later reflection he felt sure that the trend of Scripture pointed strongly to sprinkling and pouring, and with this thought in mind he turned to his Bible study.




Chapter VI.

One Point Gained.


In their discussion on the next morning Dorothy remarked: "Mr. Sterling, let me tell you what I did. I looked up the passages that had the word 'baptize' in them and in each case I put the word 'sprinkle' in the place of the word 'baptize' and it surely made curious reading."

"Good for you, daughter," said Mr. Page. "That was an ingenious procedure. Let us have the passages to see how they sound. It ought to be a perfectly fair method, because if baptize means to sprinkle then you ought to be able everywhere to put the word 'sprinkle' for the word 'baptize' and it would read all right. That's a fine idea, and now for the passages."

Dorothy began with the account of Christ's baptism: "'Then cometh Jesus from Galilee to Jordan unto John to be sprinkled of him'."

"That sounds all right," said Sterling.

"Here is the next one," said Dorothy: "'I have a sprinkling to be sprinkled with and how am I straitened till it be accomplished!' Just imagine Christ speaking of his sufferings in that way, Mr. Sterling. His sufferings were not a sprinkling. But here is another: 'And John also was sprinkling at Aenon near Salem because there was much water there.'

"Again: 'John truly sprinkled with water, but ye shall be sprinkled with the Holy Ghost not many days hence.'"

"That doesn't sound natural," said the father, "to be sprinkled with the Holy Ghost. That would have been a rather light affair."

"Mr. Sterling," said Dorothy, "you remember you said the baptism on the day of Pentecost was by pouring. Suppose you put the word 'pour' in this passage and read it, 'John truly poured with water, but ye shall be poured with the Holy Ghost not many days hence'. You could not speak of anybody being poured. You could speak of water or the Spirit being poured, but not of a person being poured. It would not be proper to say you shall be poured with anything. Something could be poured upon you, but you could not be poured with something. That is another reason why the baptism of the Spirit at Pentecost could not have had reference to pouring, because from this passage, you see, it would not make sense to put the word 'pour' in it. And besides, Mr. Sterling, I think you are uncertain whether baptism is by pouring or sprinkling."

"Give us another passage," said the father; "they are quite interesting."

Dorothy continued: "'And they went down into the water, both Philip and the eunuch and he sprinkled him."

"Let us have another passage," said the father.

Dorothy continued: "'Therefore we are buried with him by sprinkling into death.'"

"Oh, my," said Mr. Page, bursting into a laugh, "where did you ever see anyone buried by sprinkling a few drops of earth upon him? Say, Friend Sterling, how did this idea of sprinkling get into so many churches? It certainly does not seem to have a single leg to stand upon."

"I can give you some passages where the word sprinkle would sound natural; for example this passage: 'Go ye into all the world and preach the Gospel unto every creature, and he that believeth and is sprinkled shall be saved.' That sounds just as natural as if it read 'he that believeth and is immersed shall be saved'."

"Maybe so," said Mr. Page, "but it sounds just a little limp to me. Besides, you could hardly put the word 'pour' in that passage. If you want to make a real point you must give some passage where the word 'sprinkle' would sound natural and the word 'immerse' would seem out of place."

"Yes," spoke up Dorothy. "Can you give us such a passage, Mr. Sterling?"

"I have such a passage and it will show that immersion could not have been the mode of baptism."

"Out with it," said Mr. Page.

"It is the words spoken to Saul. It reads: 'Arise and be baptized.' Now that baptism could not have been an immersion. Saul was evidently seated and he was told to arise or to stand up. What was he to stand up for? To be sprinkled, of course. You would not ask a man who was seated to stand up to be immersed."

"He would have to stand up before he could be immersed," said Dorothy. "Why could it not read, 'Arise and be immersed'? Maybe they went off to be immersed. And notice the first part of the verse. It reads: 'Now why tarriest thou? Arise and be baptized and wash away thy sins, calling on the name of the Lord.' Those first words 'why tarriest thou' explain the other part. In the first place, he had to arise; that is, to get up in order that he might go off to some place where he could be immersed. In the next place, he tells him not to tarry, not to wait, but to arise and be baptized."

"Good for you, daughter. It does look as if you were telling him not to delay his baptism, but to get up and attend to it."

There was a lull in the conversation for a moment, and then the father asked: "What kind of baptism did they have in the churches just after the apostles died? Don't we find anything in history about the kind of baptism that was practiced?"

Dorothy spoke up promptly: "I was reading in the library yesterday in some of the encyclopedias about baptism and I copied something about that very point you mentioned. Let me get it."

She hurried to her room, brought the book and read as follows: "'Not less than sixty of the ancient baptisteries are found in Italy alone, of which seven belong to the fourth century, four to the fifth, eleven to the sixth and fourteen probably to the seventh.' Then after describing these baptizing pools found in these ancient church buildings the writer continues: 'Now baptisteries such as described above are found in all parts of ancient Christendom, and their presence makes it impossible to doubt the form of baptism in the patristric and medieval churches. Such structures were plainly intended for immersion. Their size and form and arrangement entirely preclude the idea of their use for sprinkling or pouring.'"

"That is a great point. What were those baptizing pools doing there in the churches if they were not for immersion? If the churches in the fourth century baptized by immersion, it surely must have been because that mode had been handed down to them from the beginning."

"There is one argument against immersion that I have not mentioned," said Sterling.

"Exactly," said the father with a smile. "You are going now to bring out your Imperial Guards. You've been holding them back for the last assault, I suppose. All right, trot them out, Sterling."

"Oh, father, what awful figures you use about these Bible matters."

"That's right, daughter, call me down. I will jump the traces every now and then, and I beg pardon. And now, Sterling, what is that argument against immersion that you have not mentioned?"

"It is this: Immersion cannot be right, for it would make infant baptism impossible."

"Infant baptism," exclaimed Dorothy with a very puzzled look. "You don't mean that you baptize infants?"

"Certainly."

"Why do you baptize infants?" asked Dorothy, with an expression almost of horror on her face.

"It is one of the sacred ordinances of the church and is really one of the most beautiful and effective."

"Do you mean little children just two or three years old?" asked Dorothy.

"Yes, indeed, and often only a few weeks old. Where have you been that you have never heard of infant baptism?"

"I never heard of it. You know I have been to church very little in my life and have known almost nothing about church matters and have had no one to tell me. I am very sorry it has been so, for I feel I have missed a great deal. But, Mr. Sterling, I do not remember seeing anything in the Bible about sprinkling infants. I must have overlooked it."

"You must have overlooked it, for it is taught very plainly."

"Infant baptism?" she said in a questioning, puzzled tone. "Mr. Sterling, the little infants do not know what you are doing to them. I thought the baptism of a person was a picture of what had already taken place in that person. It looks strange to baptize an infant, and besides I should think you would drown the little things to put them under the water."

"Ha, ha," exclaimed Mr. Sterling with a laugh. "Not too fast. We do not put them under the water; we sprinkle them."

"Of course. I ought to have known that, for you baptize by sprinkling. But do tell me some more about it. Why do you do it, Mr. Sterling?"

"It is one of the most sacred ordinances of the church. I wish you could witness the ceremony. But I see we will not have the time to go into the subject as we ought. It is a great subject, and if you do not object we will take it up tomorrow night. I hear no objection and so the motion is unanimously adopted."

Sterling felt as if the battle had been going against him so far as winning Dorothy was concerned. But he did not despair. He girded himself afresh for his task. He decided, however, that instead of attempting single-handed to defend the doctrine of infant baptism, he would seek reinforcements and call in his pastor, Dr. Vincent.

The Doctor was regarded as an encyclopedia of Presbyterian lore. Sterling visited him and told him that Dorothy Page, the daughter of his friend and neighbor, had recently been converted and was concerned about the subject of baptism, and that she was strongly turning towards immersion. "I am dreading, Doctor," said Sterling, "that if she insists on immersion she will be drawn into the Baptist church and we would all regard that as a disaster."

"Did you mention infant baptism to her?" inquired the Doctor. "You know the Baptists would deny to infants this rite and would deny to parents the privilege of such dedication of their children in baptism. That fact ought to keep her from the Baptist heresy, and if that fails to save her from it then surely their doctrine of close communion will settle the business with her."

"We are to take up the subject of infant baptism tonight. We began it last night, but were interrupted before we got fairly launched upon the discussion, and yet not before Miss Dorothy had made some remark about infant baptism showing she thought it a curious practice. I am sure, Doctor, you could set her right."

"I will come if you think I can be of service," he said, for he saw an anxiety on Sterling's face that he could not understand.




Chapter VII.

The Call For Reinforcements.


That evening Sterling and the old Doctor arrived. The Doctor was acquainted with all the Pages except Dorothy. After a preliminary skirmish in the conversation Dorothy remarked:

"It is very kind in Mr. Sterling to be trying to instruct me in these church matters, for I feel very ignorant. He and I have not agreed on all points, but the discussion has helped me greatly."

"I think Miss Dorothy is afraid to take me as her guide as she is trying to climb these heights of Bible truths," said Sterling with a faint smile, "and I have brought over a more skilled and experienced leader."

"Maybe she will not endorse your selection," said the Doctor with a smile at Sterling.

"I see you are making me out as being not only hard to please, but also very ungrateful to my friends. You will find me a very interested and appreciative listener, Doctor, to anything you may be kind enough to say to me."

"We are to talk about infant baptism tonight, and, Doctor, if you are willing, I suggest that you give the reasons for this practice," said Sterling.

"You are laying out quite a program for me. I will attempt, however, to bring it within brief compass. The first fact I would mention is Christ's treatment of the little children."

"Did he baptize them?" broke in Dorothy.

"Hold on, daughter," said the father. "You open up your artilleries too soon. The Doctor was merely making a skirmish."

"Pardon me, Doctor Vincent. I ought not to have broken into your remarks so abruptly, and yet I am sure you understand that I ask because I am deeply interested."

"Break in at any time and I shall be glad."

She repeated her question: "Did Christ baptize the little children?"

"We are not told expressly that he did, but we read in Matthew 19:13 that when the little ones were brought to him the disciples sought to prevent it."

"Just as a good many people would do today," said Sterling.

"Yes," continued the Doctor, "but Christ said, 'Suffer little children and forbid them not to come unto me, for of such is the Kingdom of Heaven'."

"Maybe they were bringing the little children to him for him to baptize them," said the father. "What about that, Doctor? Doesn't it tell what they brought the children for?"

Dorothy had turned to the passage and remarked: "Yes, it tells what they brought the children for. They brought little children to Christ that he might put his hands on them and pray. There is nothing there about baptism. It looks plain that they did not bring them to be baptized, because it simply says 'to put his hands on them and pray'."

"At any rate," said the Doctor, "it showed Christ's tenderness for little children. The point is this: He said 'of such is the Kingdom of Heaven'. Think of that. It is a remarkable statement about the little ones."

"What did he mean by the words 'of such is the Kingdom of Heaven', and what have they to do, Doctor, with baptism?"

"A great deal, my daughter. They mean that the little child has the heavenly nature."

"I think that is a beautiful idea, but what has that to do with the baptism of infants?"

"Why, this: If anybody is entitled to baptism, surely a little child with its heavenly nature is. We may make mistakes in baptizing old persons who claim the right of baptism, but never can we be mistaken in the case of a little child."

"I can understand about the beautiful nature of a child before sin has taken hold of its will," said Dorothy, "but why that little helpless one should be baptized I cannot understand."

"I thought you were deciding all these questions by the Bible," said the father. "What does the Book say about it, Doctor? Do you baptize them because you think it is appropriate to baptize the sweet little ones or because you think the Bible commands it?"

"It is from the Bible alone that we get the authority."

"Where is it commanded in the Bible, Doctor?" asked Dorothy.

"It is not definitely commanded, but it is implied in many ways. We baptize grown people who profess to be born of the Spirit of God and to be regenerated by his grace. How much more, therefore, should we baptize an infant who does not need to be regenerated, because, according to Christ's own words, it possesses the heavenly nature. It is often claimed by our opponents that infants must not be baptized because faith and repentance -- in other words, regeneration -- must come before baptism. All right, I answer; the infant possesses those necessary qualifications for baptism. It does not need regeneration. It already, according to Christ's own words, possesses the heavenly nature and needs not to go through the process of regeneration. In another place Christ said: 'Unless ye become converted and become as a little child ye cannot see the Kingdom.' There you see conversion is compared to the condition of the child nature. Christ said a person desiring conversion must become like a little child. Now we know that a converted person is entitled to and must receive baptism. Why, then, could not a child be baptized?"

"Doctor Vincent," said Dorothy, "it seems to me that the whole matter hinges on the question as to who was commanded in the Bible to be baptized. Does Christ say that all persons having the heavenly or child-like nature must be baptized? If so, why did he not baptize the little ones the day they were brought to him? It looks as if the disciples did not know anything about baptizing the little ones."

"No, they seemed to know very little about Christ's attitude towards children."

"Let me ask this question, Doctor," said Dorothy. "You spoke of the heavenly nature of the infant. When an infant is baptized and grows up, does the baptism cause the heavenly nature to stay with the child?"

"Not necessarily."

"What good, then, does the baptism do? Do you mean that a baptized infant might grow up to be a fearful villain?"

"Yes, it is possible."

"Well, do the baptized infants have a less tendency to sin than the unbaptized infants?"

"No. I can't say that the baptism itself has any effect on the infant. Neither does it have any effect on the grown person that is baptized and disgraces his baptism received in later life."

"But is there not this difference, that in the case of grown people you baptize only those who desire baptism, but in the case of infants you do not make such distinction?"

"It seems to me," said the father, "that the important question is, who in the Bible are commanded to be baptized? Does the Bible say that infants must be baptized or not?"

"No," replied the Doctor, "it does not say that."

"Well, who are entitled to baptism?"

"Let me get my concordance," said Dorothy, rising from her seat, "and look at the passages about baptism so as to see who are commanded to be baptized."

She began with the aid of the concordance to pick out the passages having the word "baptize" in them. She read: "'He that believeth and is baptized shall be saved.'"

"Hello!" said the father. "Who said that?"

"Those are the words of Christ," said Doctor Vincent.

"That looks as if a person had to believe before he could be baptized. But give us another one, daughter."

"Here is one: 'When they believed Philip preaching the things concerning the Kingdom of God and the name of Jesus Christ, they were baptized both men and women.'"

"There it is again," exclaimed the father, "believing coming before baptizing."

"And notice," said Dorothy, "it says they were baptized 'both men and women', but it does not say 'and children'. But here is another: 'See, here is water, what doth hinder me to be baptized? And he said, if thou believest with all thy heart thou mayst be baptized.'"

"There it is again," spoke up the father. "If he believed then he could be baptized. Evidently that writer considered believing essential to baptism."

Dorothy read on: "'Many of the Corinthians hearing believed and were baptized.' Isn't it strange? Every time it is those that believed that were baptized. Here is another: 'Then Simon himself believed also, and when he was baptized he continued with Philip.' And again: 'Then they that gladly received his Word were baptized.' They do not use the word 'believe' in that passage, but the words 'gladly received his Word', and these are practically the same; they not only heard his Word, but received it, and received it gladly."

"Oh, they were genuinely converted," said the Doctor. "There can be no doubt about that. It occurred on the day of Pentecost and those converts continued in the apostles' doctrine and bore good fruit."

"You see, Doctor," said Dorothy, "that those who were baptized in New Testament times first believed. You say that infants ought to be baptized because they have the heavenly and converted nature; but the Bible does not say that. Those who were baptized first believed. Now an infant cannot believe. I do not feel, Doctor, that I know a hundredth part as much of the Bible as you know, but don't you think that Christ meant by those words about little children and the Kingdom of Heaven that they must cultivate the qualities of a little child and that the child nature was a type of the heavenly nature? He did not connect this with baptism."

"Did you know that whole families were baptized?" asked the Doctor. "Many times baptisms were administered in homes not simply on those who believed, but on the whole family, young and old."

"But are you sure, Doctor, that there were infants in those families?"

"Not absolutely sure, but almost; at any rate the burden of proof is on those who deny that infants were in any of those families."

"Show us some of the accounts of family baptisms," said the father. "It does look a little curious, daughter."

They turned first to Acts 16:13-15: "'And a certain woman, named Lydia, a seller of purple of the city of Thyatira, which worshiped God, heard us, whose heart the Lord opened that she attended unto the things that were spoken of Paul. And when she was baptized and her household she besought us, saying.'"

"How do you know there were any infants in her household? It does not even say she was married," said Dorothy. "She was a seller of purple and maybe she was an unmarried woman working for her living. At any rate I do not see that you can prove that she had any infants in her household."

"It looks to me," said the father, "as if that woman was a working woman and as if her household were her fellow-workers, and that there were probably no infants among them."

"Here is another passage," said the Doctor, "in 1 Corinthians 1:16: 'And I baptized also the household of Stephanus.' Will you affirm there were no infants there? How many households do you think I could baptize without hitting upon an infant? Why do you exclude infants?"

The brother was busy looking through the concordance to see if he could find out something more about this Stephanus and his household, and in a few moments he exclaimed: "Here is some light on the household of Stephanus in 1 Corinthians 15:15. It reads: 'Ye know the house of Stephanus.' There you have it again -- 'the house of Stephanus'. That must have been an interesting house: 'Ye know the house of Stephanus, that it is the first fruits of Achaia and that they have addicted themselves to the ministry of the saints.'"

"You see, Doctor," said Dorothy, "it seems that that household were intelligent people and acted for themselves, and therefore were not infants. Just notice what it says -- that the house of Stephanus were 'the first fruits of Achaia'. What does that mean -- 'the first fruits'?"

"Why, the first fruits are the first grain that is gathered in a harvest."

"Oh, I see. Then the members of Stephanus' household were the first ones to accept Christianity in Achaia, and if they accepted Christianity of course they were not infants."

"But it may have meant that they were the first ones in Achaia to be baptized -- 'the first fruits' in that sense -- and if so, there could have been infants in the house."

"But notice what comes in the next verse: 'And that they have addicted themselves to the ministry of the saints.' You don't think, Doctor, he would speak of infants addicting themselves to the ministry of the saints, do you?"

"It looks as if you will have to surrender on that point, gentlemen," said Mr. Page. "I am a novice in Bible teaching, and yet it does seem plain that that household were intelligent folks -- the first to be converted in Ach --  -- "

"Achaia," spoke up Dr. Vincent.

"Thanks for the word, the first fruits of Achaia, and they also 'addicted themselves to the ministry of the saints'. I don't think you had better look for any young ones in that bunch."

"I give you another household," said the Doctor. "It is in Acts 16:33. It is in the story of Paul and Silas' experience in prison and the conversion of the jailer at midnight. It reads: 'He took them the same hour of the night and washed their stripes and was baptized, he and all his straightway.' Now, my fair debater, I suppose you will declare in most solemn tones that there were no infants in the jailer's family. May I ask for your verdict on that point?"

"Look here," said Dorothy, who was examining the passage: "It says plainly that all of them 'did believe'."

"Stop, daughter," said the father. "You are joking about that."

"Listen to the next verse," she said: "'And when he had brought them into his house he set meat before them and rejoiced, believing in God with all his house."

"Take down your flag, gentlemen," exclaimed the father impulsively. "Your guns are silenced. The jailer believed in God with 'all his house'. Well, I guess that means that all his house believed with him, and they must have been very sprightly infants and quite overgrown to have joined their father in that believing."

"It says they all rejoiced also," said Dorothy. "And look at the verse preceding: 'And they spake the Word of the Lord to all that were in the house.' That came before they were all baptized. They 'spake the Word to all'. Notice the 'all', to all that were in the house. I guess that 'all' that were in the house must have been old enough to understand his preaching if he spoke the Word to all of them. Doctor," she asked, "do you think you can find an infant in that attentive, believing, rejoicing household?"

"Read us about another household baptism," as she noted that the Doctor seemed to be closing the Bible.

"This completes the list of household baptisms. I think they are sufficient."

"But, Doctor, not one of these households are said to have had children in them, and if they did have children the children must have been old enough to believe, because it is stated in the case of every one of them that those that were baptized believed or received the word that was spoken. They were all old enough to hear, to understand and to believe the Word."

"From all the passages which I have heard in these discussions," said the father, "one thing seems to stand out very plainly about baptism, and that is that in the Bible times faith had to come before baptism."

"If this is so," said Dorothy, "then infant baptism is unscriptural, because it is a baptism without faith. Infants can not exercise faith."

"Daughter," said the Doctor, "you are mistaken. I can show you that in the case of every infant baptism there is always a faith that precedes the baptism."

"What do you mean, Doctor?" asked Dorothy in great perplexity.

At this moment the telephone bell rang and Dorothy was called to speak to a girl friend, who extended to her an invitation for a carriage ride on the next afternoon. In a few moments the conversation was resumed.




Chapter VIII.

Wronging The Little Ones.


"Doctor Vincent," said Dorothy on her return to the room, "you were saying that the baptism of an infant is always preceded by faith. How can that be? Can an infant exercise faith?"

"Not the infant, but the father or mother."

"Oh, you mean it is the parent that has faith! And do you baptize an infant because the parent has faith?"

"Yes. Either the parent or the god-parent must have faith."

"The god-parent!" exclaimed Dorothy in a puzzled tone. "What is a god-parent?"

"If the child has not a parent, then some Christian man or woman believes for the child and is thus called its god-father or god-mother."

"And so the infant, in order to have baptism, must have some person to believe for it?"

"Yes, my daughter, you catch the idea exactly."

"I thought you said just now that infants ought to be baptized because of their heavenly nature, and now you say they cannot be baptized unless they can get some Christian man or woman to believe for them."

The Doctor for a moment was startled as he saw where his arguments had brought him. He saw in a flash that both of the statements could not be true.

"Doctor, which fact must I accept?" she asked. "Must we baptize infants because of what they are in themselves with their heavenly natures, or must we baptize only those infants who can come and have somebody believe for them?"

"I see your point, and it has a show of logic in it."

"Oh, Doctor," she said, almost impatiently, "why do you say a show of logic? Can both of these positions be true? If the child's nature entitles it to baptism, then all children are entitled to baptism; but if it is the faith of some parent or some god-parent that entitles the child to baptism, then it is only a certain class of infants that can be baptized and the baptism is put on the basis of the faith of another."

"That sounds a little strange to me," said the father. "I did not know that one person could be religious for another. I thought that every tub had to stand on its own bottom in religion. This thing of one person believing for another person so that the other person, especially a little infant, is entitled to baptism -- well, that sounds very new and strange. How can the parent make the child fit for baptism? Do you mean to tell me that if I had a little infant and I should believe in Christianity that that would be a reason why not only I should be baptized, but my little infant also?"

"Is it thought, Doctor," asked Dorothy, "that the baptism does the infant any good?"

"Oh, no," said the Doctor, "the baptism has no power in itself."

"I think the baptism does the infant a wrong," said Dorothy. "Baptism is a religious ceremony which everyone ought to obey of his own will and accord. In the Bible it comes after believing and is a sign of what has taken place in the person's heart. Now, when you baptize an infant you force on him a religious ceremony. Suppose he grows up and is converted and desires to obey Christ in baptism and then learns that baptism was forced on him in infancy. Instead of believing and then being baptized he is first baptized and then many years afterwards he believes."

"And suppose, Doctor," said the father, "he never believes; then what have you got? You have a person walking around baptized who ought never to have been baptized, though he is not to be blamed for it. If the baptism does no good, why do you baptize him? Why not follow the regular course and get him first to believe and then to be baptized?"

"I have an idea," said the brother, "that infant baptism started with parents with dying infants who they thought would be lost if they were not baptized."

"Oh, never," said the Doctor.

"Well, I remember in a house where I was boarding while at college that a mother thought her little infant was about to die and she sent off immediately for the preacher to baptize her child, for she said she was afraid it would be lost if it died without baptism. Now, if that mother had that idea about baptism, why may not many others have the same idea about baptism?"

"Since I come to think of it," admitted the Doctor, "I myself have had quite a number of excited mothers to ask me to baptize their sick infants because they were afraid for them to die without baptism; but they are the exceptions and of course their fears were entirely groundless. This is a Catholic doctrine. The Catholics teach, that baptism saves the infant, but we teach no such doctrine."

"But is it not natural for the mother to get such an idea about baptism?" asked Dorothy. "They come to think that it keeps the child from being lost and the child, as it grows up, would get the idea from the mother that it was saved because of its baptism in infancy. If the mother thought the baptism saved her child, why would she not be apt to tell this to the child, and how awful it would be for a child when grown to think that it was saved when actually it was lost. Doctor Vincent, this doctrine seems to me to be a frightful one. It looks as if it might do a world of harm, and I cannot see where it does a particle of good; and besides, it is so different from that principle which father said just now was one of the characteristics of religion, and that is that religion must be a personal matter. Each soul must be accountable to God, and it is what I do and not what somebody else does for me for which I shall be held responsible."

"My daughter," said the Doctor, "I have let the discussion run along for awhile in this fashion without mentioning the main feature and benefit of infant baptism. It is a dedicatory ceremony. The parent brings the child and offers or dedicates it in baptism to God; and not only that, never forget that the baptism does not stop with that."

"With what?" asked Dorothy.

"With the sprinkling of the water."

"You say the baptism does not stop with the sprinkling of the water? What else, then, Doctor, is added?"

"Why, the parent not only dedicates the child to God, but solemnly promises to watch over the child and to seek to train it up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord."

"Ought not every parent to do that?" asked Dorothy.

"Exactly; that is what I am contending for, that every parent -- I mean every believing parent; we could hardly expect an unbelieving parent to do so -- every believing parent ought to dedicate in baptism his infant and to make the promise for its religious training."

"Is it necessary to baptize the infant in order for the parent to make the promise?" asked Dorothy.

"Miss Dorothy," said the Doctor, with a faint smile, "you amuse me; you almost astonish me. What grudge have you against the simple baptismal ceremony? Do you think there is anything wrong when the parent brings its little one to dedicate it to the Lord to have a few drops of water sprinkled upon the little one?"

"Certainly not. Sprinkle as many drops upon the infant as you please; sometimes the more the better. But why call it baptism? I think the wrong consists In calling it Bible baptism."

"Oh, you object to the sprinkling. Do you think we ought to plunge the infant in water?"

"Not at all, Doctor. It is true I do not believe sprinkling is baptism, and in that respect I do not think you have even baptized the little one when you sprinkle it; but admitting that sprinkling is scriptural baptism, I think it is wrong to call the ceremony baptism. It is all right for a parent to dedicate its child and to use water with it in any shape, but do not let the parent call it baptism. Baptism is something that the person receives of his own accord, and that comes after believing and as a sign that the person has had a change, that the person has died to his old life, as we read the other night, and has risen to a new life; but don't call the sprinkling of water on an infant baptism and thus deprive that child ever afterwards of having a regular Bible baptism, performed on himself by his own choice. I find myself all confused, Doctor, as I try to understand your reasons for infant baptism. You must let me tell you frankly how it appeals to me. At first you said the child deserved baptism because of its own heavenly nature, and next you said it deserved baptism not because of its own condition, but because of the faith of its parent, and now you mention this other idea of dedication and pledging on the part of the parent. This last characteristic seems to have more reference to the parent than to the child, and seems to make the baptism something that is used for binding the parent to do his duty to the child. In that case you make the baptism a matter of the parent doing his duty, and if there is any religion in the ordinance it seems to be on the part of the parent instead of the child. If you call that Bible baptism, I think you put baptism in the wrong place."

Sterling presented a picture. He had hung his hopes high on the Doctor's arguments. In fact, he came to the house with a feeling of triumph and wondered why he had not thought of bringing the Doctor into the discussion earlier. But as he had tried to follow the Doctor in his different arguments, he had found himself lost in a wilderness. He kept up his courage, however, believing that ultimately victory would come.

"Doctor," said Dorothy after she had remained thoughtful for awhile, "is there not great danger in infant baptism that people will get the idea that salvation comes through a ceremony rather than from Christ? You spoke of the mothers thinking baptism would save their infants. If those mothers think so, then do you not see that the practice of infant baptism in a community helps to spread abroad in that community the idea that salvation comes by some outward magical performance?"

At this point Dorothy was called to the door by a party of young people, who were returning from a walk, and who, seeing a light in the Page home, had run in for a few minutes.

"Father," said Dorothy, "you must listen to the Doctor for me and give me the points when I return."




Chapter IX.

Circumcision To The Rescue.


"Let me say," continued the Doctor, "that I have not yet mentioned the strongest reason for infant baptism."

The remark waked new hope in Sterling.

"What is that reason, Doctor?" asked the father.

"It is the argument of circumcision. In the Old Testament times the command was that every male child of Jewish parents should be circumcised. This circumcision made the child a member of the Jewish church and of the covenant of grace. Now in the Christian dispensation, after Christ came, circumcision was done away with and baptism was put in its place, and it is now baptism instead of circumcision that admits one into the church."

"You are getting into deep water for me, but let me make the effort to catch your point. You say that in the olden times -- "

"Yes, in the days of the Old Testament."

"Well, you say that in those days every male child of Jewish parents was circumcised and thereby admitted into the Jewish church, and so in the Christian church every male child -- "

"No, not simply every male child, but every child, both male and female, who was baptized was admitted into the Christian church."

"Well, why this difference? If they circumcised only the males in the old church, why do you not baptize simply the males in the Christian church if baptism is put in the place of circumcision?"

"There is no reason why the females, as well as the males, should not be baptized, but there was a difference in the matter of circumcision."

"This is surely a new kind of argument for infant baptism."

"I think it is a very natural one. God does not change his plans of dealing with his people. In the first covenant all Jewish children were admitted into the covenant simply because their parents were members of the commonwealth or church, and the condition of their admission was their circumcision. Now if God would admit the children in the old dispensation, would he not admit them also in the new? And what is the sign under the new dispensation? Is it circumcision? Oh, no; it is baptism. That seems plain and unanswerable."

"So then it is not the inherent heavenly nature of the child, but the fact that one of the parents is a Christian that makes you baptize his little ones."

"Yes, that is the reason. The parent must of course promise to train the child aright. Circumcision was the door to the Old Testament church, while baptism is the door to the New Testament church."

"Here is a foot note in this family Bible on this passage," said the father. "It says that 'in the old dispensation all the natural children of Abraham were by circumcision admitted into the Jewish church; so now all who are the spiritual children of Abraham are by baptism admitted into the Christian church'."

"Exactly so," exclaimed the brother. "The contrast is between the natural and the spiritual children of Abraham. The natural descendants of Abraham, who were of course Jews, were admitted by circumcision. I think if you wish to run the parallel you must follow that line. In the Old Testament it was a natural relationship and in the New Testament it is a spiritual relationship."

"Son, you are surely on the right track. This foot note here says 'all believers are the spiritual children of Abraham'. Christ said he could raise up children unto Abraham, who was the father of the faithful. Every such believer is entitled to baptism and church membership. Why, that is plain. It runs this way: In the old dispensation all natural children of Abraham were admitted by circumcision. In the new dispensation all spiritual children of Abraham -- that is, all believers -- are admitted by baptism; but you will notice, Doctor, if the spiritual children are believers there can be no infants among them."

The brother was busy looking in the subject index of the Bible for passages about circumcision in the New Testament, and he soon remarked: "Here is an account of a discussion in a council concerning circumcision. It is found in the book of Acts, the fifteenth chapter."

"Read it," said the father. "We want light on this subject."

"That council met in Jerusalem and was made up of the apostles and other disciples to consider certain doctrinal matters," said the Doctor.

Roland began to read the account of the council: "'And certain men which came down from Judea taught the brethren and said except ye be circumcised after the manner of Moses, ye cannot be saved.'"

"Now you are getting at the core," said the father. "You see they are discussing whether they have to be circumcised. I guess the apostles will say they need not be circumcised because baptism has been put in its place. Read along and see if it does not say that."

He ran his eye down every verse, but could find no such statement.

"Do I understand that they came together in that council to discuss whether circumcision was necessary for salvation, and that nothing was said about baptism having been put in its place?" asked Mr. Page.

"It certainly looks that way," said Roland.

"What did that council decide?" asked the father.

"The council decided that it was not necessary for the Gentiles to be circumcised," answered Mr. Sterling.

"Who were the Gentiles?" asked the father.

"They were all the people who were not Jews."

"You mean that they were discussing whether it was necessary for the Gentiles to be circumcised, and that it was decided that it was not necessary, and now do you say that nothing in this discussion was said about baptism having taken the place of circumcision?"

"Oh, this may have been said in the discussion, but there is no record of it."

"They would hardly have left it out of the record if there had been any mention of it in the discussion. I notice here in this chapter they give the different reasons for their views; but the word baptism is not mentioned. If baptism had taken the place of circumcision, would it not have been natural for one of the apostles to have said something like this: 'Why, of course it is not necessary to be circumcised, because baptism has taken the place of circumcision.' That would have settled the question."

"I have another point," said Doctor Vincent, "but let's wait a few moments for Miss Dorothy's return."

In a few minutes Dorothy rejoined the party and the Doctor remarked:

"I can show you that the Bible teaches plainly that God will take the faith of the Christian parent for that of the child."

"Do show it to us," said Dorothy, eagerly.

"Paul declares that the faith of a parent makes the child holy and sanctifies the child."

"I don't know what you mean by sanctifying the child, but show us that passage, Doctor."

"Let me see if I understand your point, Doctor Vincent," said Mr. Page. "You assert that the Bible declares that the faith of a parent will make the child holy?"

"Yes."

"I want to see that passage."

The Doctor turned to 1 Cor. 7:14 and read: "'For the unbelieving husband is sanctified by the wife and the unbelieving wife is sanctified by the husband; else were your children unclean but now are they holy.'"

"Hello," said Mr. Page, "that sounds like it."

"It is very plain," said the Doctor. "The apostle has said that a believer must not marry an unbeliever; but then someone may say: 'Suppose a believer has already married an unbeliever, must the believing wife leave her unbelieving husband?' 'No,' says Paul. 'The believing wife sanctifies the husband and thus the marriage is not unclean, but a proper one.' The fact that one of the parties is an unbeliever does not make the union an unclean one, but he says the child of such a union is holy. Note that. What does he mean by that word 'holy'? The Jews, according to the old covenant, regarded all who were not Jews as unclean or unholy; that is, as not partakers of the holy covenant. But all of Abraham's descendants were holy; that is, were partakers of the covenant, and Paul here states that the children of Christian parents, even though only one of the parents was a believer, were holy."

"But, Doctor," said Dorothy, "I do not see anything about infant baptism in all that."

"This is related to infant baptism. The point before us now is as to whether the faith or belief of a parent makes the child holy, and Paul says it does. The question was asked where the Bible taught that the faith of the parent was taken for the faith of the infant, and I mentioned this passage."

"But does this passage teach that?"

"It undoubtedly does. It declares that one believing parent sanctifies the child; that is, makes the child holy, and that is the same thing."

"I am not much on Scripture," broke in the father, "and I guess I had better keep my hands off of this part of the argument, and yet that passage sounded to me as if the writer was trying to keep married couples from separating simply because one of them might be an unbeliever."

"That is correct," said the Doctor.

"Exactly," continued Mr. Page. "The writer wanted the Christians who were married to those who were not Christians to understand that their marriage was O. K., and that their children were also O. K. Otherwise a Christian wife might feel that her marriage and her children were unclean. Is that right, Doctor?"

"Yes, but do not lose sight of the main point, which is that the faith or holiness of the parent makes the child holy."

"But look here!" exclaimed Dorothy, as if she had made a discovery. "It says that the believing wife sanctifies not only the child, but also the unbelieving husband. Do you believe that a believing wife sanctifies an unbelieving husband?"

"Of course not the husband. A believing wife cannot make an unbelieving husband holy and a member of the covenant of grace."

"But it says here that the believing wife sanctifies the unbelieving husband," insisted Dorothy.

"That means that in the case under consideration the marriage must not be considered an unclean relation so as to make the wife leave the husband or consider herself involved in an unclean relation."

"When it says the unbelieving husband is sanctified by the believing wife, does his sanctification mean becoming a member of the covenant?" asked Dorothy.

"No, not at all."

"Why, then, do you say that the child who is made holy by the parent is made a partaker of the covenant? Do the words 'holy' and 'sanctified' mean the same thing?"

"Yes, they are practically the same."

"It seems clear as a sunbeam to me from that passage," broke in the father, "that whatever was done to the child by the faith of the believing parent was also done to the unbelieving husband, for it plainly says so. Let us have that passage again, daughter."

She read: "'For the unbelieving husband is sanctified by the believing wife -- '"

"There you have it plain," said the father. "And the unbelieving wife is sanctified by the believing husband, else were your children unclean but now they are holy."

"And look here!" exclaimed Dorothy, examining the passage closely. "In a verse or two below it says: 'For how knowest thou, Oh wife, whether thou shalt save thy husband?'"

"There, now," said the father, "'save thy husband'. He evidently was not saved by his believing wife. It shows that, even though he was sanctified by the faith of his wife, yet he was not saved. Sanctification did not mean much for him, and maybe it did not mean much either for the children. The writer was trying, I think, to keep those marriages intact, and I guess he had a hard time of it sometimes. Even though that husband was sanctified, yet he needed saving. That looks mightily as if the sanctifying part had reference to the marriage relation of that husband and wife and not to any spiritual or religious condition of the husband, and therefore not to anything spiritual as regards the child."

"Look here," said the Doctor with a smile, "I think Mr. Page will have to start a commentary."

"I see you have a twinkle in your eye," retorted Mr. Page, "and consequently I will not extract any compliment from your remark."

The conversation ended at this point. The Doctor stated that an engagement compelled him to hurry from what to him had been a very interesting discussion, and that he would be glad to renew it. He bowed himself out and Dorothy remarked:

"Father, I cannot tell you how strange I feel. I appreciate Doctor Vincent's efforts to help me to know my duty, but this conversation tonight has made one thing clear to me, and that is that I can never join a church that teaches and practices sprinkling and infant baptism."

"Miss Dorothy," said Mr. Sterling, "I think you could join my church, and I think you ought to do so, even though you do not believe these two doctrines."

"Daughter, if you won't join the Presbyterian church, I don't know which way you will look."

"But why, Miss Dorothy, can you not join my church?"

"Because I feel it would be wrong for me to join your church believing as I do about these matters."

"Wrong for you to join that church, daughter? I can't see where any wrong would be involved in your joining any decent church."

"Don't you think, father, that it would be wrong for me to join a church that teaches that infants ought to be baptized and that sprinkling is baptism, when the Bible seems so clearly to me to teach that infants ought not to be baptized and that only immersion is baptism? What about my baptism? I would have to be sprinkled if I joined your church, would I not, Mr. Sterling?"

"I think you ought to be sprinkled," he replied.

"Do you think I ought to be sprinkled when I think the New Testament teaches so clearly that immersion is baptism?"

"But, Miss Dorothy, will you set your judgment up against the judgment of the learned divines and scholars of the churches?"

"I do not set myself up against them, but Dr. Moreland said that each one of us must study our Bible and go where it led us; and besides, Mr. Sterling, I have considered all your arguments for sprinkling and all Dr. Vincent's arguments for infant baptism, and I take for granted that you have brought out the strongest passages on that side, and yet in the face of them it seems to me that none of the passages point to sprinkling and infant baptism, while many passages point clearly to the baptism only of believers and to immersion as the only baptism. I must not put away my judgment and go directly against that to follow the judgment of another, must I? Suppose I should join your church, believing that your church was doing wrong in putting something else in the place of Bible baptism; think how uncomfortable I would feel. I would either have to keep silent about what I believed or else I would be constantly engaged in argument with the members."

"Maybe that would be a good thing. You might convert some of us to your way of thinking."

"But is that the right basis on which to select a church? Do you choose a church without reference to what they or you believe, or do those who believe other things go together in another denomination?"

"You will never find a church where everybody in it believes exactly the same thing about Bible teaching."

"Of course not; but I thought you were mentioning the principal doctrines of your church about which all your members are agreed."

"You are correct about that."

"I cannot get away from the belief that I ought to join that church that seems to come nearest to holding those truths that I hold."

"Maybe there is no such church, daughter," said the father. "What other churches are there, Mr. Sterling? I know of a few -- the Methodist, the Episcopal, the Catholic -- "

"I am sorry I must leave this charming circle, but let us take up the other denominations tomorrow evening."

"Good," said the father. "We shall expect you, then, tomorrow evening."




Chapter X.

The Disciple Preacher.


The next morning was spent by Dorothy at the library searching through encyclopedias and making full notes. On the next evening the discussion was resumed.

"Well, here we are," said the father, coming into the library a short while after supper. He had heard Mr. Sterling's voice. "Now let us take up the subject of the other churches."

Sterling was anxious to get into that subject, for he felt confident that the result would be that Dorothy would find it as easy to decide for the Presbyterians as for any of the others, and probably more so. He began with the remark:

"The other denominations -- the Methodist, the Episcopal and the Catholic -- which you mentioned last night believe just as we do about sprinkling, and infant baptism."

"There now," said the father, "you are shut out of four denominations at the start."

"That may be true," said Dorothy, with a troubled look on her face, "and yet what else can I do? Is there no church, Mr. Sterling, that believes that only immersion is baptism and that only believers ought to be baptized?"

"Yes, there is one denomination -- the Campbellites, or rather the Disciples -- for they do not like the first name. The Disciples believe only in immersion and the immersion of believers. They are the only denomination that teach this except, I believe, the Baptists; but of course you would not join them."

"It looks, daughter, as if you are shut up to the Disciples."

"But think, Miss Dorothy, these Disciples have just started up not a great many years ago. They are a small denomination and with few churches."

"That does not make any difference. Believing as I do about the Bible, I would certainly feel more comfortable with them, than with some other denominations whose doctrines I could not accept. It seems to me I would have to cry out and not keep quiet."

"But how do you know that you would believe the other doctrines of the Disciples? You seem to have fallen suddenly in love with them."

"What do they believe?"

"They believe in baptismal regeneration."

"My, those are words!" said Dorothy with a smile.

"What do you mean by that, Mr. Sterling?" asked Mr. Page.

"They believe that a person's sins are washed away in baptism."

"Washed away in baptism?" asked Dorothy with amazement. "Are you sure they believe such a strange doctrine?"

"I know it. I have heard their ministers say that a person was not saved until he was baptized."

"What, even though the person had believed in Christ?"

"They say that such a person is only partly saved and not completely saved until he is baptized."

"I can't understand, Mr. Sterling, what you mean by being partly saved. Don't you reckon you have been misinformed about these people?"

"I have been told that there is a Disciple preacher that lives here in town," said the father, "and that he has two churches out in the county, but makes his home here. Suppose you capture him, Sterling, and march him up here to speak for himself, and tell him you have a prospective member for him." The last remark was accompanied with a smile at Sterling and a wink towards the daughter.

"No, indeed, you must not tell him that," spoke up Dorothy. "And yet I should like to hear about the doctrines of his church. I want to know my duty and I desire all the light I can get."

Sterling felt sure that Dorothy would recoil from the doctrines of the Disciple church.

On the next evening at eight o'clock Mr. Sterling arrived, bringing the Rev. Mr. Garland, the Disciple minister. He was a striking figure. Young, tall and with classic face and fluent speech, he commanded attention at his first word. Sterling saw that he was captured immediately by Dorothy's beauty, and he thought that he also noticed that the handsome young preacher was not entirely unobserved by Dorothy. But the shadowy suspicion flitted out of his mind as rapidly as it had slipped in. Not a great many words were spent in preliminaries. Mr. Sterling soon remarked:

"Miss Dorothy, I have told Mr. Garland about the earnest study you are making of the different churches. The question came up, Mr. Garland, as to the doctrines of your church. I told them your church believed in immersion as baptism and also in the immersion of none but believers."

Mr. Garland with a bow indicated that Sterling had stated the case correctly.

"I also said that your church believed in baptismal regeneration."

"Oh, never!" replied Mr. Garland.

"I thought you believed that a person was not saved until he was baptized."

"Yes, but that is a very different statement from your first one."

"What is the difference? If he is not saved until he is baptized, then I should think his baptism must have something to do with his salvation."

"Here is my position: 'The Bible declares that he that believeth and is baptized shall be saved'. Note that not he that believeth shall be saved, but he that believeth and is baptized shall be saved. That shows that it takes both believing and baptism to save a person."

"How about the thief on the cross? He was saved without baptism, don't you think so?"

"Baptism was impossible for him, and God does not require impossibilities. Besides, that was an unusual case and Christ made an exception in his conversion and salvation."

"But does the Bible say it was an exceptional case? If he could be saved without baptism, why not others? But let me remind you that you did not read to the end of that passage that you quoted just now. You read a part -- 'he that believeth and is baptized shall be saved' -- but read the remainder of the verse."

Mr. Garland repeated the other part of the verse as follows: "He that believeth not shall be damned."

"Exactly," said Sterling. "That seems to teach that believing is the important thing. He does not say that a person is lost if he leaves out both believing and baptism, but simply if he leaves out believing, as if believing was the necessary thing for salvation. If baptism had been a necessary part of salvation, Christ would have said 'he that believeth not and is not baptized shall be damned'."

"Not at all. There are two things necessary to salvation, believing and baptism, and leaving out either one of them is sufficient to cause a person to be lost. You have to mention both of them in stating what is necessary for salvation, but you need mention only one of them which, if neglected, will cause a person to be lost."

"You think, then, Christ could also have said 'he that is not baptized shall be damned'? Would a believer in Christ be lost if he were not baptized?"

"If he could be baptized and would not be, then I think he would be lost."

"Mr. Garland," said Dorothy, "really I cannot understand what you mean. Mr. Sterling said that he thought your denomination believed that in baptism the water washed away a person's sins. You say you do not believe that. Do you think the water has any magic about it? If Mr. Sterling should immerse a person, would that water help to make him a saved person?"

"No, not that. I do not believe the water has any spiritual cleansing or saving efficacy, and I don't think it does anybody any good whatever unless the person first believes in Christ. I think believing is one part and that baptism is the second part."

"You don't think, then," asked Mr. Sterling, "that a person is saved simply by believing?"

At this point a message came for Mr. Sterling that he was wanted at his home on an important matter. "Too bad," he said, "for this discussion is getting mighty interesting. I hate to miss any of it."

"We will hold it until your return," said Dorothy. "I will try to keep Mr. Garland contented during your absence."

Sterling could not understand why she should be so contented to have him leave and should so happily accept Mr. Garland's company. The thought that he might not be able to return that night irritated him. Fortunately, he was successful in attending in a few minutes to the matter that called him home, and in less than twenty minutes he was hurrying back across the lawn to the Page library.

"Hello," said the father, "you must have chartered the lightning express. But we held up the proceedings until your return and are now ready to get down to business again. Where were we when you left?"

"I had just asked Mr. Garland if he believed a person was saved simply by believing, and he remarked that he did not. I would like to ask Mr. Garland this question: What about the inquiry that the Philippian jailer put to Paul and Silas? You remember that when the jailer was converted he came in trembling before Paul and Silas and said: 'Sirs, what must I do to be saved?' And what did they answer? Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and thou shalt be saved.' Not one word, you see, about baptism."

"You would think," said Dorothy, "that they would have said 'believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and be baptized and thou shalt be saved', would you not, Mr. Garland?"

"Yes, but you notice that just a little while afterwards that very night the jailer was baptized. You see the baptism had to come. In fact, baptism always came immediately after believing. It was a necessary part, and the work was not complete until the baptism had taken place."

"But does that prove that the baptism was a part of the man's conversion or salvation?" asked Sterling. "Suppose the person had fallen dead just after he had believed and before any baptism was performed on him, would he not have been saved? If so, I think it proves that he was saved simply by believing, and that baptism is simply a matter of obedience."

"By the way, Mr. Sterling," said Dorothy, "you remember that passage in Romans where it speaks of being buried by baptism. We found that baptism was a picture of something that had already taken place in the person's heart and life -- that he had been buried to his old life and risen to a new life. It is not baptism, therefore, that helps to make the change in a person, but it simply pictures the change that has already taken place."

"What is the use of a person being baptized?" asked Mr. Garland, "if he can be saved without being baptized?"

"Mr. Garland, I trust that I have already been saved by believing in Christ. I want to be baptized, however, not to help me to be saved, for if I am not saved now I certainly do not think my going down into the water will make me any more saved. I simply want to be baptized because Christ was baptized and because he commands all who believe in him to be baptized, and because all those who claimed to believe in him in the days of the apostles were baptized. I reckon I will find from the Bible that there are a great many other things besides baptism that I must do, but that does not mean that the doing of all these things is a part of my conversion or salvation."

"I guess you take up these duties because you are already a Christian and already saved. If you were not already a Christian I guess you would not feel like doing them," said the father.

"I do not exactly agree to that," remarked Mr. Garland, "and yet I do not think we are very far apart. There are some people of our denomination who go to an extreme and declare that the water does wash away sins, and they seem to put more stress on the baptism than on the believing. My doctrine is that every believer must be baptized, and that unless he does become baptized he has no right to consider himself saved."

"But that is different," said Dorothy. "Of course, if a person refuses to be baptized, although he believes that Christ commands it, why, such a person has no right to claim to be converted. I can't imagine a converted person flatly refusing to do what he believes Christ commands. I cannot understand, Mr. Garland, just what your doctrine about baptism is."

"We have another doctrine which I am sure you will like," said Mr. Garland.

"What is that?" asked Dorothy, who was eager to learn everything possible about the denomination.

"We believe in what is called open communion rather than in what is called close communion."

"I don't understand what you mean."

"I mean this. The Lord gave two ordinances to the church, baptism and the Lord's Supper."

"Yes, that is what Mr. Sterling told us."

"Now as to communion, one of the questions of the day about which Christians are divided is the question as to who ought to be admitted to the communion."

"Let me understand clearly about the Lord's Supper. I have read about it in the New Testament, but I wish you would explain it to me fully."

"Christ, on the last night that he spent with his apostles, instituted this supper of bread and wine."

"Yes, I have read that."

"He told them that the bread typified his body that was that night to be broken for them, and that the wine poured out typified his blood that was that night to be poured out for them, and that when he was gone they must repeat that ceremony, and they must do that in remembrance of him; and that as often as they did that they would show forth his death until he should come again."

"What a beautiful thought! And so that is why the people in the church have the communion? I see it clearly now. What, then, do you mean by open communion?"

"I mean that we throw the door to the communion table open. We do not say that nobody but members of our denomination should come to our communion table, but that anybody who loves the Lord may come."

"You mean anybody who is a Christian?"

"Yes."

"Well, that would certainly seem proper. Does the Bible specify who ought to come to the communion?"

"We simply have to take the practice of the apostles and early Christians. It looks as if all people who loved the Lord were welcome to the table."

"Don't all people believe alike on that point?" asked Dorothy.

"Yes, all except the Baptists. They believe that none but Baptist people have any right to the communion."

"Oh, how selfish!"

"They believe that unless you have been immersed you must not come to the table," said Mr. Sterling, "and they will not let anybody come to the table when they have it in their church unless he has been baptized in their way."

"Why not?"

"I don't know, unless it be because they are so ignorant and narrow."

"Maybe they believe," ventured Dorothy, "that a person ought to be baptized before he takes the communion."

"Of course," said Sterling, "that is just what they do believe; and since I come to think of it, our church holds the same position as to baptism. Our church believes that a person must first be baptized."

"You mean," said Dorothy, "that your church and the Baptists believe alike on the communion question?"

"Not exactly. We both believe that baptism must come before the communion, but we differ as to what constitutes baptism."

"Does the Bible teach that a person must be baptized before he can commune?"

"The Bible teaches that all who believed were immediately baptized. That always seemed to be the first thing they did."

"It seems the natural thing to me," said the father, "for baptism to come first, and before the other duties of the Christian life. In the passages which we have studied baptism seemed to follow on the heels of believing. The question is, however, does the Bible have anything to say on that subject? Does it teach that baptism must come before the communion?"

"I think it would look strange for a person to be going to the communion table before he was baptized," said Dorothy.

"Excuse me, Miss Page," said Mr. Garland. "Is it a question as to what you or I might think ought to be done, or is it a question as to what the Bible teaches? I affirm that the Bible does not state that baptism is a prerequisite to the communion."

"That is a somewhat new question to me," said Dorothy, looking at Mr. Sterling, as if he were the proper one to give the answer.

"We do not have from the lips of Christ the actual words," said Mr. Sterling, "'ye must be baptized before partaking of the communion', but I think it is definitely implied in Scripture. In the first place, take the command of Christ: 'Go ye into all the world and disciple all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, teaching them to observe all things whatsoever I have commanded you.' There you have first baptism, and next observing all things that Christ has commanded, and the Lord's Supper is one of these things."

"Very true," said Mr. Garland, "but you exclude the great body of Christians from the table simply on your interpretation of that one verse."

"Isn't this the proof?" asked Dorothy. "In nearly all the passages about baptism we have read we found that baptism always came immediately after the believing; and father, I feel that I must not delay my baptism. What shall I do, and whom shall I ask to baptize me? I think, Mr. Garland, that I ought not to go to the communion table until I have been baptized. That seemed to be the custom in the days of the apostles."

"Suppose people in the days of the apostles did become baptized quickly after conversion," said Mr. Garland, "would that prove that no one has a right to commune before he has been baptized?"

"I think it does, if we find that in every case the first thing people did after believing was to be baptized. It must mean that they were instructed by the apostles that baptism came first."

"Do you mean that it would have been wrong for them to have done anything whatever before baptism?"

"Of course they could not cease all activity."

"Why, then, do you pick out the Lord's Supper as something they must not engage in until they were baptized?"

"Because," said Sterling, "there are two ordinances, and if the ordinance of baptism always came first, then the other ordinance must not come first, and so I think it is clear that only baptized persons had the right to the table. Don't you remember about the people converted on the day of Pentecost? It reads 'then they that gladly received his words were baptized', and then in the next verse we read that 'they continued steadfastly in the apostles' doctrines and prayer and in breaking of bread'. Notice 'breaking of bread' came after baptism."

"Does the Bible say anything about who ought to commune or who did commune in those days?" asked Dorothy.

"Get your concordance, daughter," said the father.

Dorothy did so and soon turned to a passage about the Lord's Supper. "In First Corinthians, chapter nine, the writer is writing to some people about celebrating the Lord's Supper."

"Is that so!" exclaimed the father. "Find out then whom he is writing to and who are taking part in that supper, and that will answer your question."

"It was the Corinthian church," said Mr. Sterling.

"If it was the members of the church who were taking communion, then they must all have been baptized, don't you think so, Mr. Garland?" asked Dorothy.

"I guess the members of that church at Corinth which was founded by Paul were all baptized."

"It does look plain, then," said Dorothy, "that all those early Christians were first baptized and then took the communion and then performed the duties that came up."

"Yes," spoke up Mr. Sterling, glad to join the forces with Dorothy against Garland, "baptism was a duty to be performed once and for all time and in the beginning, but the communion is something that is to be observed right along through the Christian life at regular times."

"Mr. Garland," said Dorothy, "I can't understand why anyone should want to come to the communion table before he is baptized. Why does he not do the first duty first?"

"I don't see the point in all this," said the father. "I think it is a clear proposition that baptism always comes first after believing and before communion. But all the churches baptize -- Presbyterians, Disciples, Methodists and the rest. Why, then, cannot they all commune together?"

"Ah!" said Mr. Garland with a smile, "there is the point. These other denominations have been sprinkled, but according to the Bible they have not been baptized. Now if I believed that baptism had to come before communion, I would not commune with the Presbyterians, Methodists and others who sprinkle, because I do not believe they have been scripturally baptized; but even though I think them unbaptized, yet I would invite them to the communion, because I do not think baptism is necessary to the communion."

"That certainly sounds strange," said Dorothy. "Why, I thought you considered baptism so important that a person could not be saved unless he was baptized; and now you say baptism is not necessary for the communion. That seems contradictory. I should think if baptism is essential to salvation it surely would be essential to taking the communion. Do you think a person ought to take the communion who has not been converted?"

"Of course not."

"This is what puzzles me," said Dorothy. "You say a person can't be converted without baptism. If an unbaptized person should come to your communion table claiming to be converted, would you not have to deny his conversion because he had not been baptized? You say you do not require baptism before communion, and yet when you require conversion before communion you thereby require baptism before communion, because you say there can be no conversion without baptism. In other words, you must hold that an unbaptized person cannot come to your table."

"That does look like a clear proposition, daughter," said Mr. Page.

"Let me ask you this question, Mr. Garland," said Dorothy: "Why do you admit members of other denominations to your table?"

"Because it is not my table, but the Lord's table, and I have no right to shut any of his people out."

"You think the members of other denominations are Christians, then, do you?"

"Certainly they are; probably as good Christians as we are. We do not set ourselves up as being better than others."

"How can you think they are Christians? You do not think with their sprinkling and pouring they have been scripturally baptized, do you?"

"No, I do not."

"How, then, can you think them converted? I understood you to say that none are perfectly converted and saved until after baptism, and you say that sprinkling and pouring are not Scriptural baptism. Therefore you must think they are not Scripturally converted and saved."

"But such people think they have been scripturally baptized, and they do what they consider right."

"But do you think it is right?"

"It is right for them."

"Do you think anybody will be saved if he will only do what he thinks is right for him? Suppose a person should come up and say that he believed that touching the tip of the little finger in the water was baptism, would you say that baptism would be all right for him?"

"Well, hardly," he said with a laugh.

"I declare, Mr. Garland," said Dorothy, "you confuse me. I really don't understand what you believe. It may be my stupidity. I wish I did understand. One thing, however, seems clear to me, and that is that in the Bible teaching the first thing that comes after conversion is baptism. I certainly do not think that I ought to go to the communion table in a church before I have been baptized."

"You don't seem to be able to accept the views of Mr. Garland's denomination," said Sterling.

"I want to say," said Mr. Garland, "that there are variations within our own ranks. In some sections of the country our denomination is more radical in its views than in other sections. In the East our people are not so pronounced as we of the West are in regard to the relation of baptism to salvation."

In response to Sterling's remark to Dorothy about her accepting the doctrines of the Disciples, she replied:

"No, I cannot accept the views of Mr. Garland. I am not sure that I understand clearly what his doctrines are, and yet from what he has said about free or open communion and baptism I must say they do not seem to me to be in accordance with the Bible teaching. I am speaking frankly, Mr. Garland. I have been interested in your statement of the doctrines of your church, and I thank you for telling me about them."

"I am sorry that you have not had an abler champion of our doctrines to present them to you," said Garland with a smile. "If you can't join us you can't join the Methodists, nor the Presbyterians, nor the Episcopalians. You are therefore shut up to the Baptists."

"Oh, I do not think I could join them, either. What do you mean, Mr. Sterling, exactly by their close communion?"

"I mean that they think they are better than anybody else, and that nobody but Baptists have any right to partake of the Lord's Supper. They are an ignorant, bigoted set and think that nobody can be saved who is not put under the water."

"Well, the Disciples believe that, don't they, Mr. Garland?"

"Ah, but not in the way the Baptists believe it," spoke up Sterling. "Miss Dorothy, there is a little Baptist mission here in the eastern part of town. I will take you over there that you may take a look at their base of operations, and I think a sight of it will set at rest any further inquiries as to the Baptists."

The members of the little Baptist mission to which Sterling referred worshiped in a plain, unsightly frame chapel. The city had raised the street that ran in front of the building so that the lot on which the chapel stood was left several feet below the level of the pavement and could be reached only by a rough board stairway from the street to the door of the building. Here a Baptist minister had been ministering to a small and struggling flock in connection with two other churches out in the county. The members were poor and many of them unlearned, and the pastor with such a poor building equipment found his task a difficult one.

"Daughter, I think you want to keep away from that Baptist crowd," said Mr. Page. "They are very small fry and I would hate to see you tied up with such folks."

"I have no intention of joining them, and yet I am much bewildered over this matter of church membership. What must I do? I cannot unite with any of these denominations that I have heard about without doing wrong to my conscience."

"Miss Dorothy, you do not have to endorse all the beliefs that every member of your church holds," said Sterling. "Where will you find such a church? Each person must interpret the Bible for himself and be accountable to God only. If a church is composed of Christian people, why is not that the essential thing, and why can you not join with them? You will have to live in Heaven with them, and why can you not live with them here?"

"I am living with them here. I mingle freely with them, but when Christians divide themselves up and group themselves according to their interpretations of Bible teaching, then I must join myself with those who interpret the Bible as I do."

"But suppose you cannot find any church group or denomination that interprets the Bible as you do; what will you do? You have not found such a people yet. Suppose you do not find such, will you stay out of all the churches?"

"That is a puzzling question. I am not sure just now what I ought to do if I find no denomination believing as I do. But really, I would rather stand alone, keeping loyal to my convictions regarding the Bible, than to compromise them in order to join some church. This is all very new to me, but I am determined to stand alone rather than go against my religious convictions. I know that each individual must interpret the Bible as best he can, and it must be his own conclusion, his own conviction, and I certainly shall not join a church whose doctrines I think are contrary to the Bible. Such a church is no place for me. I would be uncomfortable and I would be in constant controversy with the members."

"Well, there is no sin in controversy," said Sterling. "Our discussions, I hope, have not been very wicked. In fact, such discussions are often the best means for bringing people to see the truth. Why not come into our church simply on the ground that we are Christians like yourself, and then try to teach the other members the truths which you hold and which you think we ought to embrace? In other words, I should think you would have the best reason for coming in among us because we need the truth -- according to your view -- and you could come and sow the good seed among us."

"Oh, Mr. Sterling, what a strange thing you are saying. You surely don't mean it. Do you say that your church will take in people no matter what they believe?"

Sterling saw in a flash that in his eagerness to save Dorothy from joining some obscure sect he was advocating an impossible procedure.

Dorothy continued: "Your church has its own special doctrines, does it not?"

"It does," said Sterling, seeing in advance the point to which she was aiming.

"Would your church accept a person who should apply for membership who should declare he could not accept the teachings of your church because he thought them unscriptural?"

"I surrender on that point, my fair antagonist," said Sterling with a smile. "But I will take down the church bars any fine morning for you and help you over the line into our ranks whenever you decide to come. I think I could swallow my Presbyterian doctrines or lay them on the shelf for a few days under those conditions, because I think in a short while after you had come in and gotten well acquainted with our denomination you would discover we are not far apart after all."

"Oh, Mr. Sterling, how can you talk in that fashion? I like a person who believes something, and though I may not agree with him, I can respect him for his convictions."

"That's a straight thrust you are giving me, and I guess I deserve it, but it was the thought of the fair recruit for our ranks that got my logic and my Presbyterianism into a mixup. So if I was guilty of inconsistency I must blame my accuser. But seriously, it looks as if you are shut up to joining the Baptists."

"No, Mr. Sterling, I do not have to join any denomination unless my convictions lead me to them. But why do you keep mentioning the Baptists? Are my beliefs nearer to theirs than to those of any other denomination?"

"Oh, no; I was joking that time. You do not believe as they do. Please consider them out of the question."

"Mr. Sterling, you make me curious to know what these Baptists do believe. Could we not get the pastor to explain their doctrines?"

"Miss Dorothy, that is not at all necessary," with a show of impatience. "I can give you their views. It is true they believe in immersion, but they have a horrible view about it. They believe that unless you are dipped you are doomed. They think infant baptism was born in the lower regions, and as for the communion they are as close as a clam, and in addition to this they have achieved brilliant success in the matter of ignorance and bigotry."

"Daughter," said Mr. Page with much earnestness, "keep on the other side of the road from that gang. There are some things that a father knows better than a daughter."

"Father, you would not object to my hearing a Baptist preacher tell what his denomination believes, would you?"

It occurred to the father that that would be the quickest plan for curing Dorothy of any curiosity she might have about the Baptists. He thought that a sight of that preacher would show her the impossibility of her linking herself with his people, and so he said:

"Yes, daughter, that will be all right. Hear the preacher. Let us all hear him and get his side of the question."

"Mr. Page," said Sterling, "I think it would be humiliating to you and your family to be entering into negotiations with that preacher about the views of his sect."

"Mercy, are they so very terrible?" asked Dorothy.

"They are not a wicked people, so far as I know," said Sterling. "They are a fairly good sort of people probably. In fact, our country is a fruitful soil for all manner of sects, with all sorts of peculiar doctrines."

"Are the Baptists a regular denomination like the other denominations?"

"In a sense I guess they are, and yet they are not in a class with the other prominent denominations."

"Sterling, suppose you get hold of that Baptist preacher and march him up for our investigation," said Mr. Page.

Mr. Walton was the pastor of the little Baptist church. He was also pastor of two country churches, each of them several miles from town, but as the town was about midway between the two points, Mr. Walton chose the town as his home.

He was much surprised next morning to receive a visit from the rich young Presbyterian elder, and still more surprised when Mr. Sterling told him the object of his visit. He listened with interest as Mr. Sterling told of Miss Page's desire to know the beliefs of the different denominations, "and of course", continued Mr. Sterling, "she does not wish to leave out any denomination." He said this in a tone that seemed to hint that, while the Baptists were hardly worth considering, yet they called themselves a denomination and therefore could not be omitted. Mr. Walton stated that he held himself ready always to give a reason for the faith that was in him, and that if Miss Page desired to know the doctrines held by his people he would cheerfully explain them to her. He was unwilling, however, he said, to force his views upon the young lady. It was finally agreed that Mr. Walton would call at Mr. Sterling's house, and that together they would go next door to the Pages'.




Chapter XI.

A Baptist On The Witness Stand.


At eight o'clock that evening Mr. Sterling and Rev. Mr. Walton were ushered into the library of the Page mansion. Mr. Walton was fifty-three years of age, a man of native gifts, a certain degree of culture and also with college and seminary training. He could not exactly explain it, but he had not been put entirely at his ease by the bearing of Mr. Sterling on that morning in their first conversation. He had determined, however, to make the visit and meet the issue as it came. The family soon appeared and a battery of curious glances were opened upon the preacher in his plain but neat garb. Mr. Page thought that Dorothy's first view of the brother would settle the question for her. There was a self-containment and a lack of self-consciousness on the part of the preacher that was not unnoticed by Sterling. Soon after the arrival of Mr. Walton, Rev. Mr. Garland, the Disciple preacher, also appeared. On the previous evening he had been invited by Dorothy to return and join the circle on the next evening, when Mr. Walton was to tell about his denomination. After some preliminary chatting the conversation was turned into the main channel.

"Mr. Walton," said Mr. Sterling, "in our discussion last evening I stated that the Baptists believe that immersion is the only form of Scriptural baptism. Did I state your position correctly?"

"You did," quietly replied the visitor.

"I also stated that your denomination teaches that infant baptism is wrong. Is that a fact?"

"It is."

"Next as to communion. Your denomination believes, does it not, that none but Baptists will be saved and that therefore only Baptists can come to the communion table?"

"Mr. Sterling, I am sure you do not intend it, but your statement woefully misrepresents my denomination. We hold no such theory. I am aware that we are often charged with having a lofty opinion of ourselves and a contemptuous opinion of other denominations. Such a statement does us great injustice. We do not think ourselves better than others; in fact, they may reach higher standards of piety than we do. Certainly we have no words of praise for ourselves. We love all our brethren in Christ and are happy to join with them in different forms of activity."

"What about the communion?" asked Mr. Sterling. "Are you willing to let other denominations commune with you?"

"That is a matter they must decide for themselves."

"Would you permit a member of another denomination to come to your communion table?"

"If the person considered himself qualified to come I would not seek to put him out."

"Why, that is startling, Mr. Walton," said Mr. Sterling. "I understood that Baptists thought the other denominations were not qualified to come to the table."

"Very true," said Mr. Walton. "But you asked me first if I would permit such a person to come to the table, and I said I would not seek to keep such a person out. We keep no policeman to guard the Lord's table, but if you ask me whether I think such a person is qualified to come and ought to come, that is another question and I answer, no."

"Why not?"

"My reason is this. The Bible teaches that all who partook of the Lord's Supper in the days of the apostles first believed in Christ and next were baptized upon a profession of faith. In other words, the New Testament seems to lay down these steps -- first faith in Christ, next baptism and then the partaking of the communion and the other duties of the Christian life."

"We invite to our table all who love the Lord," said Mr. Garland. "We care not what church a person belongs to if only he is a consistent church member."

"Would you invite me to your table in your church, Mr. Walton?" asked Sterling.

"You speak of my inviting you to my table as if it were a table in my dining room. But remember, it is not my table at all. It is the Lord's Supper spread in my church. The members of my church anxious to carry out the command of Christ that we observe this supper in memory of him come together at regular intervals for that purpose. I have never felt called upon to look out over the entire community to decide whom I would invite to this table."

"But is it not your duty as a Christian minister to invite the people to come?"

"It is my duty to explain the nature of the supper and also to state the qualifications that ought to be possessed by those who come to the table. I am always willing to try to make it plain who I think are entitled to come to the table, but I hardly think I am commanded to pick out a list of people to be invited to the table. I state the conditions and each one must decide whether he ought to come."

"Well," said Mr. Sterling, "I will put my question in another form. Do you think I am entitled to come to the Lord's table in your church and commune?"

"In reply I would say that, while I have respect for your Christian profession, yet I think you are not entitled to come to the communion because I do not think you have been baptized."

"Yes, I know you think that, but why do you not leave the communion matter to me? If it is the Lord's table, and if I am satisfied with my baptism and am baptized in the manner in which the Bible seems to me to teach, why should I not commune?"

"That is for you to decide, Mr. Sterling, but I think you have left out one of the steps that, according to the Bible, ought to precede the supper, and that is baptism. I am bound to think you have left out that step, and therefore I think the thing for you to be interested in is not the taking of the communion, but the being properly baptized. For me to invite you to the table would be wrong. If I felt called on to invite you to anything it would be to the proper Scriptural baptism. If you come to my table I will not put you out. You are responsible for your actions, but if my opinion is asked about your action I can only say I think you would be communing without having taken the previous step of baptism which the Bible requires."

"But according to my best judgment, I have taken the step of baptism. I have chosen the form of baptism which I believe the Bible teaches. Would you ask more of me than that?"

"I endorse your sincerity, Mr. Sterling, but you surely would not expect me to say I believe that you have followed the Scriptural baptism. I am bound to believe that you have not met the Scriptural requirements for coming to the table. I do not try to force my opinion on you. I simply have my opinion, which of course I am ready at any proper time to state. People who have not been immersed know that we have this opinion regarding their baptism, and they seem to take offense because we hold such a view regarding their baptism. Because we think they have omitted one of the preliminary steps to the table they call us close in our communion."

"It looks as if you are close in your baptism rather than in your communion," said Dorothy. "And is that what is meant by the close communion of the Baptists?"

"I do not know what our critics always mean when they speak of our close communion," said Mr. Walton, "but that is our position. I know that here and there in our own denomination there are those who are open in their communion -- that is, they will invite Christians of all denominations."

"What, whether they have been immersed or not?" asked Dorothy.

"Yes."

"Oh, I can't see any consistency in that. If I were a Baptist I would certainly be a close communion Baptist in the sense that Mr. Walton has explained it; that is, I think that people ought to be Scripturally baptized before coming to the communion table, and I certainly don't see anything so terrible in holding such an opinion."

"It is a very ugly doctrine in the eyes of many," said Mr. Walton, "but I take this view of it. If the Bible had given us the two ordinances, baptism and communion, and had said nothing at all about the order in which they were to be observed and we were left free to choose their order, then we would not be able to speak so positively; but when we find in the Bible that baptism is always put immediately after believing, and that the Lord's Supper is never put in this order, then I think it is clear that baptism is expected always to come first. And if it came first in Bible times, why should anyone now wish to reverse the order?"

"Let me ask you a question," said Sterling. "You say a person ought to be immersed before coming to the table. Suppose a person has believed in Christ and been immersed and joins a Methodist church. You would then have a Scripturally baptized Christian. Would you permit such a person to commune with you?"

"You speak of my permitting such a person to commune with me. In the first place, I doubt whether such a person would want to commune with me. I never find such people coming to our church asking to commune with us. We do not have guards before our table. We simply have our views as to those who are properly qualified and the people know it."

"Would you think that this immersed Methodist ought to commune with you?"

"Why do you say 'commune with me'?"

"I will change the question, then. Do you think that an immersed Methodist ought to partake of the communion anywhere?"

"I think not, as long as he occupies that position. But of course he can follow his own convictions. If, however, he should ask my opinion, I would tell him I think he is living in disorderly fashion. He believes that immersion only is the Scriptural baptism, otherwise he would not have sought immersion when the prevailing mode in the Methodist church is sprinkling. Believing thus about baptism he yet throws his membership with a church that seeks to put another form of baptism in the place of the Scriptural baptism. I think that is wrong. He is a Baptist by conviction, and yet for social or other reasons he joins a church of a different faith. Why does he not join the church of his own faith? Besides, in joining that church he is linking himself with an organization that teaches and practices not only sprinkling in the place of immersion, but also infant baptism. I would have to say to such a person, if he should ask my opinion, 'Sir, I think your first duty is not to go to the communion, but to get the matter of your church relationship straightened out'."

"But suppose he should say he believed in infant baptism and therefore could not join the Baptist church? Suppose he should say he believed in all the other doctrines of the Methodist church except their view of sprinkling, and that even on the point of baptism the Methodists believed in immersion as one form of baptism, else they would not have immersed him. What would you say to him then? There you would have a person Scripturally baptized and joining the church that came nearest to his convictions, and now do you say that such a person ought to keep away from the communion?"

"Mr. Sterling, I think that is an impossible case. In the first place, how could that person believe in infant baptism if he believed in immersion? Infant baptism is only by sprinkling. Could that person endorse the sprinkling of infants? I doubt whether you will find a person believing that only immersion is baptism and yet believing that infant baptism is Scriptural. But granting this, you ask if that person ought to keep away from the table. I answer that if that person thinks his position is correct, and he desires to commune, let him take the responsibility. I think he is violating the Scripture. I do not believe the apostles would have advised such a person going to the communion. I think they would have instructed him on the subject of infant baptism and any other important Bible doctrines that the person was neglecting, and they would have sought to set him right on these things before advising him to go to the communion, and if he had refused to follow the Scripture, even though he was sincere in his action, I do not believe the apostles would have countenanced his partaking of the communion. That is simply my view of it. The responsibility rests with him, and he must follow his conscience; only let him be sure that he studied the Bible teaching on the point as thoroughly as possible. I certainly would not invite such a person to our table, because if such a person were a member of my church and should accept and practice the infant baptism and give his influence to propagating that and the other doctrines of the Methodists, he would have to be excluded from our membership; and if such a person would have to be excluded from our membership he surely could not be invited to our communion table. There would be no consistency in that."

"That seems plain," said Mr. Page, who had been a silent, interested listener.

"This is what we believe on the subject, but, as I said a moment ago, we do not force our views on others. They are generally brought up against us. They attack us about our close communion and thus compel us to state our views as to the communion. People know that we have positive convictions about the relation between baptism and the Lord's Supper, and yet they seem horrified if we stand by these convictions and follow them to their logical conclusion."

"Well, well," said Dorothy, "I think this abuse of the Baptists is much ado about nothing. I do not see how the Baptists could occupy any other position than they do about the communion as long as they believe as they do about baptism."

"Mr. Walton, what about myself?" asked Mr. Garland. "Would you permit me to commune at your table?"

"Permit you? Mr. Garland, I have stated that we do not turn anybody away."

"Exactly. But you make it plain whom you want and it amounts to a prohibition. Nobody wants to go where he is not wanted. But tell me, do you think I have taken the necessary steps before communion? I have accepted Christ as my Savior, I have been immersed and am a member of a church that believes in immersion as the only baptism and that does not believe in infant baptism. These are the same doctrines as those held by the Baptists. Would you therefore say that I am qualified to come to the table?"

"I have always understood, Mr. Garland, that your view of baptism was not the same as ours; that you regard baptism as a necessary part of conversion, and in that respect we think you have made a mistake regarding baptism. Scriptural baptism is one of the steps laid down to be taken before the communion, and consequently I think you have not taken that particular step. Those who partook of the communion in Christ's day were baptized because they had believed and were already saved, but you have been baptized in order to be saved. Yours is a different kind of baptism from the Bible baptism."

"I thought immersion constituted baptism?"

"Ah, that is a mistake very frequently made. There is something else in baptism besides the form. There must be the right motive as well as the right mode. I think that when you go down into the water, not that you may typify your death to your old life and your rising to a new life -- a change that has already taken place within you -- but in order that in some way your baptism may complete your salvation, you rob baptism of its chief glory. It is not the same baptism that Christ commanded. He did not go down into the water in order to be saved nor in order that it might work any change in him, but simply to show forth certain truths and to fulfill all righteousness."

"I don't believe you have answered my question," said Mr. Garland. "Do you think I am entitled to partake of the communion?"

"I am not your judge, but if you ask my opinion I am bound to say that I do not think your baptism was after the Scriptural order -- that is, if in your baptism you regarded it as completing your salvation."

"But do you think I have a right to commune?"

"You must follow your conscience on that point."

"Would you yourself commune with the Disciples, Mr. Walton?" asked Sterling.

"Why ask such a question, Mr. Sterling? Why should I go to their church to commune with them? I have my own church in which to commune."

"I know, but suppose that while visiting in a community you attended service at a Disciple church, and they had the communion and the elements were passed around. Would you partake of the supper there?"

"I have never been placed in such a position."

"What would you do, Mr. Walton?"

"There are many who claim that my communing with you would endorse not only your act in communing, but also your baptism as you teach and practice it. If my act would be a practical endorsement of your communion and your baptism, then I certainly ought not and would not join with you."

"I think you would endorse them," said Dorothy, "if you should sit with them and commune with them."

"I think not," said Mr. Garland. "Each one would be acting for himself and your act would not be misunderstood."

"Why should he commune with them?" asked Dorothy. "Must not a person always have a reason for communing? Must he commune every time he may see the table spread before him in any church? If Mr. Walton should retire from the communion in the Disciple church, or simply should not take the supper, the people would understand that he differed from them as to the Scriptural steps required before communion, and it is a person's duty to let his beliefs about Bible teaching be known."

"No, the people generally would not understand Mr. Walton's act in that way," said Sterling, "but would simply think Mr. Walton thought himself too good to commune with them, and this would have a bad effect, and this is the harm of close communion. None of us are perfect, Mr. Walton. We Presbyterians may fall short in some particulars; the Baptists also may not hit the mark at every point. Why not recognize this, and with charity for each other come together around the table of the Lord and avoid making such unbrotherly distinctions?"

"Mr. Sterling," said Dorothy, "that does not appeal to me at all. If a thing is right it is right, and I do not believe we will gain anything by putting that aside just to come together. If I believe that the Disciples' baptism is not the Bible baptism I do not know of any better way I could say that to them than by not joining with them in their communion. I should think that such loyalty to conviction would do no harm and ofttimes might do good."

"Is it not a fact, Mr. Garland, that the different denominations very rarely commune with each other?" asked Mr. Walton.

"You are correct," said Mr. Garland. "Although we practice open communion, it is the rarest thing in the world for a member of another denomination to commune with us or for any of our members to commune in the church of any other denomination."

"I can respect a person who differs from me," said Dorothy, "but a person who seems to be so anxious to appear on good terms with me as to be willing to smooth over or minimize his convictions -- oh, I want none of that. If we differ in our views and think the other is not keeping the Scripture requirement, then let us differ and not pretend that we are together or that our differences do not amount to anything."

"I think that their doctrine of close communion has greatly hurt the Baptists and kept from them many who would otherwise have joined them," said Mr. Garland.

"I must differ with you," said Mr. Walton. "If the Baptists abandon their position on the communion question they could not hold their position on immersion. You know that in England, where the Baptists are not gaining, many of the open communion Baptist churches also have open church membership, thus admitting people to the church who have not been immersed. Do you know why the Baptists of the South have grown so much more rapidly than the Baptists in all other parts of the world?"

"No, I do not," answered Mr. Garland.

"It is because they are strict in their views and stand loyally by their denominational convictions."

"What is another doctrine of your denomination, Mr. Walton?" asked Dorothy.

"Another doctrine is the 'independence of the local church'."

"Independent of what?" asked Dorothy.

"I mean that no pope, priest, presbytery nor bishop, nor any ecclesiastical power has any authority over any local church, but that the church in the conduct of its affairs is entirely independent."

"That sounds like pretty good democracy," said Mr. Page.

"It is democracy, pure and simple," said Mr. Walton. "The Baptist doctrine is that every individual has equal religious rights with every other individual, that all members are on a level, that the local members are capable of managing their own affairs. And, by the way, Mr. Page, did you know that Thomas Jefferson, who wrote the Declaration of Independence, got his ideas of democracy largely from a little Baptist church?"

"What is that?" asked Mr. Page, leaning forward in his chair. "You say that a Baptist church gave to Mr. Jefferson his ideas of democracy? If you will prove that, Mr. Walton, you will be giving us the livest bit of sensation that I have gotten hold of for many a day."

"I have the newspaper here in my pocket that proves what I say. The writer is Rev. Dr. Fishback, of Lexington, Ky., and he writes for the Christian Watchman, and he tells of a conversation he had with Elder Andrew Tribble, who was a Baptist preacher and whose church was near the residence of Thomas Jefferson, and it was this Baptist church of Mr. Tribble that gave to Mr. Jefferson his ideas of democracy."

"Do you have in that paper a letter from Mr. Tribble about it?" asked Mr. Page.

"No, but I have a letter from Mr. Fishback telling of the conversation he himself had with this Mr. Tribble about the matter."

"All right, let us have it."

Mr. Walton opened the paper (The Christian Watchman, a paper that bore the marks of age) and said: "Here is Dr. Fishback's letter:

"'Mr. Editor: The following circumstances, which occurred in the state of Virginia relative to Mr. Jefferson, was detailed to me by Elder Andrew Tribble about six years ago, who since died about ninety-two or ninety-three years old. The facts may interest some of your readers.

"'Andrew Tribble was the parson of a small Baptist church which held monthly meetings at a short distance from the Jefferson home nine or ten years before the American revolution. Mr. Jefferson attended the meetings of the church several months in succession, and after one of them asked Elder Tribble to go home and dine with him, with which he complied. Mr. Tribble asked Mr. Jefferson how he was pleased with their church government. Mr. Jefferson replied that it had struck him with great force and had interested him much, that he considered it the only form of pure democracy that then existed in the world, and had concluded that it would be the best plan of government for the American colonies. This was several years before the Declaration of Independence.'"

"Well, well," exclaimed Mr. Page, "that is mighty interesting. That surely is a big tribute to the Baptists, and that does seem the natural form of government for a church."

"But does the Bible say that a church ought to be governed that way?" asked Dorothy.

"I think the Presbyterian form of government is taught in the Scriptures," said Mr. Sterling; "in other words, that a church ought to be governed by a body known as the presbytery."

"That means that a larger body should be governed by a smaller body, does it not?" asked Mr. Page.

"Yes," answered Mr. Walton.

"That may be Scripture," said Mr. Page, "but I don't like it."

"I think it is wise as well as Scriptural," said Sterling. "You know that today in all great bodies it is a few leaders that do the thinking and planning and directing. Even in the Baptist church, that claims to be a democracy, I'll venture that a few men in each church hold the reins. How much better to have a body of wise men to whom all important questions shall be submitted and who shall have general oversight over and direction of the affairs of the church."

"I must differ with Mr. Sterling as to the Scriptural plan of church government," said Mr. Walton. "I think the Bible clearly teaches that each local church in the days of the apostles managed its own affairs. Where have you any record in the Bible, Mr. Sterling, of any presbytery or smaller body of men controlling the affairs of any local church?"

"I can cite you a case."

"Good," said Mr. Page. "Let us have it."

"The council at Jerusalem drew up a list of requirements that were to be binding on the churches. That looks very much like a body of men legislating for local churches."

"Of course the apostles in their day gave direction for the churches," said Mr. Walton. "They were inspired to give directions to the churches. In fact, they were the founders of the churches. Christ gave through them the rules for the churches not only of that day, but of all succeeding days."

"It looks as if the apostles directed the churches, and why do you say the churches managed their own affairs?" asked Sterling.

"No, I do not think the apostles managed the churches. The apostles at the first had to give rules for the founding and starting of the churches, but even in the first days the apostles threw upon the churches the responsibilities of their own government. You remember that when an apostle was to be chosen to take the place of Judas he was not chosen by the other apostles, but by all the disciples just as if they were all, disciples and apostles, on a level when it came to voting for anything. They cast lots, and I have seen it stated that this casting of lots was simply a voting by ballot, and that is the democratic, Baptist way. You remember that Christ said that a person having a grievance against another person must, as a final step, tell it to the church, and if the offender would not hear the church then he must be as a heathen and a publican. There you see the ultimate authority was lodged in the church to deal with the offender and not in some presbytery or in some ecclesiastical council. How were the deacons elected? They were told to look out seven men of good report. This was said to the multitude of disciples, and this multitude was to look out from among them the seven men who should be appointed for the purpose. Notice it was not the apostles that picked out the men, but they made the selection the work of the people. In fact, in every church mentioned in the New Testament it is plain that there was no ecclesiastical interference in the affairs of the church. Even Paul, the founder of the churches, in his letters, throws upon the churches the responsibility of dealing with their problems. In the case of the incestuous man he said 'when your church is come together' cast out this man; that is, 'get your church together and let them act on it'."

"I think you make out a good case, Mr. Walton, and this principle of democracy is the best thing about the Baptists that I have yet heard," said Mr. Page.

"There are other interesting facts about the Baptists," said Mr. Walton, "but I find I must leave at this point. If you should care to learn more about our denomination I should be glad some time to give you further information."

"Can't you come again tomorrow night?" asked Dorothy in an eager manner.

"An engagement will prevent this, but I could come on some other night."

It was so agreed, though the Pages did not suspect the surprises that were in store for them.




Chapter XII.

Discovery.


After the party broke up after their last discussion Mr. Page complimented the Baptists on their democratic principles of church government. "But, daughter," he said, "it will be impossible for you to mingle with that class of people. I am glad for you to know about the different denominations, but joining one of them is a horse of a very different color, and I am sure you could never be happy tied up with these Baptist people. They may be good folks, but they are evidently a poor and obscure folk. I guess they have sprung up mostly in country districts. I remember in the valley of Virginia where I was reared there was a little Baptist church in the country five or six miles from us. The Presbyterian church, I think, was the strongest and the Baptists cut very little figure in that section, though I confess I did not pay much attention to any of them."

A large part of the day was spent by Dorothy at the public library ransacking the encyclopedias searching for something about the Baptists. To her surprise she found a great deal. She was amazed as she read of the part that the Baptists had played in history. Knowing that the people at her home would be interested, she made copious notes during her reading.

She hurried through her lunch that day and informed her mother that she was getting some very important information about the Baptists, and that by dinner time she hoped to have it in shape to lay it before the family.

The mother thought that of course she was unearthing unfavorable information about the Baptists that would show Dorothy that she could never identify herself with them.

That evening Mr. Page, when he reached home, was greeted with the words from Dorothy: "Oh, father, I have made a discovery!"

"Is it a gold mine under the front porch?"

"It is a discovery about these Baptist people. But wait until Mr. Walton and Mr. Sterling come and I will tell you."

Soon after dinner the two visitors were gathered in the parlor and ready.

"Dorothy announces a big discovery," said Mr. Page. "Let us have it, daughter."

"I don't know that any others will be interested in it, but it greatly surprised and interested me. I have learned that these Baptists have had a remarkable history."

"Remarkable for what, daughter? For obscurity?"

"No. They have played an illustrious part in this world's history."

The father's face darkened. The thought of his daughter falling in love with the Baptists struck him in an unpleasant point of his anatomy. The little Baptist chapel with its plain-looking people and pastor put the denomination in a sorry light before the public.

"Father, I have been in the library hunting for facts about the Baptists. I have read their doctrines and they surely seem to believe exactly what the Bible teaches, and their history is a noble and inspiring one."

"What did you find out about these Baptists? Where did they come from?"

"That is the interesting part. Do you know they are next to the largest denomination in the world except the Catholics?"

"What is that, daughter? You evidently got into some fairy tales in the library. Why, the Methodists are as large as all the other denominations put together, and as for the Baptists, they are but a drop in the bucket. Look at them in this town, and I guess the bunch here is a pretty good sample of them everywhere."

"Oh, father, either those books in the library are wrong or else you and lots of other folks are terribly mistaken. The Baptists and the Methodists are the two largest denominations in the world, except the Catholics."

The father wore an incredulous and bewildered look.

"There may possibly be a lot of Baptists scattered over the earth," admitted Sterling, "but you must have quality as well as quantity, and quality is what the Baptists have not."

"You are prodigiously mistaken," replied Dorothy in a vehement manner. "I could hardly believe it myself as I read it; but it is a fact that the Baptists hold a high place in history. One writer says that the Baptists are in the front ranks in the matter of education. Two writers say that the great Foreign Mission movement of the present and the past century was started by the Baptists of England. Another book says they have led in founding and perfecting Sunday schools."

"England?" said the father. "I didn't know that any Baptists had ever found their way across the seas to England."

"Why, father, England owes much of her present greatness to the Baptists. In the Puritan movement that saved England from Catholicism and kept her Protestant the Baptists are said to have played a large part."

"When did they come into existence?"

"They claim that they have always been in existence since the days of the apostles."

"Well, well, that is a clincher sure."

"Father, it does look as if the truths which the Baptists hold are the truths which Christ taught and which the first Christians practiced; and if so, then the first churches were in that sense Baptist churches."

"All of the other churches knocked out at the first blow," said the father with a laugh, "and Christianity starting off with only Baptist churches."

"This history which I read also said that all through the centuries since Christ there seem to have been bands of Christian people believing substantially what the Baptists of today believe. This was not proved with absolute certainty, but all the evidence points that way. The great Roman church came into power and ruled the religious world, but there were always bands of Christians protesting against Catholicism and standing up for those truths and practices which they believed the Bible taught. Baptist historians say that these persecuted churches held very largely what the Baptists of today believe."

"Exactly," said Sterling. "You say that the Baptist historians claim that these Christian sects who in every century protested against Catholicism and stood up for Christianity were Baptists. Of course Baptist historians claim that these Christians were Baptists. Suppose, however, you had read Presbyterian histories; who knows but that you would have read that there were in every century Presbyterian churches?"

"But how could this be? I read in two or three places that the Presbyterians, Methodists, Episcopalians and many of the other denominations were the fruit of the Reformation, and came after the sixteenth century."

"Daughter, you seem to have these histories at your finger ends."

"I do not know very much about them, but I have read everything in the library that would throw light upon the matters that we have been discussing, and I have made full notes from my reading."

"Your statements sound strange, Miss Dorothy," said Mr. Sterling, "for the Baptists evidently were one of those numerous sects that sprang out of and were a part of the Protestant Reformation."

"Two or three of the books that I examined said that the Baptists existed before the Reformation and helped to bring about the Reformation, and that they did much to shape the Reformation both in Holland and in England and in other places."

"Miss Dorothy," said Mr. Sterling, "the idea seems preposterous to me that the Baptists existed before the Reformation."

"Here is a statement that I read in 'Mosheim's History of Antiquity', in which he says 'the origin of the Baptists is lost in the depths of antiquity'."

"Does Mosheim say that?" asked Mr. Sterling. "Why, he was a noted writer."

"I found that three or four hundred years ago the Baptists were called Anabaptists, and that they gradually dropped the first part of their name."

"What does the word Anabaptist mean?"

"It means a rebaptizer. It seems that they insisted when a person who had been baptized in infancy was converted in later life that he should be baptized on profession of faith. They claimed that his infant baptism was not Bible baptism, and so the people called them rebaptizers or Anabaptists. And here is one statement that I read: 'It is said that two of the presidents of Harvard College were Anabaptists'."

"What is that!" exclaimed the father, almost bouncing out of his chair. "Two of Harvard's presidents Baptists? Where did you find that statement?"

"On page 338 of Gregory's 'Puritanism in the Old World and the New'."

"And you say the Baptists and the Anabaptists are the same?"

"Yes, indeed. I find that the names are used interchangeably in the histories, and gradually the shorter name took the place of the longer."

"Two presidents of Harvard? Well! Well! If that Gregory knows what he is talking about, then that is a stunner. I would never have thought it. But go ahead and give us some more."

"Here is something about the Baptist soldiers in Oliver Cromwell's army: 'The men who made up the new army of Ironsides, which won the victories of Naseby and Dunbar, the men who smiled only as they went into battle and never counted the odds against them, were not Presbyterians, * * * * they were Independents, the Baptists forming the largest element, men who believed in self-government in the church as well as in the state'."

"Where do you find that?" asked Sterling with an interested expression.

"It is on pages 394 and 395 of Campbell's 'The Puritan in His Three Homes, Holland, England and America'. And listen to this from the same author: 'Thus it came about that the persecuted Anabaptists of Holland, taking their doctrines from the early Christians, gave birth to the powerful denomination of Baptists, which has played so important a part in the history of England and America'."

"Miss Dorothy, you amaze me," said Sterling.

"I learn from my reading that the religious liberty which the Christian world is enjoying today is largely due to the Baptists."

"Julius Caesar!" exclaimed the father. "What do you think of that, Sterling?"

"Do you mean to say, Miss Dorothy," asked Sterling, "that you found in your reading that the great blessings of religious liberty that are enjoyed in this country, and to a certain extent in Europe, are due to the Baptist denomination?"

"I find that fact positively stated in many places. Here is something from the same book of Campbell, 'The Puritan in His Three Homes, Holland, England and America', which I mentioned just now. It is on pages 202 and 203: 'But no words of praise can be too strong for the services which the English Baptists rendered to the cause of religious liberty. They went down with Cromwell and suffered a relentless persecution after the restoration of the Stuarts, but they have never lost their influence as a leaven in the land. In purity of life and substantial Christian work they have been surpassed by the members of no other religious body. Having been the first British denomination of Christians to proclaim the principle of religious liberty, they were also the first to send out missionaries to the heathen.'"

"Just listen to that!" exclaimed Mr. Page.

Dorothy continued: "'In fact, if the Anabaptists had done nothing more for the world than to beget such offspring they would have repaid a thousand-fold the care shown for their liberties by the Prince of Orange in his contest with some of the narrow-minded Calvinists among his associates.'"

"Hold on there, you take my breath away," said the father.

"Please note what that says," remarked Mr. Walton. "Those words call attention to the purity and high Christian character of the Baptists, and to the fact that they were the first in these centuries to send out missionaries to the heathen. It is a fact that the great Foreign Mission movement now encircling the world was first started by the Baptists a little over a hundred years ago under the lead of William Carey, a Baptist. Notice it gives to the Baptists the honor of being the author of religious liberty for the world."

"But who is that Campbell?" asked Sterling.

"His book is one of the great books of the day."

"Of course," said Sterling with a smile.

Dorothy read on. "Here is another statement from Gregory. He is writing concerning the Anabaptists: 'The history of that remarkable people is yet to be written, and when it shall have been written an heroic chapter shall have been added to the history of the world. The Dutch Anabaptists were Puritans before Puritanism had sprung into recognized existence and held all that Puritanism afterwards contended for.'"

"Think of that," said Mr. Walton. "We all know one of the greatest religious movements of the past was Puritanism. It saved England from the blight of Catholicism and made and kept her Protestant. But there were two wings of the Puritan movement; one wing stayed in the English church and sought to work reforms within the church, and the other wing fought the battle on the outside of that church, and of this party the Baptists were the foremost fighters. They sounded clear and strong the demand for absolute religious liberty."

"Here is something from Masson's Life of Milton," said Dorothy.

"Let us have it," said Sterling. "That is a standard book."

"On page 90, Vol. III., find this: 'Not to the Church of England, however, nor to Scotch Presbyterianism, nor to English Puritanism at large does the honor of the first perception of the full liberty of conscience and its first assertion in English speech belong. That honor has to be assigned, I believe, to the Independents in general and to the Baptists in particular.'"

"Well, well," said Mr. Page. "Sterling, this daughter of mine has indeed made a discovery. I think it is an eye-opener for both of us. But go ahead, daughter. You seem to have yet other surprises up your sleeve."

"Here is something very interesting."

"And where does it come from this time?" asked the father.

"It is also from Masson's Life of Milton, and it is on page 101, Vol. III.: 'In a confession of faith or declaration of faith, put forth in 1611 by the English Baptists of Amsterdam, just after the death of Smith, this article occurs: "The magistrate is not to meddle with religion or matters of conscience, nor compel men to this or that form of religion; because Christ is the King and the Lawgiver of the church and conscience." It is believed,' continues Masson, 'that this is the first expression of the absolute principle of liberty of conscience in the published articles of any body of Christians'."

"Just think of that publication by the little Baptist church in Amsterdam," said Mr. Walton. "Consider the circumstances. The religious world was at that time under the domination of the Catholic hierarchy. The church and the government locked arms in absolute control of men's forms of worship as well as of every phase of human action. The king and pope prescribed the prayers, the Scripture readings and the forms of worship of every citizen; and in the face of it all this little band drew up its declaration of faith to the effect that the government had no right to meddle with a man's religion nor to compel men to any form of worship because Christ was the King and Lawgiver. Think of the boldness of such an announcement. It was an ultimatum hurled by that little flock at the king, the pope and the civil government and the hierarchy."

"That explains all the horrible persecutions of the Baptists in Holland that I read about this morning,' said Dorothy.

"Very true," said Mr. Walton. "Of course the thunderbolts of the higher powers fell upon the heads of the rebellious Baptists, but persecution only fanned the flame of their faith and zeal. They grew and spread. They planted the seeds of their faith on English soil, and we read that after 1660 the English prisons were full of Baptists, and Miss Dorothy has already read of the brave Baptists who formed the flower of Cromwell's Ironsides."

"What do you mean exactly by saying that the Baptists have given religious liberty to the world?" asked Mr. Page.

"I mean this," said Mr. Walton. "Up to the sixteenth century the Catholic Church held the so-called Christian world in its grip, controlled men's consciences and decided how every man was to worship. The Baptists rebelled against any interference with the religious life."

"I thought it was Martin Luther with his Reformation who broke the power of the Catholic Church and thus gave birth to religious liberty," said Sterling.

"The Reformation under Luther did strike a prodigious blow at Catholicism, but it was not a fight for absolute religious liberty. Never forget that. Lutheranism simply threw off Catholicism to substitute a state church of its own. In the Reformation in England the church broke from Catholicism, but it sought to set up a state Episcopal church. In Scotland a Presbyterian state church was set up, but during all this time the Baptists were ever sounding their demand for absolute religious liberty without any interference or help from the government and for complete separation of church and state."

"Did not the Baptists bring these principles to this country?" asked Dorothy. "I think I read that they did."

"You are right, Miss Dorothy. Roger Williams, who was a Baptist -- "

"What is that!" exclaimed Sterling. "Roger Williams a Baptist?"

"He surely was, and he was the apostle of religious liberty for America. And how did the clause in the Constitution of the United States granting religious liberty get in there? It was brought about by the Baptists of Virginia, who pleaded for it and fought for it and suffered for it. Bancroft, the historian, states that the Baptists gave religious liberty to America, and John Locke states that the Baptists were the authors of religious liberty. And, gentlemen, it is a fact to be borne in mind that, while all Protestant denominations in America today practically believe in religious liberty, yet it was not always so. The Baptists in this country, single-handed, took up the cause and fought it through to a finish, and now all denominations are enjoying the benefits of it."

"By the way, Mr. Sterling," said Dorothy, "I read today that John Milton and John Bunyan were Baptists."

"Hold on, Miss Dorothy," said Mr. Sterling.

"It is a fact," said Mr. Walton. "They agreed with the Baptists in their fundamental doctrines. You must remember another thing, and that is that the principles of democracy that are sweeping over the world are largely the trophies of the Baptists."

Mr. Page, with a laugh: "There he goes gathering up some more of our treasures and claiming them for the Baptists."

"Come, let us vary the exercises with some ice cream," said the mother.

"You think the discussion is getting too warm, do you, mother?" asked Dorothy.

They adjourned to the dining room and a recess was taken.




Chapter XIII.

Baptist Principles On The March.


"Now let us have the facts about the part the Baptists have played in giving the principles of democracy to the world," said Mr. Page.

"History shows," said Mr. Walton, "that up to the sixteenth century the Catholic Church, in league with the government, not only controlled the religious life, but also the civil life of the people. There was neither religious nor civil freedom. The king and the pope ruled all. Then came the demand of the Baptists for absolute freedom, and although their demand had reference to religious freedom, yet the inevitable result of this principle is civil freedom; and in the wake of this came democracy, which is simply the rule of the people."

"But I do not see that religious liberty necessarily leads to democracy," said Mr. Page.

"I think it does. Where absolute religious liberty exists for every individual you then have equal rights for all the people, and this is democracy. Besides, coupled with the doctrine of religious liberty is also the doctrine of the Baptists regarding church government. They believe the Bible to teach that every local church is independent of every other local church and of any higher government. They believe not only in the independence of the local church, but also of the individual. In other words, each local church was a democracy in which all members were on a level, each entitled to a vote in its management and the majority controlling. This is democracy. These principles of democracy have, like a leaven, penetrated the nations."

"You remember, father," said Dorothy, "it has already been mentioned how Thomas Jefferson got his idea of democracy from a little Baptist church."

"You are right, daughter; all this is mighty interesting. Go ahead with it."

"See the rapid strides that these Baptist principles are making," continued Mr. Walton. "They are on a world-wide tour of conquest. In England the Baptists have been in the front of the fight for freedom. Their household goods have been sold again and again in these latter days. Look at Russia. What mean those uprisings of the people against tyranny? It is the stirrings of democracy, and the Baptists are bearing the brunt of the battle. I saw at the Baptist World Alliance in Philadelphia some of the Russian Baptists, and I tell you they were stalwart-looking heroes indeed. See how in Spain and Portugal the power of the hierarchy and of the monarchical government is crumbling. Behold China! What does it mean except the rule of the people supplanting the rule of the monarch?"

"Yes," said the father, "I noticed in the paper yesterday that the new president, Yuan Shi Kai, had announced religious liberty for the new republic."

"Think of that. And whence came that boon of religious liberty which the new Chinese president is so generously offering to his great nation?" asked Mr. Walton. "Who deserves the largest credit? I believe the Baptists, who suffered, who fought, who died that they might win it and bequeath it to the world, and but for the Baptists I doubt whether there would be any absolute religious liberty -- and I had almost said no pure democracy -- in the world today. At least that is my conviction, and I believe that had it not been for the Baptists we would be having today a state religion in Europe and in America in the sections which are not dominated by the Catholic Church. The Baptists refused to creep under the shelter of the government or to receive any benefits whatever from it, but declared themselves in their religion absolutely independent of the government."

"Well, gentlemen," said the father, "if all these statements are facts of history -- and of course I do not deny them -- then this is the biggest eye-opener that I have ever encountered. I could only wish that the Baptists in this part of the country -- present company excepted, of course, Mr. Walton -- had only remained true, in quality, to the original stock. But maybe my opinion, Mr. Walton, may also be due to my ignorance; don't you reckon so?"

Mr. Page spoke with a smile, and Mr. Walton smiled back.

"Another interesting thing I found in my reading -- " Dorothy remarked.

"Hello, is there something else?" asked the father. "I guess this time we will be told that the Baptists took part in the creation of the world and in the illumination of most of the stars."

"Father, don't make fun of me. These facts deserve serious consideration."

"Good, daughter, go ahead. I really feel very solemn about it all."

"The other thing I found about them was their fearful suffering."

"Yes, that has already been alluded to."

"I know, but you have no idea what a chapter in the world's history these sufferings make. I saw two volumes filled simply with an account of the persecutions and sufferings of the Baptists of Holland. They were subjected to all manner of cruelties and tortures to make them give up their faith, but they stood firm and thousands and thousands in Holland alone were put to death. John Milton and John Bunyan were both imprisoned for their faith. It was a time when the governments were bitter in their punishments and the Catholic Church, and later on the other denominations also, were back of these persecutions."

"Yes," said Mr. Walton, "it is a fact that all the denominations were against the Baptists, and in a sense that has been the case ever since. In this country grievous punishments were visited upon the Baptists during their fight for religious liberty. They began their fight alone, but the world is gradually accepting their beliefs. Other denominations may not take our name, but they are taking our doctrines. I have spoken about religious freedom. Take the case of infant baptism. And, by the way, our doctrine of infant baptism has not been picked up by accident. It is logically connected with the doctrine of religious liberty."

"How can that be?" asked Sterling. "I fail to see any connection between infant baptism and religious liberty."

"The doctrine of religious liberty means that every individual is accountable to God only, and that each man's religion must be an act of his own free choice, and therefore no religious ceremony must be forced upon anyone, infant or adult, without his own consent. Infant baptism violates the principles of religious liberty and individual accountability. In fact, I think you will find that there is a logical, as well as Scriptural, connection between all our Baptist doctrines. This, however, is parenthetical. I started to speak of the spread of Baptist principles among other denominations. Three or four hundred years ago the Baptists were almost the only ones to lift their voices against the universal practice of infant baptism. How is it today? Though it is still on the creed books of the other denominations, yet it is a fact acknowledged on all sides that the practice is becoming rarer and rarer. The Baptist teaching about this practice is permeating the other denominations."

"What is that?" asked Mr. Sterling. "Infant baptism going out of use?"

"I do not say that it is on the point of going out of existence, but I do say that under the influence of Baptist teaching it is becoming rarer and rarer."

"Even though it should be somewhat on the wane -- which I do not at all admit, Mr. Walton -- yet supposing it to be the case, what have the Baptists to do with it?"

"I thought such questions might come up and so I came prepared," Mr. Walton replied, drawing a newspaper clipping from his pocket. "Here is something written by Lyman Abbott in the Outlook of November, 1897."

"Is he a Baptist?" asked Dorothy.

"No, indeed," replied Sterling.

"Does he believe in infant baptism?" she asked.

"Yes. What is your quotation from Dr. Abbott, Mr. Walton?"

"Dr. Abbott is writing about the Baptist Congress that had held a recent meeting."

"The Baptist Congress?" exclaimed Dorothy. "What is that?"

"It is a meeting where Baptist men from different parts of the country come together once a year and discuss different religious subjects, and they call it a Baptist Congress, but of course they make no laws. Now, Dr. Abbott was writing about one of these Baptist Congresses, and he says: 'They (the Baptists) all hold, and hold as strongly as ever, that apostolic baptism was a symbolic expression of repentance and faith, and that to baptize infants that can neither repent nor exercise faith is a change of the original ceremony from its original purpose. Historical scholarship abundantly confirms this contention. Infant baptism was unknown in the apostolic church. The change can be justified only on the ground that no rite is of the essence of Christianity, and that the same spirit of Christian liberty which allowed the Christian church to dispense with circumcision allowed it to change baptism from a symbolic act of faith by a penitent to a symbolic act of consecration by a parent.' This is not directly connected with the matter of infant baptism going out of existence which we were talking about just now, but I have read it as showing what this noted advocate of infant baptism has to say. He declares that infant baptism did not exist in the early church, but that the church has changed it."

"I can't understand that at all," said Dorothy, in a perplexed tone. "I thought we went to the Bible to learn about Christianity and to the teachings of Christ and his apostles for our guidance. I thought that being a Christian meant taking Christ as our Master and the Bible as our guide; and now to say that we can change these commands and put something else in the place of them -- why, suppose Christ does not want them changed? If we can change one command, why not any of the commands? If it is not important to obey one of the commands, why is it important to obey any of them? Let others do as they please, but I have taken that Book as my guide and I shall stand by it as closely as I can. If I break from it at one point I fear I will start adrift out to sea."

"Here is the quotation that I was looking for showing the decadence of infant baptism," said Mr. Walton. "I read from the Congregationalist of January 18, 1882. This is not a Baptist publication. It reads: 'The simple fact appears to be that the doctrine of the evangelical denominations as to infant baptism is in a transition state and has at present a materially loosened hold upon the popular conviction. * * * * Congregationalists, under the attrition of Baptist friction on the one side and the force of their own principles of individualism on the other, have become a good deal demoralized in this particular.' Think of that," continued Mr. Walton. "You have this Congregationalist paper saying of the practice of infant baptism by its own denomination that it was diminishing partly because of the influence of Baptist principles."

"If infant baptism is wrong," said Dorothy, "it is a good thing you see to have these Baptist principles, for they work against the unscriptural infant baptism."

"Here is another quotation. It is stated that at one of the presbyteries of the Dutch Reformed church held in 1879: 'In view of the great neglect of infant baptism' -- notice that -- 'in view of the great neglect of infant baptism a paper was requested by Rev. F. H. Van Deveer, D.D., on that subject'. There you have a Dutch Reformed presbytery, because of the great neglect of infant baptism, requesting one of its distinguished members to write a paper on the subject. Baptist principles, you see, are at work among other denominations. This is also true as to immersion. The Baptists have won the fight for immersion also. Here and there you will find some that deny that immersion is Bible baptism, but the scholarship of the world has yielded that point."

"Mr. Walton, you amaze me," exclaimed Mr. Sterling. "Are you not mistaken about prominent men of other denominations agreeing that immersion was the original Scriptural mode of baptism? Can you give us the names of them?"

"I can, for I brought along a copy of some of these statements. For example, I have the words of John Wesley, John Calvin, Martin Luther and Cardinal Gibbons."

"What is that!" exclaimed Mr. Sterling. "Why, three of these men are the founders of their own denominations and the other is the head of the Catholic Church in America, and all of their denominations practice sprinkling and not immersion."

"I will read their own statements, and I can give you the very place where you can find their words in print."

Sterling held his breath as Mr. Walton began to read.

"Here are the words of John Calvin. I believe he is regarded as the founder of your denomination, Mr. Sterling."

"Very well, what does he say?"

"He writes as follows in Book IV of his Institutes, Chapter XV: 'The very word "baptize" signifies "to immerse"; and it is certain that immersion was the practice of the ancient church.'"

"Mr. Walton," said Sterling, looking at him with an intense gaze, "do you assert that John Calvin, the great champion of Presbyterianism, wrote that?"

"I do, and you will find it just where I have quoted it. Listen to John Wesley, the founder of the Methodist church. You will find his statements in his Notes on the New Testament in his comments on Roman 6:4, 'We are buried with him, alluding to the ancient manner of baptizing by immersion'. In other words, Wesley says that Paul in this passage about baptism was referring to immersion, and I guess Paul was pretty good authority. Martin Luther, the founder of Lutheranism, says in his works, Witten Ed., Vol. II, page 79: 'For to baptize in Greek is to dip, and baptizing is dipping. Being moved by this reason I would have those who are to be baptized to be altogether dipped in the water as the Word doth express and as the mystery doth signify.'"

"You mentioned Cardinal Gibbons, the head of the Catholic Church in this country," said Mr. Page. "Do the Catholics immerse?"

"Oh, no," said Mr. Sterling. "What does Cardinal Gibbons have to say?"

"In his book, 'Faith of our Fathers', page 275, he writes: 'For several centuries after the establishment of Christianity baptism was usually conferred by immersion, but since the twelfth century the practice of baptism by affusion has prevailed in the Catholic Church, as this manner is attended with less inconvenience than baptism by immersion.'"

"Well, gentlemen, I am amazed," said Mr. Sterling.

"Mr. Sterling," said Dorothy, "can it be a fact that the founders of these denominations declare for immersion and yet the denominations follow some other mode? Do you suppose that it is possible that these denominations, like the Catholics, have adopted pouring because it was more convenient?"

"That is just how the practice has come into existence," said Mr. Walton. "Cardinal Gibbons lets the whole secret out when he states that in the twelfth century pouring was adopted as the mode of baptism because of its convenience. Now remember that at that time there were no Presbyterians, nor Methodists, nor hardly anybody except the Catholics -- except, of course, the Baptists," Mr. Walton remarked with a smile in which all the others joined.

"Yes," said Dorothy, "you remember it was stated tonight that in every century there were bands of Christians worshiping by themselves and protesting against the practices of the Catholic Church, and that these people seemed to believe, in substance, the principal doctrines held by the Baptists today."

"The point I was making," continued Mr. Walton, "is that all of these Protestant denominations, either directly or indirectly, came out of the Catholic Church three or four hundred years after the twelfth century, when the Catholic Church abandoned immersion, and when they did come out they brought with them the custom of pouring, which at that time was practiced in the Catholic Church. If the Reformation had come, however, before the twelfth century, then the Protestant denominations would be practicing immersion, because before the twelfth century the Catholic Church was practicing immersion. That is the history of the change, and explains, Mr. Sterling, why you and your church practice pouring. You inherit it from your Catholic ancestors. You have it because the Catholics abandoned immersion and put their seal on pouring. I do not say it in any unkind spirit, but am simply giving you some ancient history."

"Father, it does look as if the main part of the Christian world is using a substitute for the baptism which Christ has given us, and that they received this mode from the Catholics. Mr. Sterling, how can you be willing for the Catholic Church to dictate your baptism in that way?" Dorothy's eyes flashed as she uttered the question and she seemed horrified at the thought.

"Mercy alive, let me run out and catch my breath," said Mr. Sterling. "These are startling things that I am hearing tonight. If it is true that we have sprinkling or pouring simply because the Catholic Church happened to have it when the Reformation came, then I must confess it puts our denomination in the attitude of having our baptismal ceremony foisted on us by the Catholics, and we are now seeking from Scripture to justify our position. But, Mr. Walton, that cannot be so."

"I refer you to history. I have given you the places where these statements can be found."

"How did we get back into the subject of immersion?" asked Mr. Sterling.

"I was stating," said Mr. Walton, "that the truths of the Baptists were gradually permeating the ranks of the other denominations, and I remarked that the principal scholars in the different denominations admitted that immersion was the original Scriptural mode, the implication being that, though it was the original mode, yet the church -- and you see it was the Catholic Church -- had the right to change it. It is a fact that members of other denominations are asking for immersion at the hands of Baptist ministers. Only last fall I baptized a very prominent Methodist minister who had become convinced from his study of the Scriptures of the evils of infant baptism and the scripturalness of immersion."

Mr. Page, with a smile and a wink at Mr. Sterling, remarked: "Exactly, and you had better be on the lookout, Sterling; these Baptists will have you under the water yet."

Mr. Sterling colored considerably, for Mr. Page's banter had struck deeper than Mr. Page thought.

"What I can't understand," said Mr. Page, "is how these Baptists can be such wonderful people and yet occupy such an obscure position in this part of the country."

"But they are not obscure in America," said Mr. Walton.

"No," said Dorothy. "Don't you remember, father, how I told you that the figures state that the Baptists are next to the largest denomination in the United States except the Catholics?"

"In Georgia," said Mr. Walton, "one person out of every four is a Baptist, and it is almost that way in Virginia, North Carolina and South Carolina. I understand that the Baptists of Georgia pay over half the taxes of that state. They are a mighty army in the South and in the world."

All of these things were a revelation to Mr. Sterling. As to Dorothy, her mind had been made up many days ago, and her path of duty was as clear as a sunbeam to her, and it led straight to the Baptist church. Mr. Sterling had within him a storm of thoughts that he could not still. His efforts to win Dorothy for his faith and his church seemed to have utterly failed, and she appeared to be drifting further and further away from him. He was tortured by the thought that he might lose her. Besides, there was the chaos in which his mind had been left by the recent discussions and disclosures. The evidence in favor of immersion as the Bible mode of baptism, and the violation of Scripture teaching in the case of infant baptism, as well as the Bible teaching regarding church government, stared him in the face. It rose above all his ties of kindred and church and above all arguments that he could summon to his aid in favor of his position, but he dared not let anyone suspect his state of mind.

He was eager to follow the matter still further, though he felt as if he were moving towards a precipice. It may to some thoughtless ones seem a trifling matter for one to abandon a position as to doctrinal matters and accept other truths. Men are constantly altering their opinions: but for a Presbyterian elder -- especially one filled with an ambition for high usefulness in his church, whose ancestors on his father's and mother's side have been of his faith -- for him to come out before his church and before the public and acknowledge that he was wrong, to give up his doctrines and his church and his prospects and his large circle of kindred and friends and link himself with an obscure and almost despised band of people meant a crisis, and he did not even permit himself to consider it. He merely tried to regard the restlessness in his mind as transient and to think that soon he would settle into his former composure and confidence. That night as he sat in his room he remembered having seen in the afternoon paper the statement that Dr. R. L. Boardman, one of the most learned professors in the Princeton Theological Seminary, a leading Presbyterian institution, was to lecture that evening in the adjoining town about ten miles distant. In a moment Sterling decided on his plan. He determined upon a desperate attempt. Next morning by telephone he gained Dorothy's consent to a conversation with Dr. Boardman in case he could persuade him to come over for that purpose. Before nine o'clock the next morning Sterling had reached the Doctor by telephone and made an engagement to meet him, and in less than an hour his automobile had whirled him to the next town, and there Sterling told the Doctor of his friend who was seeking to know her duty as to church membership, and he besought him to return with him and in the evening to visit with him his friends at the Page home and to set the young lady right on the matter of sprinkling and infant baptism and church membership.

Sterling won the day and a few hours later he and the Doctor were speeding along the road to Sterling's home. Sterling hung his hopes high on the Doctor, who was a noted authority on Presbyterian doctrines. He felt as if he were staking everything on the conversation of that evening.

Mr. Page, when he learned that the Princeton professor and the Baptist preacher would both be on hand that evening, knew that the discussion would be lively.




Chapter XIV.

Sterling Brings In His Reserves.


That evening after dinner Mr. Sterling brought over his distinguished friend. Dorothy had invited Mr. Walton to return and form one of the group.

"Doctor," said Mr. Page, with a smile and a wink at Mr. Sterling, "I guess you will have to set us all straight. Mr. Walton here is about to enlist Dorothy and Mr. Sterling under the Baptist flag."

"Miss Dorothy seems to think the Bible commands her to be put under the water," remarked Sterling, "and she does not believe at all in infant baptism. She insists that these things prevent her joining our church, and she talks as if the Baptist doctrines are nearest to the doctrines which she believes the Bible to teach."

"Am I stating it correctly?" asked Sterling of Dorothy.

"Mr. Sterling is right in saying that I believe in immersion and not in infant baptism, and therefore I do not feel it would be right for me to join his church."

"May I ask why you feel that you cannot join his church?" asked the Doctor in a gracious manner.

"If I think the doctrines of the church are wrong, do you think I ought to select that as the church for me to join?"

"May I ask another question?"

Sterling's hopes rose as he saw the Doctor entering upon the discussion. He felt there could be but one result.

"Mr. Sterling has mentioned that you thought very favorably of the doctrines of the Baptists. One of the cardinal doctrines of the Baptists is religious liberty. That means they believe in the right of every individual to interpret the Scripture for himself. Do you believe in that doctrine?"

"Certainly. Don't you, Doctor?"

"I see you are putting me on the witness stand," he said with a smile. "I answer that I assuredly do believe in such individual liberty; but it seems to me that the Baptists are inconsistent. They demand individual liberty and yet they cry out against us Presbyterians because we interpret the Scriptures in a way different from them. You say, Miss Page, you cannot join the Presbyterians because of their beliefs, but I should not think that that ought to concern you. If you hold that everyone must interpret the Bible for himself, then that is what the Presbyterians are doing. In doing that they carry out the Baptist doctrine of individual accountability to God."

Sterling was delighted. It was just as he had expected. He saw in a flash that if the Baptists were true to their doctrine of religious liberty they could not demand that he change his faith, but must accord him a perfect right to his belief.

"Excuse me, Doctor," said Dorothy, "I do not think you understood me. I do not blame the Presbyterians for drawing their own conclusions about the Bible and believing just what they think the Bible teaches rather than what somebody else thinks it teaches. I grant them this right, but it does not follow that I must therefore join their church. I say let the Presbyterians follow what they consider to be the teachings of the Bible; but let me do the same and let me not feel that I must join their church."

"No, my young friend, I would not say you must join the Presbyterian church; but may I ask why you should find it impossible to join that splendid body of Christian people? If everybody must follow his own convictions of Bible teaching, would you say you cannot fellowship those who do not interpret the Bible as you do?"

"Doctor, I do not say I could not fellowship the Presbyterians, or anybody that may understand his Bible differently from me. I can respect them and believe them to be better Christians than I am. But I don't think I ought to join their church unless I believe their doctrines."

"Well, my daughter, you will never find a church with every member believing just as you believe."

"What does a denomination mean, anyhow, Doctor? Does it not mean a body of people believing a certain set of doctrines?"

"Yes."

"It seems to me to be somewhat after this fashion. I guess I have no right with my small knowledge about these things to be theorizing, and yet is it not this way? Here in the world we find a multitude of Christians. As they read the Bible some understand it one way and others understand it another way, and still others another way, and those therefore who understand it one way get together in one great company and those understanding it another way get together in another great company and so on, and these large groups are the different denominations, and this simply means that people believing alike naturally come together and fall into line under one name."

"Why, yes; that certainly sounds sensible, daughter," said Mr. Page. "I guess that those people who believe as Mr. Walton believes about baptism and other matters are called by the name Baptists, and that those who believe the doctrines that Dr. Boardman believes call themselves Presbyterians. Now of course you would not respect a person believing as the Baptists do and joining the Presbyterians. He is not a Presbyterian in belief and he ought not to call himself such nor be known as such."

"Doctor," asked Dorothy, "would you want a person to join your church if he would not accept the doctrine of your church?"

"Since I come to think of it, my fair questioner, I don't think we would take in such a person. If you cannot accept the teachings of the Presbyterian church, then probably you ought not to join, though I confess I am not as strict as some of my brethren. If a person is with us in the fundamentals, then we can overlook such minor matters as baptism and the like. I think the trouble with the Christian world today is that we are magnifying the non-essentials and neglecting the weightier truths."

"You say baptism is a minor matter?" asked Dorothy with some surprise.

"Why, certainly, my daughter. Christ himself must be pained when he sees his people so anxious about external forms rather than about matters of heart, of life."

"That greatly bewilders me, Doctor. It has been intimated several times that these matters about immersion and infant baptism and church government are minor matters, that there are other doctrines that are of greater moment; but let me ask, are we to disregard and treat these as we please? Must we not try to obey these commands as they were originally commanded and practiced? Besides, Doctor, it seems to me that this beautiful ordinance with its impressive teachings was given great prominence by Christ. His last great command to the apostles had baptism in it, and when people were converted under the preaching of the apostles the first thing they always did was to be baptized, as if baptism was one of the things that had to be done and done at once. Christ was himself baptized and he commands us to be. I don't see how you could wish it to be plainer than that. I cannot understand how a person can say that one command of Christ is not as important to be obeyed as another. When you talk that way about a command, does it not sound as if it did not make much difference whether we obeyed the command at all?"

"Well, my daughter," said the Doctor, "I glory in your zeal and courage and I bid you follow your convictions; but you must remember one thing, and that is that you will probably never find a church all of whose members believe exactly alike. Suppose you find some in the Baptist church that believe something that you do not believe. How can you conscientiously stay in with them?"

"I do not think it is a question as to what every individual member believes, but what are the doctrines by which that particular denomination is known? There are certain truths which the Baptists believe, and when you say you are a Baptist people know just what you believe. As I understand it, there are certain truths which all Christians believe, and on those points we are all one; and although we may not be in the same organization, yet I think we are like soldiers, all fighting in the army of our King."

"Yes, my daughter," said the Doctor, "we all belong to what is called the church universal."

"But," continued Dorothy, "there are other matters about which there are differences, and this makes the army break up into different regiments; but we all still have the same Commander."

"You are quite a little theologian," said the Doctor with a smile. "May I ask my young theologian a question? How do you manage to swallow the Baptist doctrine of close communion?"

"They do not seem close in their communion," promptly replied Dorothy, "not any closer than you Presbyterians."

"You surely are a valiant defender. How do you prove that?"

"You believe, do you not, Doctor, that no one ought to come to your communion table who has not first been baptized?"

"Yes, that is our rule. I certainly would not advise one who has not been baptized to come to the table."

"The Baptists believe that, too."

"But the Baptists do not think I ought to come with them, and yet I have been baptized."

"Yes, but you have not been Scripturally baptized -- so the Baptists think."

"But what have they to do with my baptism? I am satisfied with it. I believe it is Scriptural. I thought the Baptists contended for individual freedom in interpreting the Bible. I follow my conscience with my Bible and decide that I must be sprinkled, and now you say the Baptists say I ought not to commune because I have not been baptized the way they prefer. In other words, the Baptists want me to interpret the Bible not as my conscience decides, but as their conscience decides. If I have followed my conscience about baptism, what more could you ask of me as to my baptism, and why should the Baptists therefore refuse me a place at their table?"

"Doctor, I don't think they refuse anybody a place at their table. I expect that is where so many people get the wrong idea about the close communion of the Baptists. Mr. Walton says that they keep no policeman at their table to keep people away. I think that is very important to remember. They believe that everybody must interpret the Bible according to his own conscience, but that does not mean that they think that everybody that does this will interpret the Bible as was originally intended. But they do leave it to every man's conscience."

"Ah, you are mistaken there, my little lady. That is just what the Baptists do not do. They do not leave it to other folks' conscience, but -- "

At this point the Doctor turned to Mr. Walton and said:

"Mr. Walton, I think it is one of the calamities connected with the life of the Christian church today that so much of her energy is expended in arguing about differences rather than in discoursing on their agreements. I think denominationalism is a blight on Christianity, and if we could banish it and unite our forces, presenting a solid front to the enemy in heathen lands as well as in our own land, we would sweep the field for our Lord and Master."

"But, Doctor, how can we get rid of denominationalism?" asked Dorothy. "Can we ever get all men to think alike and to interpret the Bible alike?"

"It is not that, my daughter," said the venerable man. "We must all have our individual peculiarities, but we must subordinate these to the great mission before the church of Christ."

"What do you mean by subordinating our beliefs?" asked Dorothy. "I do not see how it weakens the Christian army for Christians to have their own individual beliefs. It seems to me it makes Christians a stronger people for them to be people of conviction and not for each one to treat Christ's commands lightly. Let us not weaken at the point of conviction in order to strengthen at the point of courtesy and friendship. Why, I should think that the greatest success would come by each denomination pressing forward along its own convictions."

"Will you let me say," remarked Mr. Walton, "that I believe that the next epoch in the life of the Christian church will be a move not towards denominational unity that is so much talked about now, but rather towards an emphasized denominationalism in the highest sense of that term? The church in her march of conquest loses rather than gains in many of her attempts at union. Mark you, I do not say in all her attempts at union, but in many of them. True denominationalism means that the Christian church falls into certain divisions according to their interpretations of the Bible. The trouble with many efforts at Christian union is that the chief effort is not towards bringing the church to one view of the Bible truth, but the pressure for union is often along the line of expediency. A thousand times better is it for each denomination to press along the path of its own individual convictions as to Bible teaching; then will each denomination be stronger. There will be higher mutual respect. Some of these denominations may be, and undoubtedly are, mistaken in many of their views, but by such loyalty they at least exalt the Bible to the loftiest place. They put the emphasis on its study, and if true union ever comes it will come from such focusing of study on the Bible. Under the light of its teaching the denominations that are in error may see and abandon their error. Intenser denominationalism in the truest sense of that word is the secret of success. When the slogan is 'one denomination as good as another', the Bible truth fades into minor importance; expediency, custom and other current considerations assume control and Christianity is the loser. If each denomination surrenders its differences in order to come together, they may find after they have come together they have not much left that is worth coming together for. If they put a light value on some of Christ's commands, the danger is that they will come to look lightly upon all of Christ's commands."




Chapter XV.

Crossing The Rubicon.


The path seemed perfectly clear to Dorothy, and she announced to her parents that she must join the Baptist church. The decision was a blow to them. It is true that the discussions of the past two weeks and the remarks dropped by Dorothy had indicated that she was moving towards that point and yet neither of the parents had believed that she would actually take the step. The father had been greatly surprised at the facts that had been brought out in favor of the Baptists, but when the thought of Dorothy identifying herself with the little Baptist band in the town came into his mind his prejudice assumed control and he became rebellious. To him and his wife the announcement of their daughter put a blighting disappointment on their ambitions regarding her future. They had rejoiced in her growing popularity in the best social circles of the town. Besides, they were not entirely unaware of the admiration of the young Presbyterian millionaire for Dorothy and a union with that influential family was a prospect not unpleasant to them. That their daughter should cut herself off from social opportunities and tie herself up with an obscure people that held meetings in one of the cheaper parts of the town -- that was to them almost worse than her funeral. They said nothing to her when she announced her decision. She understood what it would probably mean for her, but her convictions pressed her forward. In fact, she felt an eagerness to see and get acquainted with the little Baptist band, for she felt sure that, while that particular church might for some reason be obscure and ignorant, yet they came of royal lineage with an illustrious record behind them and she was glad to link herself with such a people. The parents did not forbid her joining the Baptists, but their silence, their lack of sympathy and their manifest disappointment and grief over it made her burden far heavier than if they had openly opposed it. She felt that she could have braced herself against such opposition and thereby showed her love for Christ above her love for her parents, but their suffering multiplied her own.

A pall of gloom seemed to have settled over the thought of their daughter picking her way along the narrow streets around to the cheap section of the town and down the rough steps from the sidewalk and into the plain chapel to mingle with the even plainer people was a humiliation that seemed crushing, and they were speechless. This was an experience that Dorothy had never counted on. Her joy in finding what seemed to her the truth, and in following it had not knew what church she expected to attend. The home on that Sunday morning when Dorothy came down to the library dressed for church. The parents prepared her for this cross that rose up in her path. At first she was inclined to resent such lack of sympathy from her parents; but the sight of their disappointed faces put a lock on her lips and a load on her heart. She wavered not, however, in her sense of duty. On to the little Baptist church she wended her way, and it was a sensation indeed for the members when the door of the little chapel opened and in walked the beautiful daughter of the rich and honored, though worldly, Mr. Page. Her entrance was not met by intrusive and impertinent glances. The worshipers were stunned by her arrival, for they had no idea what it meant. But they were too well trained in worship to be ill-mannered in their wonderment. The simplicity of their worship went to her heart and she found herself entering into the spirit of the hymns, although she was not familiar with many of them. In fact, the entire service gave her much joy.

At the close of the service Mr. Walton walked down to Dorothy, gave her a hearty welcome and proceeded to introduce her to some of his members. How genuine seemed their welcome! The thought that their faith was her faith made her feel at home. It is true that the plain room and the exceedingly plain attire of nearly all the people presented an almost shocking contrast to what she was accustomed to. It made her wince under it, but her better thoughts soon got the mastery. Her sense of duty held her firm and gave her a peace and even a joy in what she was doing.

She told the pastor she had come to ask for baptism and membership in his church. He was not greatly surprised, though much delighted. He stated that he would be glad at the conclusion of the night service to receive her for baptism.

That evening, when she started down the steps of her house to go to church, she found the automobile at the curb at the front of the house and the chauffeur told her that her father had told him to have the machine ready to take her to the church, that he did not wish her to walk around to that section alone. She was touched at the thoughtfulness of her father, and yet the silence of it all cut her to the heart. She felt that she was almost an outcast from her parents; but then she judged that they could not understand her and that they were simply keeping aloof with their disappointment. The meals had been eaten in almost perfect silence that day. The mother did not care for dinner and the father ate and talked but little, and then to the other members of the family.

That night Dorothy was received for baptism and it was announced that, on the following Sunday night she would be baptized. By the next Sunday her parents began to relent. At first they were inclined to be indignant with the Baptist preacher, as if he were largely responsible for their daughter's action; but as they recalled the discussions of the past month they realized that their daughter had reached her conclusions largely through her own study of the Bible.

Gradually they came to see that she must have her convictions and they ought not to interfere with her religion. They saw that she was firm, and they decided to accept the inevitable. Husband and wife talked it over and the husband said: "Wife, I think it is a clear proposition. Dorothy has taken the step and the die is cast. It is not according to our fancy or hope, but it is according to her convictions, and I guess we would rather she should be a woman of convictions than for her to be one with no convictions, but tossed about by every kind of influence. I think we must try to make the most of it. Opposition, I fear, would only make matters worse for her and for us. Let us tell her we shall not oppose her."

And so it was agreed, and that evening Mr. and Mrs. Page talked frankly with Dorothy and the burden rolled from her heart. The parents said they never could attend that church, but that they would not stand in her way.

How her heart yearned to have them present at her baptism, but she dared not ask them, and she knew they would not come! Two of her girl friends went with her, partly out of curiosity and partly out of devotion to Dorothy. Mr. Page told the chauffeur to take Dorothy and her friends to the church first and then to return and take him and his wife for a ride.

As Mr. and Mrs. Page were being driven home in the automobile, after their ride something impelled the father to tell the chauffeur to turn the corner and go up the third street. The little Baptist chapel was on that street. It was a summer evening and the windows of the church were raised and the door was open, and as they approached the church Mr. Page told the chauffeur to slow up. They heard singing, and there through the open door they saw the pulpit and the open baptistry. The machine stopped and they sat quiet as they listened to the singing, and soon they saw a picture that chained them to their seats. Out into the water to the front moved Dorothy at the side of the pastor. The parents were sure that Dorothy never looked lovelier than at that moment, and on her face was a happiness that they had never seen before. It smote them to the heart. They heard the words of the minister as he said: "Dorothy Page, do you believe in the Lord Jesus Christ as your Savior?"

She bowed her head in assent and they saw her lips move. The pastor then said: "Upon a profession of your faith in the Lord Jesus Christ and in obedience to his command I baptize you, my sister, in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen."

They saw her fade from their sight under the water, and then from the water they saw her rise as the congregation struck up the hymn:

"O happy are they Who their Savior obey And have laid up their treasures above."

That was all. Dorothy turned and was led by the pastor out of the baptismal waters and the father bade the chauffeur move on; but an arrow had entered the hearts of the parents.

A new light shone in Dorothy's eyes after that Sunday. Those who saw her as she emerged from the baptismal waters declared that her face looked like that of an angel. Many times during the week she was heard singing in happy tones. The thought that she had put obedience to Christ's commands above every earthly consideration filled her with peace and gladness. To her parents her new joy was a mystery. Association with a band of poor and obscure people suggested to their minds not happiness, but isolation and almost disgrace.

Dorothy's chief thought now seemed to be her church. Not a day passed that she was not in conference with the pastor or some of the members seeking to familiarize herself with the condition of the church, its needs and its work. To the request of the superintendent that she would take a class in the Sunday school she replied with a startled expression: "Oh, Mr. Randall, I must have someone teach me the Bible before I can teach others." She finally yielded to his appeal and decided to go out among the poor and neglected of the town and gather some girls into a class.

It was an interesting spectacle that she presented on the next Sunday morning as she marched into the Sunday school with four girls whom she had ferreted out during the week, and who had promised to come with her on the following Sunday if she would come for them. The sight of Dorothy -- beautiful in face but far more beautiful in soul -- bending with such loving tenderness over her little quartette, put new zeal into the other teachers.

At the first visit that Dorothy made to the church she noticed its bare furnishings, but she gave no sign that she saw these things. Many plans had already begun to form in her mind as to improvements that might be made. When she heard the pastor announce a meeting of the Ladies' Aid Society for the next Tuesday afternoon she determined to be on hand. At the meeting she asked the ladies to tell her what work the society sought to do. They replied that they tried to raise money for different purposes; sometimes for coal, sometimes for pastor's salary, and that they had been hoping to raise something for improving the church building, but the other expenses were so heavy their money was needed to meet them.

At the next meeting she suggested that they make special effort to raise money for painting the church, and the plan she advised was that they make bonnets and aprons for sale. They agreed to this and set about the task. The women said they had very little money to give. They decided that in addition to the little money that they could donate they would also give some of their time and labor that could be turned into money. They determined to rent an empty store and offer their goods for sale. This was done. It had already been well advertised and the whole town was talking about the enterprise of the little Baptist church, and the happiest of all was Dorothy as she labored with the other women.

It was the announced purpose of the society that every article must be up to the standard in quality and that every purchaser must get the full worth of his money. They asked no buyer to be a benefactor. The women considered they were giving as much, if not more, than they were receiving. The giving and the sacrifice were not on the part of the buyers, but on the part of those women who had given their time and labor. When they counted up their gains they found they netted over a hundred dollars. But some good news awaited them. A paint dealer in the town, hearing of their brave purpose to paint their chapel, asked the privilege of donating a part of the paint. Two of their own members agreed to do the painting by working in the early hours of each day. 'Twas a happy day for Dorothy and for the church when the last touch of the brush was put on the church and the work was completed. They next decided that the church building must be lifted to the level of the street, and the ladies assumed that as their task. The men promised their labor at their off hours. A lumber merchant heard of their valiant struggle and made them a large gift of lumber, and thus the skies brightened for them. Dorothy's fingers, as well as the fingers of the older ladies, were busy making garments to be sold. Without going into details, let it be stated that the little church found itself at last on a level with the street and with an excellent Sunday school room in the basement.

Dorothy's class had grown to a band of twenty girls and it was a picture worth going far to see -- that of Dorothy surrounded by her girls, and herself the happiest of them all.

During all this time Sterling was wrestling with a racking experience. It had become apparent to him that convictions had arisen within his soul that were at variance with the cardinal doctrines of his church. He loved his church and her history; he was devoted to the work in his Sunday school and his church. He determined, however, to remain with his people, even though he felt that his church was in error on certain points.

Thoughts of Dorothy filled his mind day and night. The past few weeks had been doleful ones for him. When Dorothy joined the Baptists he felt as if he had lost her forever. A gulf seemed to open between her and himself. In a way she seemed to have stepped into a higher realm, far above him.

Her work for her church and her Sunday school occupied the largest part of her time, and it was only occasionally that he had the pleasure of a tennis game with her.




Chapter XVI.

Sterling Scores.


At this time Sterling found it necessary to take a trip through the West visiting his branch houses. It was a doleful trip for him. The spell of Dorothy was on him and he had never realized how dependent he was on her being near him. It was with a happy step that he bounded from the train at the end of his trip and hastened home with the thought of seeing her that evening.

Dorothy could hardly have explained it, but things had not seemed just right during Sterling's absence. That she was missing him she had not admitted to herself, but it is a fact that she found herself looking forward to his return with eager pleasure.

Each day Sterling sought an excuse for a few words with her. If he could not make an engagement for a tennis game or an automobile ride in the country he would ask for a drive with her on one of her rounds of visiting among her scholars. In fact, it was one of his greatest treats to go with her on such visits. He was sure that no lovelier sight had ever been presented than that of Dorothy in her happy ministrations to her scholars. She found comfort in confiding to him her plans regarding her class and her church, and in them he was keenly interested. Many of his suggestions were helpful to her.

He told her one day that his convictions as to Bible doctrines were the same as hers, that the investigations through which they had gone had brought him to that point, but that he did not think that was a reason for his abandoning the church in which he had spent all his life -- the church in which there had been a long line of his ancestors before him. He said he expected to remain there and work, but that he would feel free to state his convictions whenever he thought it proper, and he would rejoice if the day should ever come when his church would see and abandon its error.

When Sterling found it necessary again to be absent -- this time for a week -- Dorothy found herself counting the days until his return. The sympathetic interest that he had shown in her new experience had made his company very acceptable. She started a game of tennis with her brother on the third afternoon after Sterling's departure, but she soon grew tired of the game and announced that she must do some visiting, and she immediately set out for the homes of her scholars. Sterling cut short his trip and arrived home on the third day after his departure. As he went speeding up to his office from the depot he espied Dorothy on the street. What a shock she received as she saw him stepping out of the machine to greet her.

"I know what you are up to!" he exclaimed. "You are off on another one of those angel visits to your neglected ones, and you must let me go with you. My machine will enable you to make twice as many of them happy as you could with your walking."

Dorothy yielded to his insistent invitation and she found herself whirled along to the other section of the town; and after the visit Sterling headed the machine for a spin into the country.

Thus the days sped by, but there was never a day on which Sterling was not with Dorothy. Into his ear she told all her experiences and her plans in her new church life.

Sterling was called away one morning by a telegram to Louisville. Dorothy knew nothing about it, and when he did not appear on the tennis grounds that afternoon, and she had not yet heard anything from him, she thought it strange; and when bedtime came and still no news, she was first surprised and then resentful that he should act in such neglectful fashion. When she heard nothing from him on the next day she found herself nervous and uneasy. She could not get her consent to make inquiries about him, and when she retired that night it was with a headache.

She was standing in her front porch next morning when his automobile dashed up to his gate and Sterling stepped out. He saw her and hurried over and gave her an almost hilarious greeting. He noticed an apparent reserve in her manner, and yet the thought passed from his mind.

"It seems like a small century since I saw you, Dorothy. A telegram pulled me off for Louisville early Tuesday morning, and from that moment until I boarded the train I have been in a mad dash to finish my work and get back, and I tell you I am prodigiously happy to be here."

If Dorothy had studied his eyes during the last remark she might easily have read the reason for his desire to return.

"And now I must make up for lost time. I have had no pleasure ride since I left and I must have one this afternoon. Don't deny a dilapidated traveler the pleasure, but be ready at two-thirty for a ride, and after that for a tennis game." Before she could give her answer he decided it for her and told her that he would be on hand at the time mentioned.

For two hours that afternoon they sped along the country road in happy converse. In fact, their ride was lengthened into nearly three hours. That evening found him again at her side. The clock struck eleven. He had started to leave a half hour before the time, and still he lingered. Suddenly he turned his eyes upon her and said:

"Dorothy, do you know why I dashed through my Louisville trip at such break-neck speed this week?"

"Why, you had to get back to your business, did you not?"

"Dorothy, it was you that pulled me back, and I tell you there can be no real life for me without you, and I must have you mine forever. From the first moment of our meeting I have been yours. God intended us for each other."

"You speak very confidently," she said with a smile, but with her heart filled with a strange new happiness.

"Speak, Dorothy, do we not belong to each other?"

"I do not deny it."

Never had the town witnessed a more beautiful marriage than that of Dorothy Page and Gilbert Sterling. That was the verdict of the people when the blissful pair smiled their adieus at the depot and moved off on their wedding tour.

It amounted to a sensation when the rich Presbyterian elder severed his connection with his great church and joined the Baptists. It meant a bright era for the Baptist church. Before a year rolled around a handsome new building had been erected on a commanding lot in the center of the town. Without offering any opposition to his old Presbyterian church, Sterling plunged into the work of his new charge with whole-hearted devotion. He made a study of the Baptist denomination in the state of Kentucky and in the South and North. One of his first acts was to subscribe for several Baptist papers, and it was interesting to Dorothy to note with what eagerness he read everything in the papers, and each time his reading was punctuated with exclamations of surprise at the world-wide activities of the Baptists as he saw them recorded in the columns of the papers. He found himself enthusiastic about their history and their present enterprises The efforts of the State Mission Board greatly interested him, and he determined to get into close touch with it. He told his wife that he intended to identify himself with all these denominational movements and share their burdens.

The Baptists of Kentucky and of the whole country have reason to be grateful for the day when Gilbert Sterling enlisted in their ranks. He is as yet on the threshold of his usefulness. He is studying the needs and tasks of his denomination, seeking to know how he can devote his strength and his possessions most effectively to its upbuilding. There is no happier Baptist family in Kentucky and none destined to a wider usefulness than that of the Sterlings.

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Mary Louise In The Country

By

L. Frank Baum



Chapter I The Arrival

"Is this the station, Gran'pa Jim?" inquired a young girl, as the train began to slow up.

"I think so, Mary Louise," replied the handsome old gentleman addressed.

"It does look very promising, does it?" she continued, glancing eagerly out of the window.

"The station? No, my dear; but the station isn't Cragg's Crossing, you know; it is merely the nearest railway point to our new home."

The conductor opened their drawing-room door.

"The next stop is Chargrove, Colonel," he said.

"Thank you."

The porter came for their hand baggage and a moment later the long train stopped and the vestibule steps were let down.

If you will refer to the time-table of the D. R. & G. Railway you will find that the station of Chargrove is marked with a character dagger ([Picture: Character dagger]), meaning that trains stop there only to let off passengers or, when properly signaled, to let them on. Mary Louise, during the journey, had noted this fact with misgivings that were by no means relieved when she stepped from the sumptuous train and found before her merely a shed-like structure, open on all sides, that served as station-house.

Colonel Hathaway and his granddaughter stood silently upon the platform of this shed, their luggage beside them, and watched their trunks tumbled out of the baggage car ahead and the train start, gather speed, and go rumbling on its way. Then the girl looked around her to discover that the primitive station was really the only barren spot in the landscape.

For this was no Western prairie country, but one of the oldest settled and most prosperous sections of a great state that had been one of the original thirteen to be represented by a star on our national banner. Chargrove might not be much of a railway station, as it was only eleven miles from a big city, but the country around it was exceedingly beautiful. Great oaks and maples stood here and there, some in groups and some in stately solitude; the land was well fenced and carefully cultivated; roads -- smooth or rutty -- led in every direction; flocks and herds were abundant; half hidden by hills or splendid groves peeped the roofs of comfortable farmhouses that evidenced the general prosperity of the community.

"Uncle Eben is late, isn't he, Gran'pa Jim?" asked the girl, as her eyes wandered over the pretty, peaceful scene.

Colonel Hathaway consulted his watch.

"Our train was exactly on time," he remarked, "which is more than can be said for old Eben. But I think, Mary Louise, I now see an automobile coming along the road. If I am right, we have not long to wait."

He proved to be right, for presently a small touring car came bumping across the tracks and halted at the end of the platform on which they stood. It was driven by an old colored man whose hair was snow white but who sprang from his seat with the agility of a boy when Mary Louise rushed forward with words of greeting.

"My, Uncle Ebe, but it's good to see you again!" she exclaimed, taking both his dusky hands in her own and shaking them cordially. "How is Aunt Polly, and how is your 'rheum'tics'?"

"Rheum'tics done gone foh good, Ma'y Weeze," he said, his round face all smiles. "Dis shuah am one prosterous country foh health. Nobuddy sick but de invahlids, an' dey jus' 'magines dey's sick, dat's all."

"Glad to see you, Uncle," said the Colonel. "A little late, eh? -- as usual. But perhaps you had a tire change."

"No, seh, Kun'l, no tire change. I was jus' tryin' to hurry 'long dat lazy Joe Brennan, who's done comin' foh de trunks. Niggehs is slow, Kun'l, dey ain't no argyment 'bout dat, but when a white man's a reg'leh loaf eh, seh, dey ain' no niggeh kin keep behind him."

"Joe Brennan is coming, then?"

"Dat's right, Kun'l; he's comin'. Done start befoh daylight, in de lumbeh-wagin. But when I done ketch up wi' dat Joe -- a mile 'n' a half away -- he won't lis'n to no reason. So I dodged on ahead to tell you-uns dat Joe's on de way."

"How far is it from here to Cragg's Crossing, then?" inquired Mary Louise.

"They call it ten miles," replied her grandfather, "but I imagine it's nearer twelve."

"And this is the nearest railway station?"

"Yes, the nearest. But usually the Crossing folks who own motor cars drive to the city to take the trains. We alighted here because in our own case it was more convenient and pleasant than running into the city and out again, and it will save us time."

"We be home in half'n hour, mos' likely," added Uncle Eben, as he placed the suit cases and satchels in the car. Colonel Hathaway and Mary Louise followed and took their seats.

"Is it safe to leave our trunks here?" asked the girl.

"Undoubtedly," replied her grandfather. "Joe Brennan will doubtless arrive before long and, really, there is no person around to steal them."

"I've an idea I shall like this part of the country," said Mary Louise musingly, as they drove away.

"I am confident you will, my dear."

"Is Cragg's Crossing as beautiful as this?"

"I think it more beautiful."

"And how did you happen to find it, Gran'pa Jim? It seems as isolated as can be."

"A friend and I were taking a motor trip and lost our way. A farmer told us that if we went to Cragg's Crossing we would find a good road to our destination. We went there, following the man's directions, and encountered beastly roads but found a perfect gem of a tiny, antiquated town which seems to have been forgotten or overlooked by map-makers, automobile guides and tourists. My friend had difficulty in getting me away from the town, I was so charmed with it. Before I left I had discovered, by dint of patient inquiry, a furnished house to let, and you know, of course, that I promptly secured the place for the summer. That's the whole story, Mary Louise."

"It is interesting," she remarked. "As a result of your famous discovery you sent down Uncle Eben and Aunt Polly, with our car and a lot of truck you thought we might need, and now -- when all is ready -- you and I have come to take possession."

"Rather neatly arranged, I think," declared the Colonel, with satisfaction.

"Do you know anything about the history of the place, Gran'pa, or of the people who live in your tiny, forgotten town?"

"Nothing whatever. I imagine there are folks Cragg's Crossing who have never been a dozen miles away from it since they were born. The village boasts a 'hotel' -- the funniest little inn you can imagine -- where we had an excellent home-cooked meal; and there is one store and a blacksmith's shop, one church and one schoolhouse. These, with half a dozen ancient and curiously assorted residences, constitute the shy and retiring town of Cragg's Crossing. Ah, think we have found Joe Brennan."

Uncle Eben drew up beside a rickety wagon drawn by two sorry nags who just now were engaged in cropping grass from the roadside. On the seat half reclined a young man who was industriously eating an apple. He wore a blue checked shirt open at the throat, overalls, suspenders and a straw hat that had weathered many seasons of sunshine and rain. His feet were encased in heavy boots and his bronzed face betokened an out-of-door life. There are a million countrymen in the United States just like Joe Brennan in outward appearance.

Joe did not stop munching; he merely stared as the automobile stopped beside him.

"Say, you Joe!" shouted Uncle Eben indignatly, "wha' foh yo' done sett'n' heah?"

"Rest'n'," said Joe Brennan, taking another bite from his apple.

"Ain't yo' gwine git dem trunks home to-day?" demanded the old darkey.

Joe seemed to consider this question carefully before he ventured to commit himself. Then he looked at Colonel Hathaway and said:

"What I want t' know, Boss, is whether I'm hired by the hour, er by the day?"

"Didn't Uncle Eben tell you?"

"Naw, he didn't. He jes' said t' go git the trunks an' he'd gimme a dollar fer the trip."

"Well, that seems to settle the question, doesn't it!"

"Not quite, Boss. I be'n thinkin' it over, on the way, an' a dollar's too pesky cheap fer this trip. Sometimes I gits twenty-five cents a hour fer haulin' things, an' this looks to me like a day's work."

"If you made good time," said Colonel Hathaway, "you might do it easily in four hours."

Joe shook his head.

"Not me, sir," he replied. "I hain't got the constitution fer it. An' them hosses won't trot 'less I lick 'em, an' ef I lick 'em I'm guilty o' cru'lty ter animals -- includin' myself. No, Boss, the job's too cheap, so I guess I'll give it up an' go home."

"But you're nearly at the station now," protested the Colonel.

"I know; but it's half a mile fu'ther an' the hosses is tired. I guess I'll go home."

"Oh, Gran'pa!" whispered Mary Louise, "it'll never do to leave our trunks lying there by the railroad tracks."

The Colonel eyed Joe thoughtfully.

"If you were hired by the day," said he, "I suppose you would do a day's work?"

"I'd hev to," admitted Joe. "That's why I 'asked ye how about it. Jes' now it looks to me like I ain't hired at all. The black man said he'd gimme a dollar fer the trunks, that's all."

"How much do you charge a day?" asked the Colonel.

"Dollar 'n' a quarter's my reg'lar price, an' I won't take no less," asserted Joe.

Mary Louise nearly laughed outright, but the Colonel frowned and said:

"Joe Brennan, you've got me at your mercy. I'm going to hire you by the day, at a dollar and a quarter, and as your time now belongs to me I request you to go at once for those trunks. You will find them just beyond the station."

The man's face brightened. He tossed away the core of his apple and jerked the reins to make the horses hold up their heads.

"A bargain's a bargain, Boss," he remarked cheerfully, "so I'll get them air trunks to yer house if it takes till midnight."

"Very good," said the Colonel. "Drive on, Uncle."

The old servant started the motor.

"Dat's what I calls downright robbery, Kun'l," he exclaimed, highly incensed. "Didn't I ask de stoahkeepeh what to pay Joe Brennen foh bringin' oveh dem trunks, an' didn't he say a dolleh is big pay foh such-like a trip? If we's gwine live in dis town, where day don' un'stand city prices an' de high cost o' livin' yit, we gotta hol' 'em down an' keep 'em from speckilatin' with us, or else we'll spile 'em fer de time when we's gone away."

"Very true, Uncle. Has Joe a competitor?"

Uncle Eben reflected.

"Ef he has, Kun'l, I ain't seen it," he presently replied; "but I guess all he's got is dat lumbeh-wagin."

Mary Louise had enjoyed the controversy immensely and was relieved by the promise of the trunks by midnight. For the first time in her life the young orphaned girl was to play housekeeper for her grandfather and surely one of her duties was to see that the baggage was safely deposited in their new home.

This unknown home in an unknown town had an intense fascination for her just now. Her grandfather had been rather reticent in his description of the house he had rented at Cragg's Crossing, merely asserting it was a "pretty place" and ought to make them a comfortable home for the summer. Nor had the girl questioned him very closely, for she loved to "discover things" and be surprised -- whether pleasurably or not did not greatly interfere with the thrill.

The motor took them speedily along a winding way to Cragg's Crossing, a toy town that caused Mary Louise to draw a long breath of delight at first sight. The "crossing" of two country roads had probably resulted, at some far-back period, in farmers' building their residences on the four corners, so as to be neighborly. Farm hands or others built little dwellings adjoining -- not many of them, though -- and some unambitious or misdirected merchant erected a big frame "store" and sold groceries, dry goods and other necessities of life not only to the community at the Crossing but to neighboring farmers. Then someone started the little "hotel," mainly to feed the farmers who came to the store to trade or the "drummers" who visited it to sell goods. A church and a schoolhouse naturally followed, in course of time, and then, as if its destiny were fulfilled, the sleepy little town -- ten miles from the nearest railway -- gradually settled into the comatose state in which Colonel Hathaway and his granddaughter now found it.



Chapter II The Kenton Place

The tiny town, however, was not all that belonged to the Cragg's Crossing settlement. Barely a quarter of a mile away from the village a stream with beautifully wooded banks ran diagonally through the countryside. It was called a "river" by the natives, but it was more of a creek; halfway between a small rivulet and a brook, perhaps. But its banks afforded desirable places for summer residences, several of which had been built by well-to-do families, either retired farmers or city people who wished for a cool and quiet place in which to pass the summer months.

These residences, all having ample grounds and facing the creek on either side, were sufficiently scattered to be secluded, and it was to one of the most imposing of these that Uncle Eben guided the automobile. He crossed the creek on a primitive but substantial bridge, turned to the right, and the first driveway led to the house that was to be Mary Louise's temporary home.

"This is lovely!" exclaimed the girl, as they rolled up a winding drive edged by trees and shrubbery, and finally drew up before the entrance of a low and rambling but quite modern house. There was Aunt Polly, her round black face all smiles, standing on the veranda to greet them, and Mary Louise sprang from the car first to hug the old servant -- Uncle Eben's spouse -- and then to run in to investigate the establishment, which seemed much finer than she had dared to imagine it.

The main building was of two stories, but the wings, several of which jutted out in various directions, were one story in height, somewhat on the bungalow plan. There was a good-sized stable in connection -- now used as a garage -- and down among the oaks toward the river an open pavilion had been built. All the open spaces were filled with flowers and ferns, in beds and borders, and graveled paths led here and there in a very enticing way. But the house was now the chief fascination and the other details Mary Louise gleaned by sundry glances from open windows as she rambled from room to room.

At luncheon, which Aunt Polly served as soon as her young mistress could be coaxed from her tour of inspection, the girl said:

"Gran'pa Jim, who owns this place?"

"A Mrs. Joselyn," he replied.

"A young woman?"

"I believe so. It was built by her mother, a Mrs. Kenton, some fifteen years ago, and is still called 'the Kenton Place.' Mrs. Kenton died and her daughter, who married a city man named Joselyn, has used it as a summer home until this year. I think Mrs. Joselyn is a woman of considerable means."

"The furnishings prove that," said Mary Louise. "They're not all in the best of taste, but they are plentiful and meant to be luxurious. Why doesn't Mrs. Joselyn occupy her home this summer? And why, if she is wealthy, does she rent the place?"

"Those are problems I am unable to solve, my dear," replied the Colonel with a smile. "When old man Cragg, who is the nearest approach to a real estate agent in the village, told me the place was for rent, I inquired the price and contracted to lease it for the summer. That satisfied me, Mary Louise, but if you wish to inquire into the history and antecedents of the Kenton and Joselyn families, I have no doubt there are plenty of village gossips who can fill your ears full of it."

"Dar's one thing I foun' out, seh," remarked Uncle Eben, who always served at table and was not too diffident to join in the conversation of his betters, at times; "dis Joselyn man done dis'pear -- er run away --  er dig out, somehow -- an' he missus is mos' plumb crazy 'bout it."

"When did that happen?" asked Mary Louise.

"'Bout Chris'mas time, de stoahkeepah say. Nobody don't like him down heah, 'cause he put on a 'strord'nary 'mount o' airs an' didn't mix wid de town people, nohow. De stoahkeepeh t'inks Marse Joselyn am crooked-like an' done squandeh a lot o' he wife's money befoh he went."

"Perhaps," said Mary Louise musingly, "that is why the poor woman is glad to rent this house. I wish, however, we had gotten it for a more pleasant reason."

"Don't pay attention to Eben's chatter, my dear," advised her grandfather. "His authority seems to be the ancient storekeeper, whom I saw but once and didn't fancy. He looks like an old owl, in those big, horn-rimmed spectacles."

"Dat stoahkeepeh ain' no owl, Kun'l," asserted Uncle Eben earnestly. "He done know all dey is to know 'roun' dese diggin's, an' a lot moah, too. An' a owl is a mighty wise bird, Kun'l, ef I do say it, an' no disrespec'; so what dat stoahkeepeh say I's boun' to take notice of."

Mary Louise spent the afternoon in examining her new possession and "getting settled." For -- wonder of wonders! -- Joe Brennan arrived with the trunks at three o'clock, some nine hours before the limit of midnight. The Colonel, as he paid the man, congratulated him on making such good time.

"Ya-as," drawled Joe; "I done pretty well, considerin'. But if I hadn't hired out by the day I'd sure be'n a loser. I've be'n a good ten hours goin' fer them trunks, fer I started at five this mornin'; so, if I'd tooken a doller fer the job, I'd only made ten cents a hour, my price bein' twenty-five. But, as it is," he added with pride, "I git my reg'lar rate of a dollar 'n' a quarter a day."

"Proving that it pays to drive a bargain," commented the Colonel.

Mary Louise unpacked Gran'pa Jim's trunk first and put his room in "apple-pie order," as Aunt Polly admiringly asserted. Then she settled her own pretty room, held a conference with her servants about the meals and supplies, and found it was then time to dress for dinner. She was not yet old enough to find household duties a bore, so the afternoon had been delightfully spent.

Early after breakfast the next morning, however, Mary Louise started out to explore the grounds of her domain. The day was full of sunshine and the air laden with fragrance of flowers -- a typical May morning. Gran'pa Jim would, of course, read for an hour or two and smoke his pipe; he drew a chair upon the broad veranda for this very purpose; but the girl had the true pioneer spirit of discovery and wanted to know exactly what her five acres contained.

The water was doubtless the prime attraction in such a neighborhood. Mary Louise made straight for the river bank and found the shallow stream -- here scarce fifty feet in width -- rippling along over its stony bed, which was a full fifty feet wider than the volume of water then required. When the spring freshets were on perhaps the stream reached its banks, but in the summer months it was usually subdued as now. The banks were four feet or more above the rabble of stones below, and close to the bank, facing the river on her side, Mrs. Kenton had built a pretty pavilion with ample seats and room for half a dozen wicker chairs and a table, where one could sit and overlook the water. Mary Louise fervently blessed the old lady for this idea and at once seated herself in the pavilion while she examined at leisure the scene spread out before her.

Trees hid all the neighboring residences but one. Just across the river and not far from its bank stood a small, weather-beaten cottage that was in sharp contrast with the rather imposing Kenton residence opposite. It was not well kept, nor even picturesque. The grounds were unattractive. A woodpile stood in the front yard; the steps leading to the little porch had rotted away and had been replaced by a plank --  rather unsafe unless one climbed it carefully, Mary Louise thought. There were time-worn shades to the windows, but no curtains. A pane of glass had been broken in the dormer window and replaced by a folded newspaper tacked over it. Beside the porch door stood a washtub on edge; a few scraggly looking chickens wandered through the yard; if not an abode of poverty it was surely a place where careless indifference to either beauty or the comfort of orderly living prevailed.

So much Mary Louise had observed, wondering why Mrs. Kenton had not bought the cottage and torn it down, since it was a blot on the surrounding landscape, when she saw the door open and a man come out. She gave a little gasp of astonishment as her eyes followed this man, who slowly took the path to the bridge, from whence the road led into the village.



Chapter III The Folks Across The River

Her first glance told the girl that here was a distinctly unusual personage. His very appearance was quaint enough to excite comment from a stranger. It must have been away back in the revolutionary days when men daily wore coats cut in this fashion, straight across the waist-line in front and with two long tails flapping behind. Modern "dress coats" were much like it, to be sure, but this was of a faded blue-bottle color and had brass buttons and a frayed velvet collar on it. His trousers were tight-fitting below the knee and he wore gaiters and a wide-brimmed silk hat that rivaled his own age and had doubtless seen happier days.

Mary Louise couldn't see all these details from her seat in the pavilion across the river, but she was near enough to observe the general effect of the old man's antiquated costume and it amazed her.

Yes, he was old, nearly as ancient as his apparel, the girl decided; but although he moved with slow deliberation his gait was not feeble, by any means. With hands clasped behind him and head slightly bowed, as if in meditation, he paced the length of the well-worn path, reached the bridge and disappeared down the road toward the village.

"That," said a voice beside her, "is the Pooh-Bah of Cragg's Crossing. It is old Cragg himself."

Gran'pa Jim was leaning against the outer breast of the pavilion, book in hand.

"You startled me," she said, "but no more than that queer old man did. Was the village named after him, Gran'pa?"

"I suppose so; or after his father, perhaps, for the place seems even older than old Cragg. He has an 'office' in a bare little room over the store, and I rented this place from him. Whatever his former fortunes may have been -- and I imagine the Craggs once owned all the land about here -- old Hezekiah seems reduced to a bare existence."

"Perhaps," suggested Mary Louise, "he inherited those clothes with the land, from his father. Isn't it an absurd costume, Gran'pa Jim? And in these days of advanced civilization, too! Of course old Hezekiah Cragg is not strong mentally or he would refuse to make a laughingstock of himself in that way."

Colonel Hathaway stared across the river for a time without answering. Then he said:

"I do not think the natives here laugh at him, although I remember they called him 'Old Swallowtail' when I was directed to him as the only resident real estate agent. I found the old man quite shrewd in driving a bargain and thoroughly posted on all the affairs of the community. However, he is not a gossip, but inclined to be taciturn. There is a fathomless look in his eyes and he is cold and unresponsive. Country life breeds strange characteristics in some people. The whimsical dress and mannerisms of old Mr. Cragg would not be tolerated in the cities, while here they seem regarded with unconcern because they have become familiar. I was rather, pleased with his personality because he is the Cragg of Cragg's Crossing. How much of the original plot of land he still owns I don't know."

"Why, he lives in that hovel!" said the girl.

"So it seems, although he may have been merely calling there."

"He fits the place," she declared. "It's old and worn and neglected, just as he and his clothes are. I'd be sorry, indeed, to discover that Mr. Cragg lives anywhere else."

The Colonel, his finger between the leaves of the book he held, to mark the place where he was reading, nodded somewhat absently and started to turn away. Then he paused to ask anxiously:

"Does this place please you, my dear?"

"Ever so much, Gran'pa Jim!" she replied with enthusiasm, leaning from her seat inside the pavilion to press a kiss upon his bare gray head. "I've a sense of separation from all the world, yet it seems good to be hidden away in this forgotten nook. Perhaps I wouldn't like it for always, you know, but for a summer it is simply delightful. We can rest -- and rest -- and rest! -- and be as cozy as can be."

Again the old gentleman nodded, smiling at the girl this time. They were good chums, these two, and what pleased one usually pleased the other.

Colonel Hathaway had endured a sad experience recently and his handsome old face still bore the marks of past mental suffering. His only daughter, Beatrice Burrows, who was the mother of Mary Louise, had been indirectly responsible for the Colonel's troubles, but her death had lifted the burden; her little orphaned girl, to whom no blame could be attached, was very dear to "Gran'pa Jim's" heart. Indeed, she was all he now had to love and care for and he continually planned to promote her happiness and to educate her to become a noble woman. Fortunately he had saved considerable money from the remains of an immense estate he had once possessed and so was able to do anything for his grandchild that he desired. In New York and elsewhere Colonel James Hathaway had a host of influential friends, but he was shy of meeting them since his late unpleasant experiences.

Mary Louise, for her part, was devotedly attached to her grandfather and preferred his society to that of any other person. As the erect form of the old gentleman sauntered away through the trees she looked after him affectionately and wagged her little head with hearty approval.

"This is just the place for Gran'pa Jim," she mused. "There's no one to bother him with questions or sympathy and he can live as quietly as he likes and read those stuffy old books -- the very name 'classics' makes me shudder -- to his heart's content. He'll grow stronger and happier here, I'm sure."

Then she turned anew to revel in the constantly shifting view of river and woodland that extended panoramically from her seat in the pavilion. As her eyes fell on the old cottage opposite she was surprised to see a dishpan sail through the open window, to fall with a clatter of broken dishes on the hard ground of the yard. A couple of dish-towels followed, and then a broom and a scrubbing-brush -- all tossed out in an angry, energetic way that scattered them in every direction. Then on the porch appeared the form of a small girl, poorly dressed in a shabby gingham gown, who danced up and down for a moment as if mad with rage and then, observing the washtub, gave it a kick which sent it rolling off the porch to join the other utensils on the ground.

Next, the small girl looked around her as if seeking more inanimate things upon which to vent her anger, but finding none she dashed into the cottage and soon reappeared with a much-worn straw hat which she jammed on her flaxen head and then, with a determined air, walked down the plank and marched up the path toward the bridge -- the same direction that old Cragg had taken a short time before.

Mary Louise gave a gasp of amazement. The scene had been dramatic and exciting while it lasted and it needed no explanation whatever. The child had plainly rebelled at enforced drudgery and was going -- where?

Mary Louise sprang lightly from her seat and ran through the grounds to their entrance. When she got to the road she sped along until she came to the bridge, reaching one end of it just as the other girl started to cross from the opposite end. Then she stopped and in a moment the two met.

"Where are you going?" asked Mary Louise, laying a hand on the child's arm as she attempted to pass her.

"None o' yer business," was the curt reply.

"Oh, it is, indeed," said Mary Louise, panting a little from her run. "I saw you throw things, a minute ago, so I guess you mean to run away."

The girl turned and stared at her.

"I don't know ye," said she. "Never saw ye before. Where'd ye come from anyway?"

"Why, my grandfather and I have taken the Kenton house for the summer, so we're to be your neighbors. Of course, you know, we must get acquainted."

"Ye kin be neighbors to my Gran'dad, if ye like, but not to me. Not by a ginger cookie! I've done wi' this place fer good an' all, I hev, and if ye ever see me here ag'in my name ain't Ingua Scammel!"

"Here; let's sit down on the bridge and talk it over," proposed Mary Louise. "There's plenty of time for you to run away, if you think you'd better. Is Mr. Cragg your grandfather, then?"

"Yes, Ol' Swallertail is. 'Ol' Humbug' is what I calls him."

"Not to his face, do you?"

"I ain't so foolish. He's got a grip on him like a lobster, an' when he's mad at me he grips my arm an' twists it till I holler. When Gran'dad's aroun' you bet I hev to knuckle down, er I gits the worst of it."

"So he's cruel, is he?"

"Uh-huh. Thet is, he's cruel when I riles him, as I got a habit o' doin'. When things runs smooth, Gran'dad ain't so bad; but I ain't goin' to stand that slave life no longer, I ain't. I've quit fer good."

"Wherever you go," said Mary Louise gently, "you will have to work for someone. Someone, perhaps, who treats you worse than your grandfather does. No one else is obliged to care for you in any way, so perhaps you're not making a wise change."

"I ain't, eh?"

"Perhaps not. Have you any other relatives to go to?"

"No."

"Or any money?"

"Not a red cent."

"Then you'll have to hire out as a servant. You're not big enough or strong enough to do much, so you'll search a long time before you find work, and that means being hungry and without shelter. I know more of the world than you do, Ingua -- what an odd name you have! -- and I honestly think you are making a mistake to run away from your own grandfather."

The girl stared into the water in sullen silence for a time. Mary Louise got a good look at her now and saw that her freckled face might be pretty if it were not so thin and drawn. The hands lying on her lap were red and calloused with housework and the child's whole appearance indicated neglect, from the broken-down shoes to the soiled and tattered dress. She seemed to be reflecting, for after a while she gave a short, bitter laugh at the recollection of her late exhibition of temper and said:

"It's too late to back, down now. I've busted the dishes an' smashed things gen'rally."

"That is bad," said Mary Louise; "but it might be worse. Mr. Cragg can buy more dishes."

"Oh, he can, can he? Where's the money comin' from?"

"Is he poor?"

"He ain't got no money, if that's what ye mean. That's what he says, anyhow. Says it were a godsend you folks rented that house of him, 'cause it'll keep us in corn bread an' pork for six months, ef we're keerful. Bein' keerful means that he'll eat the pork an' I gits a chunk o' corn bread now an' then."

"Dear me!" exclaimed Mary Louise in a distressed voice. "Don't you get enough to eat?"

"Oh, I manages it somehow," declared Ingua, with indifference. "I be'n swipin' one egg a day fer weeks an' weeks. Gran'dad says he'll trim me good an' plenty if he catches me eatin' eggs, 'cause all that our chickens lays he takes down to the store an' sells. But he ain't home daytimes, to count what eggs is laid, an' so I watches out an' grabs one a day. He's mighty cute, I tell ye, Gran'dad is; but he ain't cute enough to catch me at the egg-swipin'."

Mary Louise was greatly shocked. Really, she decided, something must be done for this poor child. Looking at the matter from Ingua's report, the smashing of the dishes might prove serious. So she said:

"Come, dear, let's go together to your house and see if we can't restore the damage."

But the girl shook her head.

"Noth'n' can't mend them busted dishes," she said, "an' when Gran'dad sees 'em he'll hev a fit. That's why I did it; I wanted to show him I'd had revenge afore I quit him cold. He won't be home till night, but I gotta be a long way off, afore then, so's he can't ketch me."

"Give it up," suggested Mary Louise. "I've come here to live all summer, Ingua, and now that we're friends I'm going to help you to get along more comfortably. We will have some splendid times together, you and I, and you will be a good deal better off than wandering among strangers who don't care for you."

The girl turned and looked into Mary Louise's face long and earnestly. Her eyes wandered to her neatly arranged hair, to the white collar at her throat, then down to her blue serge dress and her dainty shoes. But mostly she looked straight into the eyes of her new friend and found there sincerity and evident good will. So she sighed deeply, cast a glance at her own bedraggled attire, and said:

"We ain't much alike, us two, but I guess we kin be friends. Other girls has come here, to the rich people's houses, but they all stuck up their noses at me. You're the first that's ever give me a word."

"All girls are not alike, you know," responded Mary Louise cheerfully. "So now, let's go to your house and see what damage has been done."



Chapter IV Getting Acquainted

The two girls had been sitting on the edge of the bridge, but Mary Louise now rose and took Ingua's arm in her own, leading the reluctant child gently toward the path. It wasn't far to the old cottage and when they reached the yard Ingua laughed again at the scene of disorder.

"It's a'most a pity Gran'dad can't see it," she chuckled. "He'd be so crazy he'd hev them claws o' his'n 'round my throat in a jiffy."

Mary Louise drew back, startled.

"Did he ever do that?" she asked.

"Only once; but that time near ended me. It were a long time ago, an' he was sorry, I guess, 'cause he bought me a new dress nex' day -- an' new shoes! I ain't had any since," she added disconsolately, "so the other day I asked him wasn't it about time he choked me ag'in."

"What did he say to that?"

"Jes' growled at me. Gran'dad's got a awful temper when he's good an' riled, but usual' he's still as a mouse. Don't say a word to me fer days together, sometimes. Once I saw him -- "

She suddenly checked herself and cast an uneasy, sidelong glance at her companion. Mary Louise was rolling the washtub back to the stoop.

"The only thing that will bother us, Ingua," she said, "is those dishes. Let us try to count the broken ones. Do you know how many there were?"

"Sure I do," answered the girl, removing the battered dishpan from the heap of crockery. "Two plates, two cups-'n'-saucers, a oatmeal dish, a bread plate an' the pork platter. Gee! what a smash. One cup's whole --  an' the oatmeal dish. The rest is gone-up."

"I'm going to dig a hole and bury the broken pieces," said Mary Louise. "Have you a spade?"

"There's an ol' shovel. But it won't do no good to bury of 'em. Gran'dad he counts ev'ry piece ev'ry day. He counts ev'ry thing, from the grains of salt to the chickens. Say, once I tried to play a trick on him. I'd got so hungry fer meat I jes' couldn't stand it, so one day I killed a chick'n, thinkin' he wouldn't miss it. My -- my! Wha' d'ye s'pose? Say, ye never told me yer name yit."

"I am Mary Louise Burrows."

"Highflyin' name, ain't it? Well, I killed thet chick'n, an' cut it up an' fried it, an' et jes' a leg an' a wing, an' hid the rest under my bed in the peak up there, where Ol' Swallertail never goes. All the feathers an' the head I buried, an' I cleaned up the hatchet an' the fry-in'-pan so's there wasn't a smitch of anything left to prove I'd murdered one o' them chicks. I was feelin' kinder chirky when Gran'dad come home, 'cause I thought he'd never find out. But what did the ol' vill'n do but begin to sniff aroun'; an' he sniffed an' he sniffed till he says: 'Ingua, what chick'n did ye kill, an' why did ye kill it?'

"'Yer crazy,' says I. 'What're ye talkin' 'bout?'

"Then he gives me one sour look an' marches out to count the chick'ns, an' when he comes back he says: 'It's the brown pullet with white on the wings. It were worth forty cents, an' forty cents'll buy ten pounds o' oatmeal. Where's the chick'n, girl?' 'Et up,' says I. 'Yer lyin',' says he. 'Go git it! Hustle!'

"Well, I saw his claws beginnin' to work an' it scared me stiff. So I goes to my room an' brings down the chick'n, an' he eyes it quiet-like fer a long time an' then eats some fer his supper. The rest he locks up in the cupboard that he allus carries the key to. Say, Mary Louise, I never got another taste o' that chick'n as long as it lasted! Ol' Swallertail et it all himself, an' took a week to do it."

During this recital the broom and mop and scrubbing-brush had been picked up and restored to their proper places. Then the two girls got out the old shovel and buried the broken dishes in a far corner of the yard, among high weeds. Mary Louise tried to get the dents out of the old dishpan, but succeeded only indifferently. It was so battered through long use, however, that Ingua thought the "jams" would not be noticed.

"Next," said Mary Louise, "we must replace the broken pieces. I suppose they sell dishes at the village store, do they not?"

"That's where these come from -- long ago," replied Ingua; "but dishes cost money."

"I've a little money in my purse; enough for that, I'm sure. Will you go to town with me?"

Ingua stared at her as if bewildered. The proposition was wholly beyond her understanding. But she replied to her new friend's question, saying slowly:

"No; I won't go. Ol' Swallertail'd skin me alive if he caught me in the village."

"Then I'll go alone; and I'll soon be back, though I must run over to my own house first, to get my purse and my hat. Let me have one of the cups for a sample, Ingua."

She left the child sitting on the plank runway and looking rather solemn and thoughtful. Mary Louise was somewhat fearful that she might run away in her absence, so she hurried home and from there walked into the village, a tramp easily accomplished in ten minutes.

The store was the biggest building in town, but not very big at that. It was "clapboarded" and two stories in height, the upper floor being used by Sol Jerrems, the storekeeper, as a residence, except for two little front rooms which he rented, one to Miss Huckins, the dressmaker and milliner, who slept and ate in her shop, and the other to Mr. Cragg. A high platform had been built in front of the store, for the convenience of farmer customers in muddy weather, and there were steps at either end of the platform for the use of pedestrians.

When Mary Louise entered the store, which was cluttered with all sorts of goods, not arranged in very orderly manner, there were several farmers present. But old Sol had his eye on her in an instant and shuffled forward to wait upon her.

"I want some crockery, please," she said.

He looked at the sample cup and led her to a corner of the room where a jumble of dishes crowded a single shelf.

"I take it you're one o' them new folks at the Kenton Place," he remarked.

"Yes," said she.

"Thought ther' was plenty o' dishes in that place," continued Mr. Jerrems, in a friendly tone. "But p'r'aps ye don't want the black folks t' eat off'n the same things ye do yerselves."

Mary Louise ignored this speech and selected the dishes she wanted. She had measured the broken platter and found another of the same size. Old Sol wouldn't sell a saucer without a cup, explaining that the two always went together: "the cup to hold the stuff an' the saucer to drink it out'n." Without argument, however, the girl purchased what she wanted. It was heavy, cheap ware of the commonest kind, but she dared not substitute anything better for it.

Then she went to the grocery counter and after considering what Ingua might safely hide and eat in secret she bought a tin of cooked corned beef, another of chipped beef, one of deviled ham and three tins of sardines. Also she bought a basket to carry her purchases in and although old Sol constantly sought to "pump" her concerning her past life, present history and future prospects, she managed to evade successfully his thirst for information. No doubt the fellow was a great gossip, as old Eben had declared, but Mary Louise knew better than to cater to this dangerous talent.

The proprietor accompanied her to the door and she drew back, hesitating, as she observed an old man in a bottle-blue swallowtail coat pace in deliberate, dignified manner along the opposite side of the street.

"Who is that?" she asked, as an excuse for not going out until Ingua's grandfather had passed from sight.

"That? Why, that's Ol' Swallertail, otherwise Hezekiah Cragg, one o' our most interestin' citizens," replied Sol, glad of the chance to talk.

"Does he own Cragg's Crossing?" asked Mary Louise.

"Mercy, no! He owned a lot of it once, though, but that were afore my time. Sold it out an' squandered the money, I guess, for he lives like a rat in a hole. Mebbe, though, he's got some hid away; that's what some o' the folks here whispers -- folks that's likely to know. But, if that's a fact, he's got a streak o' miser in him, for he don't spend more'n the law allows."

"He may have lost the money in speculations," suggested the girl.

"Say, ye've hit the nail square on the head!" he exclaimed admiringly. "Them's my own opinions to a T. I've told the boys so a hunderd times, but they can't git it. Wasn't Ol' Swal-lertail hand-in-glove wi' that slick Mister Joselyn, who they say has run away an' left his pore wife in the lurch? That's how you got a chance to rent the Kenton house. Joselyn were slick as butter, an' high-strung. Wouldn't hobnob with any o' us but Ol' Swallertail, an' that's why I think Cragg was investin' money with him. Joselyn he came down here three year ago, havin' married Annabel Kenton in the winter, an' the way he swelled aroun' were a caution to snakes. But the pore devil run his rope an' lit out. Where he skipped to, I dunno. Nobuddy seems to know, not even his wife. But they say she didn't hev enough money left to count, an' by the glum looks o' Ol' Swallertail I'm guessin' he got nipped too."

"How long ago was that?" asked Mary Louise.

"Some time 'bout last Christmas, they say. Anyhow, that's when his wife missed him an' set up a hunt that didn't do no good. She came down here with red eyes an' tramped 'round in the deep snow askin' questions. But, sakes, Ned Joselyn wouldn't 'a' come to an out-o'-the-way place like this; we didn't never suit his style, ye see; so poor Ann Kenton --  whose misfortun' made her Mrs. Ned Joselyn -- cried an' wailed fer a day er two an' then crep' back to the city like a whipped dog. Funny how women'll care fer a wuthless, ne'er-do-well chap that happens to be good-lookin', ain't it?"

Mary Louise nodded rather absently. However distorted the story might be, it was curious what had become of Mr. Joselyn. But her thoughts reverted to another theme and she asked:

"Hasn't Mr. Cragg a granddaughter?"

"Oh, ye've seen little Ingua Scammel, hev ye? Or mebbe just heard tell of her. She's the cussedest little coal o' fire in seven counties! Keeps Ol' Swallertail guessin' all the time, they say, jes' like her mom, Nan Cragg, did afore her. Gosh, what a woman her mom were! She didn't stay 'round here much, but whenever she run out o' cash an' didn't hev a square meal comin' to her, she camped on Ol' Swallertail an' made him board her. Las' time she come she left her young-un --  that's Ingua, ye know -- an' the kid's been here ever since; sort of a thorn in the side of ol' Hezekiah, we folks think, though he don't never complain. She ain't more'n twelve or thirteen year old, thet Ingua, but she keeps house fer her gran'dad -- what they is to keep, which ain't much. I won't let the kid 'round my store, nohow, 'cause she swipes ev'rything, from dried apples to peanuts, thet she kin lay her hands on."

"Perhaps she is hungry," said Mary Louise, defending her new friend.

"Like enough. But I ain't feedin' starvin' kids, 'Tain't my business. If Ol' Swallertail don't feed her enough, thet's his lookout. I've warned him if she sets foot in this store I'll charge him ten cents, jes' fer safety, so he keeps her out. He's slick, Ol' Swallertail is, an' silent-like an' secret in all he does an' says; but he's got to git up earlier in the mornin' to git the best o' Sol Jerrems, he er his kid, either one."

As Mr. Cragg had now vanished from sight up the street, Mary Louise ventured out and after a brisk walk deposited her basket on the stoop of the Cragg cottage, where Ingua still sat, swinging her feet pensively, as if she had not stirred since Mary Louise had left her.



Chapter V Mary Louise Becomes A Peacemaker

"Here are the dishes, exactly like the broken ones," reported Mary Louise in a jubilant tone as she set down her heavy basket. "Let us go in and wash them, Ingua, and put them away where they belong."

The child followed her into the house. All her former pent-up energy seemed to have evaporated. She moved in a dull sort of way that betokened grim resignation.

"I've be'n plannin' fer months to make a run fer it," she remarked as she washed the new dishes and Mary Louise wiped them dry, "an' just when I'd mustered up courage to do the trick, along comes you an' queered the whole game."

"You'll thank me for that, some day, Ingua. Aren't you glad, even now, that you have a home and shelter?"

"I ain't tickled to death about it. Home!" with a scornful glance around the room, barren of all comforts. "A graveyard's a more cheerful place, to my notion."

"We must try to make it pleasanter, dear. I'm going to get acquainted with Mr. Cragg and coax him to brighten things up some, and buy you some new clothes, and take better care of you."

Ingua fell back on a stool, fairly choking twixt amazement and derision.

"You! Coax Ol' Swallertail? Make him spend money on me! Say, if ye wasn't a stranger here, Mary Louise, I'd jes' laugh; but bein' as how yer a poor innercent, I'll only say ther' ain't no power on earth kin coax Gran'dad to do anything better than to scowl an' box my ears. You don't know him, but I do."

"Meantime," said Mary Louise, refusing to argue the point, "here are some little things for you to hide away, and to eat whenever you please," and she took from the basket the canned goods she had bought and set them in an enticing row upon the table.

Ingua stared at the groceries and then stared at Mary Louise. Her wan face flushed and then grew hard.

"Ye bought them fer me?" she asked.

"Yes; so you won't have to steal eggs to satisfy your natural hunger."

"Well, ye kin take the truck away ag'in. An' you'd better go with it," said the girl indignantly. "We may be poor, but we ain't no beggars, an' we don't take charity from nobody."

"But your grandfather -- "

"We'll pay our own bills an' buy our own fodder. The Craggs is jus' as good as yer folks, an' I'm a Cragg to the backbone," she cried, her eyes glinting angrily. "If we want to starve, it's none o' yer business, ner nobody else's," and springing up she seized the tins one by one and sent them flying through the window, as she had sent the dishpan and dishes earlier in the morning. "Now, then, foller yer charity an' make yerself scarce!" and she stamped her foot defiantly at Mary Louise, who was dumb with astonishment.

It was hard to understand this queer girl. She had made no objection to replacing the broken dishes, yet a present of food aroused her to violent anger. Her temper was positively something terrible in so small a person and remembering her story of how Old Swallowtail had clenched his talon-like fingers and twisted Ingua's arm till she screamed with pain, Mary Louise could well believe the statement that the child was "a Cragg to the backbone."

But Mary Louise, although only a few years older than Ingua, had had a good deal more experience and was, moreover, a born diplomat. Astonished though she was, she quickly comprehended the peculiar pride exhibited in a refusal to accept food from a stranger and knew she must soothe the girl's outraged spirit of independence if they were to remain friends.

"I guess I'll have to beg your pardon, Ingua," she said quietly. "I was grieved that you are so often hungry, while I have so much more than I need, and the money which I spent was all my own, to do what I liked with. If I were in your place, and you in mine, and we were good chums, as I know we're going to be, I'd be glad to have you help me in any little way you could. True friends, Ingua, share and share alike and don't let any foolish pride come between them."

She spoke earnestly, with a ring of sincerity in her voice that impressed the other girl. Ingua's anger had melted as quickly as it had roused and with sudden impulsiveness she seized Mary Louise's hands in her own and began to cry.

"I'm as wicked as they make 'em!" she wailed. "I know I am! But I can't help it, Mary Louise; it's borned in me. I want to be friends with ye, but I won't take your charity if I starve. Not now, anyhow. Here; I'll go git the stuff an' put it back in yer basket, an' then ye kin lug it home an' do what ye please with it."

They picked up the cans together, Ingua growing more calm and cheerful each moment. She even laughed at Mary Louise's disappointed expression and said:

"I don't always hev tantrums. This is my bad day; but the devils'll work out o' me by termorrer and I'll be sweet as sugar. I'm sorry; but it's the Cragg blood that sets me crazy, at times."

"Won't you run over and see me?" asked Mary Louise, preparing to go home.

"When?"

"This afternoon."

Ingua shook her head.

"I dastn't," she said. "I gotta hold myself in, the rest o' the day, so's I won't fight with Ol' Swallertail when he comes home. Anyhow, I ain't fit t' show up aroun' yer swell place. That black coon o' yers'd turn me out, if he saw me comin', thinkin' I was a tramp."

Mary Louise had a bright idea.

"I'm going to have tea to-morrow afternoon in that summer-house across the creek," said she. "I will be all alone and if you will come over and join me we'll have a nice visit together. Will you, Ingua?"

"I guess so," was the careless answer. "When ye're ready, jes' wave yer han'ker'cher an if the devils ain't squeezin' my gizzard, like they is to-day, I'll be there in a jiffy."



Chapter VI Afternoon Tea

Mary Louise, who possessed a strong sense of humor, that evening at dinner told Gran'pa Jim of her encounter with old Mr. Cragg's granddaughter and related their interview in so whimsical a manner that Colonel Hathaway laughed aloud more than once. But he also looked serious, at times, and when the recital was ended he gravely considered the situation and said:

"I believe, my dear, you have discovered a mine of human interest here that will keep you occupied all summer. It was most fortunate for the poor child that you interpreted her intent to run away from home and foiled it so cleverly. From the little girl's report, that grim and dignified grandsire of hers has another and less admirable side to his character and, unless she grossly exaggerates, has a temper so violent that he may do her a mischief some day."

"I'm afraid of that, too," declared Mary Louise, "especially as the child is so provoking. Yet I'm sure Ingua has a sweeter side to her nature, if it can be developed, and perhaps old Cragg has, too. Do you think, Gran'pa Jim, it would be advisable for me to plead with him to treat his orphaned grandchild more considerately?"

"Not at present, my dear. I'll make some inquiries concerning Cragg and when we know more about him we can better judge how best to help Ingua. Are you sure that is her name?"

"Yes; isn't it an odd name?"

"Somewhere," said the Colonel, musingly, "I have heard it before, but just now I cannot recollect where. It seems to me, however, that it was a man's name. Do you think the child's mother is dead?"

"I gathered from what Ingua and the storekeeper said that she has simply disappeared."

"An erratic sort of creature, from the vague reports you have heard," commented Gran'pa Jim. "But, whatever her antecedents may have been, there is no reason why Ingua may not be rescued from her dreadful environments and be made to become a quite proper young lady, if not a model one. But that can only result from changing the existing character of her environment, rather than taking her out of them."

"That will be a big task, Gran'pa Jim, and it may prove beyond me, but I'll do the best I can."

He smiled.

"These little attempts to help our fellows," said the Colonel, "not only afford us pleasure but render us stronger and braver in facing our own tribulations, which none, however securely placed, seem able to evade."

Mary Louise gave him a quick, sympathetic glance. He had surely been brave and strong during his own period of tribulation and the girl felt she could rely on his aid in whatever sensible philanthropy she might undertake. She was glad, indeed, to have discovered poor Ingua, for she was too active and of too nervous a temperament to be content simply to "rest" all summer. Rest was good for Gran'pa Jim, just now, but rest pure and simple, with no compensating interest, would soon drive Mary Louise frantic.

She conferred with Aunt Polly the next day and told the faithful black servant something of her plans. So, when the old cook lugged a huge basket to the pavilion for her in the afternoon, and set a small table with snowy linen and bright silver, with an alcohol arrangement for making tea, she said with an air of mystery:

"Don' yo' go open dat bastik, Ma'y 'Weeze, till de time comes fer eatin'. I jes' wants to s'prise yo' -- yo' an' dat li'l' pooah girl what gits hungry so much."

So, when Aunt Polly had gone back to the house, Mary Louise arranged her table and then stood up and waved a handkerchief to signal that all was ready.

Soon Ingua appeared in her doorway, hesitated a moment, and then ran down the plank and advanced to the river bank instead of following the path to the bridge. Almost opposite the pavilion Mary Louise noticed that several stones protruded from the surface of the water. They were not in a line, but placed irregularly. However, Ingua knew their lie perfectly and was able to step from one to another until she had quickly passed the water. Then she ran up the dry bed of the river to the bank, where steps led to the top.

"Why, this is fine!" exclaimed Mary Louise, meeting her little friend at the steps. "I'd no idea one could cross the river in that way."

"Oh, we've known 'bout that always," was the reply. "Ned Joselyn used to come to our house ever so many times by the river stones, to talk with Ol' Swallertail, an' Gran'dad used to come over here, to this same summer-house, an' talk with Joselyn."

Mary Louise noticed that the old gingham dress had been washed, ironed and mended -- all in a clumsy manner. Ingua's blond hair had also been trained in awkward imitation of the way Mary Louise dressed her own brown locks. The child, observing her critical gaze, exclaimed with a laugh:

"Yes, I've slicked up some. No one'll see me but you, will they?" she added suspiciously.

"No, indeed; we're to be all alone. How do you feel to-day, Ingua?"

"The devils are gone. Gran'dad didn't 'spicion anything las' night an' never said a word. He had one o' his dreamy fits an' writ letters till long after I went to bed. This mornin' he said as ol' Sol Jerrems has raised the price o' flour two cents, so I'll hev to be keerful; but that was all. No rumpus ner anything."

"That's nice," said Mary Louise, leading her, arm in arm, to the pavilion. "Aren't you glad you didn't run away?"

Ingua did not reply. Her eyes, big and round, were taking in every detail of the table. Then they wandered to the big basket and Mary Louise smiled and said:

"The table is set, as you see, but I don't know what we're to have to eat. I asked Aunt Polly to put something in the basket, as I was going to have company, and I'm certain there'll be enough for two, whatever it's like. You see, this is a sort of surprise party, for we won't know what we've got until we unpack the basket."

Ingua nodded, much interested.

"Ye said 'tea,'" she remarked, "an' I hain't tasted tea sence Marm left us. But I s'pose somethin' goes with tea?"

"Always. Tea means a lunch, you know, and I'm very hungry because I didn't eat much luncheon at noon. I hope you are hungry, too, Ingua," she added, opening the basket and beginning to place its contents upon the table.

Ingua may have considered a reply unnecessary, for she made none. Her eyes were growing bigger every moment, for here were dainty sandwiches, cakes, jelly, a pot of marmalade, an assortment of cold meats, olives, Saratoga chips, and last of all a chicken pie still warm from the oven -- one of those chicken pies that Aunt Polly could make as no one else ever made them.

Even Mary Louise was surprised at the array of eatables. It was a veritable feast. But without comment she made the tea, the water being already boiling, and seating Ingua opposite her at the table she served the child as liberally as she dared, bearing in mind her sensitiveness to "charity."

But Ingua considered this a "party," where as a guest she was entitled to all the good things, and she ate with a ravenous haste that was pitiful, trying the while not to show how hungry she was or how good everything tasted to her.

Mary Louise didn't burden her with conversation during the meal, which she prolonged until the child positively could eat no more. Then she drew their chairs to a place where they had the best view of the river and woodland -- with the old Cragg cottage marring the foreground -- and said:

"Now we will have a good, long talk together."

Ingua sighed deeply.

"Don't we hev to do the dishes?" she asked.

"No; Aunt Polly will come for them, by and by. All we have to do now is to enjoy your visit, which I hope you will repeat many times while I am living here."

Again the child sighed contentedly.

"I wish ye was goin' ter stay always," she remarked. "You folks is a sight nicer'n that Joselyn tribe. They kep' us stirred up a good deal till Ned -- "

She stopped abruptly.

"What were the Joselyns like?" inquired Mary Louise, in a casual tone that was meant to mask her curiosity.

"Well, that's hard to say," answered Ingua thoughtfully. "Ol' Mis' Kenton were a good lady, an' ev'rybody liked her; but after she died Ann Kenton come down here with a new husban', who were Ned Joselyn, an' then things began to happen. Ned was slick as a ban'box an' wouldn't hobnob with nobody, at first; but one day he got acquainted with Ol' Swallertail an' they made up somethin' wonderful. I guess other folks didn't know 'bout their bein' so close, fer they was sly 'bout it, gen'rally. They'd meet in this summer-house, or they'd meet at our house, crossin' the river on the steppin'-stones; but when Ned came over to us Gran'dad allus sent me away an' said he'd skin me if I listened. But one day -- No, I mus'n't tell that," she said, checking herself quickly, as a hard look came over her face.

"Why not?" softly asked Mary Louise.

"'Cause if I do I'll git killed, that's why," answered the child, in a tone of conviction.

Something in her manner startled her hearer.

"Who would kill you, Ingua?" she asked.

"Gran'dad would."

"Oh, I'm sure he wouldn't do that, whatever you said."

"Ye don't know Gran'dad, Mary Louise. He'd as lief kill me as look at me, if I give him cause to."

"And he has asked you not to talk about Mr. Joselyn?"

"He tol' me ter keep my mouth shet or he'd murder me an' stick my body in a hole in the yard. An' he'd do it in a minute, ye kin bank on that."

"Then," said Mary Louise, looking troubled, "I advise you not to say anything he has forbidden you to. And, if anything ever happens to you while I'm here, I shall tell Gran'pa Jim to have Mr. Cragg arrested and put in prison."

"Will ye? Will ye -- honest?" asked the girl eagerly. "Say! that'll help a lot. If I'm killed, I'll know I'll be revenged."

So tragic was her manner that Mary Louise could have laughed outright had she not felt there was a really serious foundation for Ingua's fears. There was something about the silent, cold-featured, mysterious old man that led her to believe he might be guilty of any crime. But, after all, she reflected, she knew Mr. Cragg's character only from Ingua's description of it, and the child feared and hated him.

"What does your grandfather do in his office all day?" she inquired after a long pause.

"Writes letters an' reads the ones he gits, I guess. He don't let me go to his office."

"Does he get many letters, then?"

"Heaps an' heaps of 'em. You ask Jim Bennett, who brings the mail bag over from the station ev'ry day."

"Is Jim Bennett the postman?"

"His wife is. Jim lugs the mail 'tween the station an' his own house --  that's the little white house next the church -- where his wife, who's deef-'n'-dumb, runs the postoffice. I know Jim. He says there's 'bout six letters a year for the farmers 'round here, an' 'bout one a week for Sol Jerrems -- which is mostly bills -- an' all the rest belongs to Ol' Swallertail."

Mary Louise was puzzled.

"Has he a business, then?" she asked.

"Not as anybody knows of."

"But why does he receive and answer so many letters?"

"Ye'll hev to guess. I've guessed, myself; but what's the use? If he was as stingy of postage stamps as he is of pork an' oatmeal, he wouldn't send a letter a year."

Mary Louise scented a mystery. Mysteries are delightful things to discover, and fascinating to solve. But who would have thought this quiet, retired village harbored a mystery?

"Does your grandfather ever go away from here? Does he travel much?" was her next question.

"He ain't never been out of Cragg's Crossing sence I've knowed him."

"Really," said Mary Louise, "it is perplexing."

Ingua nodded. She was feeling quite happy after her lunch and already counted Mary Louise a warm friend. She had never had a friend before, yet here was a girl of nearly her own age who was interested in her and her history and sweetly sympathetic concerning her woes and worries. To such a friend Ingua might confide anything, almost; and, while she was not fully aware of that fact just now, she said impulsively:

"Without tellin' what'd cost me my life, or lettin' anybody know what's become of Ned Joselyn, I'll say they was money -- lots o' money! -- passed atween him an' ol' Swallertail. Sometimes the heap went to one, an' sometimes to the other; I seen it with my own eyes, when Gran'dad didn't know I was spyin'. But it didn't stick to either one, for Ned was -- " She stopped short, then continued more slowly: "When Ned dis'peared, he'd spent all his own an' his wife's money, an' Ol' Swallertail ain't got enough t' live decent."

"Are you sure of that, Ingua?"

"N-o, I ain't sure o' noth'n. But he don't spend no money, does he?"

"For stamps," Mary Louise reminded her.

Then the child grew silent and thoughtful again. Mary Louise, watching the changing expressions on her face, was convinced she knew more of the mystery than she dared confide to her new friend. There was no use trying to force her confidence, however; in her childish way she was both shrewd and stubborn and any such attempt would be doomed to failure. But after quite a period of silence Mary Louise asked gently:

"Did you like Mr. Joselyn, Ingua?"

"Sometimes. Only when -- " Another self-interruption. She seemed often on the point of saying something her better judgment warned her not to. "Sometimes Ned were mighty good to me. Sometimes he brought me candy, when things was goin' good with him. Once, Mary Louise, he kissed me, an' never wiped off his mouth afterwards! Y-e-s, I liked Ned, 'ceptin' when -- " Another break. "I thought Ned was a pretty decent gink."

"Where did you learn all your slang, dear?"

"What's slang?"

"Calling a man a 'gink,' and words like that." "Oh. Marm was full o' them words," she replied with an air of pride. "They seem to suit things better than common words; don't you think so, Mary Louise?"

"Sometimes," with an indulgent smile. "But ladies do not use them, Ingua, because they soil the purity of our language."

"Well," said the girl, "it'll be a long time, yit, afore I'm a lady, so I guess I'll talk like Marm did. Marm weren't a real lady, to my mind, though she claimed she'd show anybody that said she wasn't. Real ladies don't leave the'r kids in the clutches of Ol' Swallertails."

Mary Louise did not think it wise to criticize the unknown Mrs. Scammel or to allow the woman's small daughter to do so. So she changed the subject to more pleasant and interesting topics and the afternoon wore speedily away.

Finally Ingua jumped up and said:

"I gotta go. If Gran'dad don't find supper ready there'll be another rumpus, an' I've been so happy to-day that I want to keep things pleasant-like."

"Won't you take the rest of these cakes with you?" urged Mary Louise.

"Nope. I'll eat one more, on my way home, but I ain't one o' them tramps that wants food pushed at 'em in a bundle. We ain't got much to home, but what we got's ours."

A queer sort of mistaken pride, Mary Louise reflected, as she watched the girl spring lightly over the stepping-stones and run up the opposite bank. Evidently Ingua considered old Mr. Cragg her natural guardian and would accept nothing from others that he failed to provide her with. Yet, to judge from her speech, she detested her grandfather and regarded him with unspeakable aversion.



Chapter VII Mary Louise Calls For Help

All the queer hints dropped by the girl that afternoon, concerning the relations between Mr. Joselyn and Mr. Cragg, were confided by Mary Louise to her Gran'pa Jim that evening, while the old Colonel listened with grave interest.

"I'm sure there is some mystery here," declared Mary Louise, "and maybe we are going to discover some dreadful crime."

"And, on the contrary," returned Colonel Hathaway, "the two men may have been interested together in some business venture that resulted disastrously and led Mr. Joselyn to run away to escape his wife's reproaches. I consider that a more logical solution of your mystery, my dear."

"In that case," was her quick reply, "why is Mr. Cragg still writing scores of letters and getting bags full of replies? I don't believe that business deal -- whatever it was -- is ended, by any means. I think that Ned Joselyn and Old Swallowtail are still carrying it on, one in hiding and the other here -- and to be here is to be in hiding, also. And it isn't an honest business, Gran'pa Jim, or they wouldn't be so secret about it."

The Colonel regarded his young granddaughter with surprise.

"You seem quite logical in your reasoning, my dear," he confessed, "and, should your conjectures prove correct, these men are using the mails for illegal purposes, for which crime the law imposes a severe penalty. But consider, Mary Louise, is it our duty to trail criminals and through our investigations bring them to punishment?"

Mary Louise took time to consider this question, as she had been advised to do. When she replied she had settled the matter firmly in her mind.

"We are part of the Government, Gran'pa Jim," she asserted. "If we believe the Government is being wronged -- which means the whole people is being wronged -- I think we ought to uphold the law and bring the wrong-doer to justice."

"Allowing that," said her grandfather, "let us next consider what grounds you have for your belief that wrong is being committed. Are they not confined to mere suspicions? Suspicions aroused by the chatter of a wild, ungoverned child? Often the amateur detective gets into trouble through accusing the innocent. Law-abiding citizens should not attempt to uncover all the wrongs that exist, or to right them. The United States Government employs special officers for such duties."

Mary Louise was a bit nettled, failing to find at the moment any argument to refute this statement. She was still convinced, however, that the mystery was of grave importance and she believed it would be intensely exciting to try to solve it. Gran'pa Jim was not acquainted with Ingua Scammel and had not listened to the girl's unconscious exposures; so, naturally, he couldn't feel just as Mary Louise did about this matter. She tried to read, as her grandfather, considering the conversation closed, was now doing. They sat together by the lamplight in the cozy sitting room. But her thoughts constantly reverted to "Old Swallowtail" and to Ingua. At length she laid down her book and said:

"Gran'pa, would you mind if I invited Josie O'Gorman to come here and make me a visit?"

He gave her a curious look, which, soon melted into an amused smile.

"Not at all, my dear. I like Josie. But I can see by your desire to introduce a female detective on the scene that you cannot abandon your suspicion of Mr. Cragg."

"I want to save Ingua, if I can," replied the girl earnestly. "The poor little thing can't go on leading such a life without its ruining all her future, even if her grandfather's brutal threats are mere bluff. And Josie isn't a female detective, as yet; she is only training to be one, because her father has won fame in that profession."

"Josie O'Gorman," said the Colonel, meditatively, "is a wonderfully clever girl. I believe she is better, even now, than a score of average male sleuths. Perhaps it will be a desirable thing for her to come here, for she will be shrewd enough to decide, in a short time, whether or not your suspicions are justified. In the latter case, you will be relieved of your worries. Will you abide by Josie's decision?"

"Will you, Gran'pa Jim?"

"I have considerable confidence in the girl's judgment."

"Then I will write to her at once."

She went to her desk and wrote the following note:

Dear Josie: We are at the dropping-off-place of the world, a stagnant little village of a dozen houses set in an oasis that is surrounded by the desert of civilization. And here, where life scarcely throbs, I've scented a mystery that has powerfully impressed me and surely needs untangling. It will be good practice for you, Josie, and so I want you to pack up at once and come to us on a good long visit. We're delightfully situated and, even if the mystery dissolves into thin air under the sunshine of your eyes, I know you will enjoy the change and our dreamy, happy existence in the wilds of nowhere. Gran'pa Jim wants you, too, as he thinks your coming will do me good, and his judgment is never at fault. So drop me a postal to say when you will arrive and I will meet you at Chargrove Station with our car. Affectionately your friend, Mary Louise Burrows.

Gran'pa Jim read this note and approved it, so next morning Mary Louise walked to the village and deposited it in the postoffice, which located in the front room of Jim Bennett's little residence and was delightfully primitive. Jim was "jus' makin' up the mail bag," he said, so her letter was in time to catch the daily train and would be in Washington, where Josie lived, in the quickest possible time.

Josie O'Gorman was about the same age as Mary Louise and she was the only child of John O'Gorman, famed as one of the cleverest detectives in the Secret Service. Josie was supposed to have inherited some of her father's talent; at least her fond parent imagined so. After carefully training the child almost from babyhood, O'Gorman had tested Josie's ability on just one occasion, when she had amply justified her father's faith in her. This test had thrown the girl into association with Mary Louise and with Colonel Hathaway, both of whom greatly admired her cleverness, her clear head and shrewd judgment. Mary Louise, especially, had developed a friendship for the embryo girl detective and had longed to know her more intimately. So she congratulated herself on the happy thought of inviting Josie to Cragg's Crossing and was delighted that the vague mystery surrounding the Cragg family offered an adequate excuse to urge the girl to come to her. There seemed nothing in the way of such a visit, for Officer O'Gorman, however pleased he might be at his daughter's success in her first detective case, declared Josie yet too young to enter active service and insisted that she acquire further age and experience before he would allow her to enter her chosen profession in earnest. "One swallow," he said, "doesn't make a summer, and the next bird you fly might prove a buzzard, my dear. Take your time, let your wits mature, and you'll be the better for it in the end."

So Mary Louise waited impatiently for Josie's reply, meantime seeing as much of Ingua as she could and trying to cement the growing friendship between them. Ingua responded eagerly to her advances and as old Mr. Cragg was away from home the greater part of the day there was much crossing of the stepping-stones by both girls and more than one "afternoon tea" in the pavilion.

"Do you know," said Ingua one day, in confidential mood, "I haven't had the devils since that time I started to run away and you stopped me? P'r'aps it's because I'm not as hungry as I used to be; but, anyhow, I'm glad I stayed. Gran'dad's been good, too, 'though he's got the 'wakes' ag'in."

"What are the 'wakes'?" asked Mary Louise.

"Can't sleep nights. Goes t' bed on time, ye know, but gits up ag'in an' dresses himself an' walks."

"In the house?"

"No, walks out o' doors. Sometimes he'll come in at jes' daylight; sometimes not till break-fas' is ready."

"And doesn't that make him cross, Ingua?"

"Not a bit. It seems to chirk him up. Yist'day mornin', when he come in, he was feelin' so chipper he give me a cent, an' told me to buy somethin' useful. I guess that's the first cent he ever give me. I've took money o' his'n, but he never give me none afore."

"Oh, Ingua! I hope you haven't stolen money?"

"Nope. Jes' took it. It ain't easy, 'cause he knows ev'ry cent he's got, an' it ain't often he leaves it where I kin git it. P'r'aps he knows it's me, but when I lie out of it he can't do noth'n' but growl --  an' growlin' don't hurt any."

Mary Louise was greatly distressed. This reckless disregard of property rights was of course the direct result of the child's environment, but must be corrected. Ingua resented direct chiding and it was necessary to point out to her the wickedness of stealing in the gentlest possible manner.

"How much money have you taken from your grandfather?" she asked.

"Oh, not much. A nickel, now an' then. He wouldn't stan' for losin' any more, ye see. P'r'aps, altogether, I've swiped twenty-five cents. But once Ned Joselyn give me a dollar, an' Ol' Swallertail knowed it, an' made me give it to him to save for me. That were the last I ever saw o' that dollar, Mary Louise, so I ain't even with Gran'dad yet."

"Do you think," remarked Mary Louise, "there is ever any excuse for stealing?"

The girl stared at her, coloring slightly.

"Do ye mean Gran'dad, er me?"

"I mean you. He didn't steal your dollar, dear; he merely took it so you wouldn't spend it foolishly."

"An' I merely took them nickels so's I could, spend 'em foolish. There's no fun in spendin' money, seems to me, unless you squander it reckless. That's what I done with them nickels. Candy an' chewin' gum tastes better when you know it's swiped."

Mary Louise sighed. It was so hard to show little Ingua the error of her ways.

"As fer stealin' -- out an' out stealin'," continued the girl, with a proud toss of her head, "we Craggs ain't never took noth'n' that don't belong to us from nobody. What a Cragg takes from a Cragg is a Cragg's business, an' when we takes someth'n' from somebody else I'll ask ye to tell me 'bout it."

"Where are you going, Ingua?"

"Home."

"You're not offended, I hope."

"No, but I got work to do. I ain't done my breakfas' dishes yet."

Mary Louise musingly watched the girl cross the river. On the opposite bank she turned to wave her hand and then ran into the cottage. Ingua's code of honor was a peculiar one. Her pride in the Craggs seemed unaccountable, considering she and her grandfather were the only two of the family in existence -- except that wandering mother of hers.

But the recent conversation had uncovered a new phase of the mystery. Old Swallowtail was nervous over something; he could not sleep at night, but roamed the roads while others with clear consciences slumbered. There must be some powerful reason to account for the old man's deserting his bed in this manner. What could it be?

When she walked over to the postoffice the girl found the long-looked-for letter from Josie O'Gorman. It said:

Dear Mary Louise: How good you are! I positively need a change of scene and a rest, so I'm coming. To-morrow -- by the train to Chargrove. The mystery you hint at will help me to rest. Dad doesn't want me to grow rusty and he has some odd theories I'd like to work out. I haven't an idea what your "mystery" is, of course, but if it enables me to test any one of the O'Gorman theories (a theory is merely a stepping-stone to positive information) I shall bless you forever. And that reminds me: I'm coming as a sewing girl, to help you fix over some summer gowns. You're anxious to give me the work, because I need it, but as we're rather chummy I'm half servant and half companion. (I hate sewing and make the longest stitches you ever saw!) Moreover, I'm Josie Jessup. I'm never an O'Gorman while I'm working on a mystery; it wouldn't do at all. Explain this to dear old Gran'pa Jim.

Between the receipt of this script and to-morrow's train jot down in regular order everything you know concerning the aforesaid mystery. Make it brief; no speculations or suspicions, just facts. Then I won't waste any time getting busy.

Can you hear the rumble of my train? While you're reading this I'm on my way!

Josie

"Good!" murmured Mary Louise, as she folded the letter. "I feel better already. Whatever the mystery of Old Swallowtail may be, Josie is sure to solve it."



Chapter VIII The Red-Headed Girl

Sol Jerrems the storekeeper, coming in from the back room where he had been drawing molasses for Farmer Higgins, found perched on top the sugar-barrel a chunky, red-haired, freckle-faced young girl whom he had never seen before. She seemed perfectly at home in his store and sat with her knees drawn up to her chin and her arms encircling her legs, eyeing soberly the two or three farmers who had come to the Crossing to "trade."

"If the head o' thet bar'l busts in, you'll be a fine mess," remarked Sol.

The girl nodded but did not move from her position. Sol waited on his customers, at times eyeing the strange girl curiously. When the farmers had gone with their purchases he approached the barrel and examined his visitor with speculative care.

"Want anything?"

"Spool o' red cotton, number thirty."

"Ain't got no red."

"Green'll do."

"Ain't got green. Only black an' white."

"All right."

"Want black or white?"

"No."

Sol leaned against the counter. He wasn't busy; the girl seemed in no hurry; it was a good time to gossip and find out all about the strange creature perched on his sugar-barrel.

"Where'd ye come from?" he inquired.

"City," tossing her head toward the north.

"What for?"

"To do sewing for the Hathaways folks. Mary Louise, you know."

Sol pricked up his ears. The Hathaways were newcomers, about whom little was known. He wanted to know more, and here was a girl who could give him inside information.

"Knowed the Hathaways in the city?"

"Kind o'. Sewed on Mary Louise's spring dresses. How long you been here?"

"Me? Why, I come here more'n twenty years ago. What does the Colonel do in the city?"

"Never asked him. Why do they call this place Cragg's Crossing?"

"I didn't name it. S'pose 'cause ol' Cragg used to own all the land, an' the roads crossed in the middle o' his farm."

"What Cragg was that?"

"Eh? Why, father to Ol' Swallertail. Ever seen Ol' Swallertail?"

"No."

"Wal, he's a sight fer sore eyes. First time anybody sees him they either laughs er chokes. The movin'-pictur' folks would go crazy over him. Ever seen a movin'-pictur'?"

"Yes."

"I did, too, when I was in the city las' year. Ol' Swallertail 'minds me of 'em. Goes 'round dressed up like George Washington when he crossed the Delaware."

"Crazy?"

"That way, yes; other ways, not a bit. Pretty foxy gent, is Ol' Swallertail."

"Why?"

Sol hesitated, reflecting. These questions were natural, in a stranger, but to explain old Hezekiah Cragg's character was not a particularly easy task.

"In the fust place, he drives a hard bargain. Don't spend money, but allus has it. Keeps busy, but keeps his business to himself."

"What is his business?"

"Didn't I say he kep' it to himself?"

"But he owns all the land around here."

"Not now. He owns jest a half-acre, so far's anybody knows, with a little ol' hut on it thet a respect'ble pig wouldn't live in. It's jes' acrost the river from the place where you're workin'."

"Then what has become of his land?"

"It's stayed jes' where it allus was, I guess," with a chuckle at his own wit, "but Ol' Swaller-tail sold it, long ago. Ol' Nick Cragg, his father afore him, sold a lot of it, they say, and when he died he left half his ready money an' all his land to Hezekiah -- thet's Ol' Swallertail -- an' the other half o' his money to his second son, Peter."

"Where is Peter?" asked the girl quickly.

"Went back to Ireland, years ago, and never's be'n heard of since. The Craggs was Irish afore they got to be Americans, but it seems Pete hankered fer th' Ol' Sod an' quit this country cold."

"So the Craggs are Irish, eh?" mused the girl in a casual tone. And then she yawned, as if not greatly interested. But Sol was interested, so long as he was encouraged to talk.

"I be'n told, by some o' the ol' settlers," he went on, "thet ol' Nick Cragg were born in Ireland, was a policeman in New York -- where he made his first money -- an' then come here an' bought land an' settled down. They ain't much difference 'tween a policeman an' a farmer, I guess. If the story's true, it proves Ol' Swallertail has Irish blood in him yit, though fer that matter he's lived here long enough to be jes' American, like the rest of us. After he come inter the property he gradual-like sold off all the land, piece by piece, till he ain't got noth'n left but thet half-acre. Sold most of it afore I come here, an' I be'n at the Crossing more'n twenty year."

"If the land brought a fair price, Old Swallowtail ought to be rich," remarked the girl.

"Then he ain't what he orter be. Folks says he specilated, years ago, an' got stung. I know him pretty well -- as well as anybody knows him --  an' my opinion is he ain't got more'n enough to bury him decent."

"Thought you said he drives a hard bargain?"

"Young woman," said Sol earnestly, "the man don't live as kin make money specilatin'. The game's ag'in him, fust an' last, an' the more brains he's got the harder he'll git stung."

"But I thought you said Mr. Cragg has a business."

"An' I said nobody knows what it is. When Ned Joselyn used to come here the two was thick, an' Ned were a specilater through an' through. Some thinks it was him as got Cragg's wad, an' some says he lost it all, an' his wife's money, too. Anyhow, Joselyn lit out fer good an' when he were gone Ann Kenton cried like a baby an' ol' Swallertail 's been dumb as a clam ever since."

"What makes you think Cragg has a business?" persisted the girl.

"He keeps an office, over the store here, an' he has a sign on the door thet says 'Real Estate.' But he ain't got no real estate, so that ain't why he shuts himself in the office day after day -- an' even Sundays. He's got some other business. Ev'ry night, afore he goes home, he takes a bunch o' letters to Mrs. Bennett's postoffice, an' ev'ry mornin' he goes there an' gits another bunch o' letters that's come to him in the mail. If that don't mean some sort o' business, I don't know what'n thunder it does mean."

"Nor I," said the girl, yawning again. "What about Ned Joselyn? Was he nice?"

"Dressed like a dandy, looked like a fool, acted like the Emp'ror o' Rooshy an' pleased ev'rybody by runnin' away. That is, ev'rybody but his wife an' Ol' Swallertail."

"I see. Who else lives over your store?"

"I live there myself; me an' my fambly, in the back part. One o' the front rooms I rents to Ol' Swallertail, an' he pays the rent reg'lar. The other front room Miss Huckins, the dressmaker, lives in."

"Oh. I'm a dressmaker, too. Guess I'll go up and see her. Is she in?"

"When she's out, she leaves the key with me, an' the key ain't here. Say, girl, what's yer name?"

"Josie."

"Josie what?"

"Jessup. Pa was a drayman. Ever hear of him?"

"No. But about the Hathaways; what has -- "

"And you've got no red thread? Or green?"

"Only black an' white. Does the Colonel -- "

"Can't use black or white," said the girl, deliberately getting off the barrel. "Guess I'll go up and ask Miss Huckins if she has any red."

Out she walked, and old Sol rubbed his wrinkled forehead with a bewildered look and muttered:

"Drat the gal! She's pumped me dry an' didn't tell me a word about them Hathaway folks. She worse'n ol' Eben, the nigger help. Seems like nobody wants t' talk about the Hathaways, an' that means there's somethin' queer about 'em. But this red-headed sewin'-girl is a perfec' innercent an' I'll git her talkin' yet, if she stays here long."

Meantime Josie mounted the stairs, which were boarded in at one end of the building, being built on the outside to economize space, and entered the narrow upper hallway. A chatter of children's voices in the rear proclaimed that portion to be the quarters of the Jerrems family. Toward the front was a door on which, in dim letters, was the legend: "H. Cragg. Real Estate."

Here the girl paused to listen. No sound came from the interior of H. Cragg's apartment. Farther along she found a similar door on which was a card reading: "Miss Huckins, Dressmaker and Milliner." Listening again, she heard the sound of a flatiron thumping an ironing board.

She knocked, and the door was opened by a little middle-aged woman who held a hot flatiron in one hand. She was thin; she was bright-eyed; her hair was elaborately dressed with little ringlets across the forehead and around the ears, so Josie at once decided it was a wig.

Seeing a stranger before her, Miss Huckins looked her over carefully from head to foot, while Josie smiled a vacuous, inconsequent smile and said in a perfunctory way:

"Good morning."

"Come in," returned Miss Huckins, with affable civility. "I don't think I know you."

"I'm Josie Jessup, from the city. I'm in your line, Miss Huckins -- in a way, that is. I've come here to do some sewing for Mary Louise Burrows, who is the granddaughter of Colonel Hathaway, who has rented the Kenton Place. Nice weather, isn't it?"

Miss Huckins was not enthusiastic. Her face fell. She had encouraged sundry hopes that the rich little girl would employ her to do whatever sewing she might need. So she resumed the pressing of a new dress that was spread over her ironing-board and said rather shortly:

"Anything I can do for you?"

"I want to use some red thread and the storekeeper doesn't keep it in stock. Queer old man, that storekeeper, isn't he?"

"I don't call him queer. He's honest as the day is long and makes a good landlord. Country stores don't usually keep red thread, for it is seldom used."

"He has been talking to me about old Mr. Cragg, who has an office next door to you. I'm sure you'll admit that Mr. Cragg is queer, if the storekeeper isn't."

"A man like Mr. Cragg has the right to be queer," snapped the dressmaker, who did not relish this criticism of the natives by a perfect stranger. "He is very quiet and respectable and makes a very satisfactory neighbor."

Josie, seated in a straight, wood-bottomed chair, seemed not at all chagrined by her reception. She watched the pressing for a time silently.

"That's a mighty pretty gown," she presently remarked, in a tone of admiration. "I don't suppose I shall ever be able to make anything as nice as that. I -- I'm not good at planning, you know," with modest self-deprecation. "I only do plain sewing and mending."

The stern features of Miss Huckins relaxed a bit. She glanced at the girl, then at her work, and said more pleasantly than she had before spoken:

"This dress is for Mary Donovan, who lives two miles north of here. She's to be married next Saturday -- if they get the haying over with by that time -- and this is part of her trousseau. I've made her two other dresses and trimmed two hats for her -- a straw shape and a felt Gainsboro. The Donovans are pretty well-to-do."

Josie nodded with appreciation.

"It's nice she can get such elegant things so near home, isn't it? Why, she couldn't do as well in the city -- not half as well!"

Miss Huckins held up the gown and gazed at it with unmistakable pride. "It's the best Henrietta," said she, "and I'm to get six dollars for the making. I wanted seven, at first, and Mary only wanted to pay five, so we split the difference. With all the other things, I didn't do so badly on this trousseau."

"You're in luck," declared Josie, "and so is Mary Donovan. Doesn't Mr. Cragg do any business except real estate?"

"I think he must," replied the dressmaker, hanging up the gown and then seating herself opposite her visitor. "All the real estate business he's done in the last two years was to rent the Kenton Place to Colonel Hathaway and make a sale of Higgins' cow pasture to Sam Marvin. But he's so quiet, all day, in the next room, that I can't figure out what he's up to. No one goes near him, so I can't overhear any talk. One time, of course, Mr. Joselyn used to go there, and then they always whispered, as if they were up to some deviltry. But after the quarrel Joselyn never came here again."

"Oh, did they quarrel?" asked Josie, with languid interest. She knew her praise of the dress had won the dressmaker's heart and also she was delighted to find Miss Huckins a more confirmed and eager gossip than even Sol Jerrems.

"I should say they did quarrel!" was the emphatic reply, although she sank her voice to a whisper and glanced warningly at the thin partition. "At one time I thought there'd be murder done, for Joselyn yelled: 'Take that away -- take it away!' and Old Swallowtail -- that's the name we call Mr. Cragg, you know -- roared out: 'You deserve to die for this cowardly act.' Well, you'd better believe my hair stood on end for a minute," Josie smiled as she thought of the wig standing on end, "but nothing happened. There was deep silence. Then the door opened and Mr. Joselyn walked out. I never interfere with other people's business, but attend strictly to my own, yet that day I was so flustered that I peeked through a crack of my door at Mr. Joselyn and he seemed cool as a cucumber. Then Mr. Cragg slammed the door of his room -- which is z very unusual thing for him to do -- and that was all."

"When did this happen?" asked Josie.

"Last fall, just before Mrs. Joselyn and her husband went back to their city home. Some time in the winter Mr. Joselyn ran away from her, they say, but I guess old Cragg had nothing do with that. Around here, Joselyn wasn't liked. He put on too many airs of superiority to please the country folks. Sol Jerrems thinks he made away with Mr. Cragg's money, in unwise speculations, but I don't believe Cragg had any money to lose. He seems as poor as I am."

"What do you suppose drew those two men together, Miss Huckins?" inquired the girl.

"I can't say. I've tried to figure it out, but the truth is that old Cragg don't confide in anyone -- not even in me, and we're close neighbors. You couldn't find two men in all America more different than Joselyn and Cragg, and yet they had dealings of some sort together and were friendly, for a time."

Josie sighed regretfully.

"I like to hear about these mysterious things," said she. "It's almost as good as reading a story. Only, in this case, we will never know how the story ends."

"Well, perhaps not," admitted the dressmaker. "Joselyn is gone and no one'll ever get the truth out of Cragg. But -- I'd like to know, myself, not only how the story ends but what it was all about. Just now all we know is that there was a story, of some sort or other, and perhaps is yet."

A period of silence, while both mused.

"I don't suppose you could find a bit of red thread?" said Josie.

"No, I haven't used it for ages. Is it to mend with?"

"Yes."

"If it's a red dress, use black thread. It won't show, if you're careful; and it won't fade away and leave a white streak, like red sometimes does."

"Thank you, Miss Huckins." She rose to go. "I'd like to drop in again, sometime, for a little visit."

"Come as often as you like," was the cordial reply.

"Cragg's Crossing people are rather interesting; they're so different from city folks," said Josie.

"Yes, they really are, and I know most of them pretty well. Come in again, Josie."

"Thank you; I will."



Chapter IX Josie Investigates

"Well, what luck?" asked Mary Louise, as she came into Josie's room while her friend was dressing for dinner.

"Not much," was the reply. "I'm not at all sure, Mary Louise, that this chase will amount to anything. But it will afford me practice in judging human nature, if nothing else comes of it, so I'm not at all sorry you put me on the trail. When are we to see Ingua again?"

"To-morrow afternoon. She's coming to tea in the pavilion."

"That's good. Let me see all of her you can. She's an original, that child, and I'm going to like her. Our natures are a good deal alike."

"Oh, Josie!"

"That's a fact. We're both proud, resentful, reckless and affectionate. We hate our enemies and love our friends. We're rebellious, at times, and not afraid to defy the world."

"I'm sure you are not like that, dear," protested Mary Louise.

"I am. Ingua and I are both children of nature. The only difference is that I am older and have been taught diplomacy and self-control, which she still lacks. I mask my feelings, while Ingua frankly displays hers. That's why I am attracted to her."

Mary Louise did not know how to combat this mood. She remained silent until Josie was dressed and the two went down to dinner. Their visitor was no longer the type of a half ignorant, half shrewd sewing-girl, such as she had appeared to be while in the village. Her auburn hair was now tastefully arranged and her attire modest and neat. She talked entertainingly during dinner, enlivening her companions thereby, and afterward played a game of dominoes with the Colonel in the living-room, permitting him to beat her at this, his favorite diversion.

Both the old gentleman and his granddaughter enjoyed their evenings with Josie O'Gorman, for she proved delightful company. In the mornings, however, she would don her cheap gingham, rumple her hair, and pose throughout the day as Josie Jessup the sewing-girl.

Ingua, at first shy of the visitor, soon developed a strong liking for Josie and would talk with her more freely than with Mary Louise. Josie would skip across the stepping-stones and help Ingua wash the breakfast dishes and sweep the bare little rooms of the cottage and then together they would feed the chickens, gather the eggs and attend to such daily tasks as Ingua was obliged to fulfill. With Josie's help this was soon accomplished and then the child was free for the day and could run across to join Mary Louise, while Josie sallied to the village to interview the natives.

When the girl detective had been at Cragg's Crossing for a week she was a familiar figure to the villagers -- every one of whom was an acquaintance -- and had gleaned all the information it was possible to secure from them, which was small in amount and unsatisfactory in quality. Two or three times she had passed Old Swallowtail on the street, but he had not seemed to notice her. Always the old man stared straight ahead, walking stiffly and with a certain repellent dignity that forbade his neighbors to address him. He seemed to see no one. He lived in a world known only to himself and neither demanded nor desired association with his fellows.

"An eccentric; bigoted, sullen and conceited," reflected Josie, in considering his character. "Capable of any cruelty or crime, but too cautious to render himself liable to legal punishment. The chances are that such a man would never do any great wrong, from cowardly motives. He might starve and threaten a child, indeed, but would refrain from injuring one able to resent the act. Nevertheless, he quarreled with Joselyn -- and Joselyn disappeared. There was some reason for that quarrel; some reason for that disappearance; some reason why a man like Edward Joselyn made Old Swallowtail his confidential friend. A business connection, perhaps. Before daring a conjecture I must discover what business Cragg is engaged in."

She soon discovered that Ingua was as ignorant of her grandfather's business life as were all others. One day, as the two girls were crossing the stepping-stones to reach the pavilion, after "doing" the morning housework, Josie remarked:

"In winter one could cross here on the ice."

"Oh, no," replied Ingua, "the water don't freeze. It runs too fast. But sometimes it gits over the top o' the stones, an' then you has to step keerful to keep from fallin' in."

"Did you ever try to cross at such a time?" "Once I did, an' I was skeered, you kin bet. But I says to myself: 'If Ol' Swallertail kin make the crossin', I kin -- dark or no dark -- an' by cracky I tackled it brave as a lion."

"You tried to cross in the dark, on a winter's night? What for, Ingua?"

Ingua, walking beside her up the bank, paused with a startled expression and grew red. Her eyes, narrowed and shrewd, fixed themselves suspiciously on Josie's face. But the other returned the look with a bland smile that surely ought to disarm one more sophisticated than this simple child.

"I mustn't talk 'bout that," said Ingua in a low voice. "Jes' fergit as I said it, Josie."

"Why?"

"Do ye want me choked, or killed?"

"Who would do that?"

"Gran'dad would, if I blabbed."

"Shucks!"

"Ye don't know Gran'dad -- not when he's got the temper on him. If ye'd seen what I seen, ye'd know that he'd keep his word -- 'to, kill me if I talk too much."

Josie sat down on top the bank.

"What did you see, Ingua?"

"Ye'll hev to guess it."

"It looks that way," said Josie calmly; "but you needn't be afraid of me, Ingua. You and I could know a lot of things, together, and keep 'em to ourselves. Don't you think I'm a good enough friend not to get you choked or killed by telling any secrets you confided to me? And --  look here, Ingua -- this secret is worrying you a good deal."

"Who says so?"

"I do. You'd feel a heap better if you told me about it, for then we could talk it over together when we're alone."

Ingua sat down beside her, gazing thoughtfully at the river.

"You'd tell Mary Louise."

"You know better than that. A secret's a secret, isn't it? I guess I can keep my mouth shut when I want to, Ingua."

Josie had a way of imitating Ingua's mode of speech when they were together. It rendered their intercourse more free and friendly. But the girl did not reply at once. She sat dreamily reflecting upon the proposition and its possible consequences. Finally she said in a hesitating way:

"I wisht I knew what ter do. I sometimes think I orter tell somebody that knows more'n I do, Josie, if I ever blab at all."

"Try me, Ingua. I'm pretty smart, 'cause I've seen more of the big world than you have, and know what goes on in the big, busy cities, Where life is different from what it is in this little place. I've lived in more than one city, too, and that means a lot of experience for a girl of my age. I'm sure I could help you, dear. Perhaps, when I've heard your story, I will tell you never to say anything about it to anyone else; and then, on the other hand, I might think differently. Anyhow, I'd never tell, myself, any secret of yours, whatever I might think, because I'd cut off my right hand rather than get you into trouble."

This dramatic speech was intended to appeal to the child's imagination and win her full confidence. In a way, it succeeded. Ingua sidled closer to Josie and finally said in a trembling whisper:

"Ye wouldn't git Gran'dad inter trouble either, would ye?"

"Do you like him, Ingua?"

"I hate him! But he's a Cragg, an' I'm a Cragg, an' the Craggs kin stand up an' spit at the world, if they wants to."

"That's right," agreed Josie, emphatically. "We've got to stick up for our own families and fight for our good name when it's necessary. Do you think I'd let anybody get the best of a Jessup? Never in a thousand years!"

Ingua nodded her head as if pleased.

"That's the way I look at it, Josie. Ev'rybody's down on Ol' Swallertail, an' I'm down on him myself, fer that matter; but I'll dare anybody to say anything ag'in him when I'm aroun'. An' yet, Josie -- an' yet -- I ain't sure but he's -- but he's a murderer!"

She had dropped her voice until she scarcely breathed the last words and her little body trembled through and through with tense nervousness. Josie took her hand.

"Never mind, dear," she said gently. "Perhaps he didn't kill Ned Joselyn, after all."

Ingua sprang up with a hoarse scream and glared at Josie in absolute terror.

"How'd ye know? How'd ye know it were Ned Joselyn?" she demanded, trembling more and more.

Josie's reply was a smile. Josie's smile was essentially winning and sweet. It was reassuring, trustful, friendly.

"This isn't a very big place, Ingua," she quietly remarked. "I can count the people of Cragg's Crossing on my fingers and toes, and the only one who has ever disappeared is Ned Joselyn. Why, you've told me so yourself. Your grandfather and Joselyn were friends. Then they quarreled. Afterward Joselyn disappeared."

"Who said they quarreled?"

"Miss Huckins told me. It was in the office, next door to where she lives and works."

"Oh," with a sigh of relief. "But Ned Joselyn run away. Ev'rybody knows that."

"Everybody but you, dear. Sit down. Why do you get so nervous? Really, Ingua, after you've told me the whole story you'll feel better. It's too big a secret for one small body to hold, isn't it? And just between ourselves we will talk it all over -- many times -- and then it won't seem so dreadful to you. And, after all, you're not positive your grandfather killed Ned Joselyn. Perhaps he didn't. But you're afraid he did, and that keeps you unstrung and unhappy. Who knows but I may be able to help you discover the truth? Sit down, Ingua, and let's talk it all over."



Chapter X Ingua Is Confidential

Ingua slowly resumed her seat on the bank beside her friend. It was hard to resist Josie's appeals.

"The whole thing looks pretty black ag'in Gran'dad," she said. "I s'pose ye can't understand what I mean till I tell ye the whole story, from the beginning 'cause ye didn't live here at the time. If ye lived here," she added, "I wouldn't tell ye anything, but by-'n'-by yer goin' away. An' ye've promised to keep yer mouth shut."

"Unless you give me permission to speak."

"I ain't likely to do that. I'm tellin' ye this, Josie, so's we kin talk it over, at times. It has got hold o' my mind, somethin' terrible. Once I was goin' to tell Mary Louise, but -- she couldn't understand it like you kin. She's -- diff'rent. And if Gran'dad ever hears that I blabbed I'm as good as dead, an' I know it!"

"He won't hear it from me," promised Josie.

"Well, Gran'dad was allus sly. I 'member Marm tellin' him to his face he were cold as ice an' sly as sin. Mann had a way o' sayin' what she thought o' him, an' he'd jes' look at her steady an' say nuth'n back. She was allus tryin' to git money out o' him, Marm was, an' when he said he didn't hev no money she tol' him she knew he did. She ransacked the whole house -- an' even tore up the floor-boards -- tryin' to find where he'd hid it. Her idee was that if he'd sold his land for a lot o' money, an' hadn't spent a cent, he must hev it yit. But I guess Marm didn't find no money, an' so she lit out. The day she lit out she said to him that he was too slick for her, but she could take care o' herself. All she wanted was for him to take care o' me. Gran'dad said he would; an' so he did. He didn't take any too much care o' me, an' I'd ruther he wouldn't. If I had more to eat, I wouldn't kick, but since Mary Louise come here an' invited me to tea so often I hain't be'n hungry a bit."

"Mary Louise likes company," said Josie. "Go on, dear."

"Well, after Ann Kenton got married, her new husban' come here, which was Ned Joselyn. I never took a fancy to Ann. She wasn't 'specially uppish, but she wasn't noth'n else, either. Ned made me laugh when I first seen him. He had one spectacle in one eye, with a string to ketch it if it fell off. He had striped clothes an' shiny shoes an' he walked as keerful as if he was afraid the groun' would git the bottoms o' them nice shoes dirty. He used to set in that summer-house an' smoke cigarettes an' read books. One day he noticed Ol' Swallertail, an' looked so hard at him that his one-eyed spectacle fell off a dozen times.

"That night he sent a letter to Gran'dad an' Gran'dad read it an' tore it up an' told the man that brung it there was no answer. That's all I knew till one night they come walkin' home together, chummy as a team o' mules. When they come to the bridge they shook hands an' Ol' Swallertail come to the house with a grin on his face -- the first an' last grin I ever seen him have."

"Doesn't he ever laugh?" asked Josie.

"If he does, he laughs when no one is lookin'. But after that day I seen Ned Joselyn with Gran'dad a good deal. Sometimes he'd come to our house an' wait fer Ol' Swallertail to come home, an' they'd send me away an' tell me not to come back till I was called. That made me mighty curious to see what they was up to, so one day I crep' up behind the house an' peeked in the winder. They wasn't in the kitchen, so I went aroun' an' peeked through the winder o' Gran'dad's room, an' there they both sot, an' Gran'dad was countin' out money on the table. It must 'a' be'n gold money, 'cause it was yaller an' bigger ner cents er nickels. Ned put it all in his pocket, an' writ somethin' on a paper that Gran'dad put inter his big pocketbook. Then they both got up an' I made a run fer it an' hid behind the barn."

"When did that happen?" asked Josie.

"The first summer Ann was married. That was three summers ago, countin' this one. I was only a kid, then," said Ingua, as if realizing she was now two years older.

"And after that?" said Josie.

"Las' summer it was jes' the same. The two was thicker'n gumdrops, only Ned didn't go to the office no more. He allus came to our house instid. One day, when he was waitin' fer Ol' Swallertail, he says to me: 'Ingua, how'd ye like to be rollin' in money, an' Jive in a big city, an' hev yer own automobile to ride in, an' dress like a queen?"

"I'd like it," says I.

"Well," says he, "it's boun' to happen, if Ol' Swallertail sticks to me an' does what I say. He's got the capital," says Ned, "an' I got the brains; an' atween the two of us, Ingua," says Ned, "we'll corral half the money there is in America."

""Will he stick?" says I.

"I dunno," says Ned. "He's got queer ideas 'bout duty an' honesty that ain't pop'lar these days in business. But I'm gitt'n so now thet I kin lead him by the nose, an' I'll force him to waller in money afore I've done with him."

"I don't see how that'll make me rollin' in money, anyhow," I told him.

"The ol' man'll die, pretty soon," says Ned, "an' then you'll git the money I make for him. By the time yer growed up, if not afore,' says he, 'you may be the riches' girl in the world. It all depends on how I kin bend that ol' stick of a gran'dad o' yourn."

"That was the day he gimme the dollar, an' Gran'dad come in in time to see it, an' took it away from me. It didn't set me up any, that talk o' Ned's, 'cause I didn't believe in them brains he bragged on, or his bein' able to lead Ol' Swallertail by the nose. Gran'dad begun gittin' kind o' harsh with Ned, afore the summer was over, which showed he wasn't bendin' much, and at the last -- just afore Ned went away -- the big quarrel come off. It wasn't the quarrel Miss Huckins knows about, but it happened right here. They'd sent me away from the house, like they always did, and I were layin' in the clover in the back yard, when there was a crash an' a yell. I jumped up an' run to the door, an' the table was tipped over an' a lot o' papers an' money scattered on the floor, an' behind the table stood Ol' Swallertail, white an' still, an' Ned point'n' a gun at him."

"What sort of a gun?" questioned Josie.

"One o' them hip-pocket sort. Same as Jim Bennett the mailman carries. Only Jim's ain't never loaded, 'cause he's afraid of it. I ain't sure Ned's was loaded, either, for when he seen me in the doorway he jes' slipped it in his pocket.

"Very well," says Gran'dad, "I knows now what sort o' a man you are, Ned Joselyn.' An' Ned he answers back: 'An' I know what sort o' a man you are, ol' Cragg. Yer a hypercrit through an' through; ye preach squareness while yer as crooked as a snake, an' as p'isonous an' deadly, an' ye'd ruin yer bes' friend jes' to git a copper cent the best o' him."

"Gran'dad leaned over an' set the table on its legs ag'in. An' then he says slow an' cold: 'But I hain't offered to murder you; not yet, Ned Joselyn!'"

"Ned looked at him an' kinder shivered. An' Gran'dad said: 'Pick up them papers an' things, Ingua.'

"So I picked 'em up an' put 'em on the table an' they sent me away ag'in. I laid in the clover a whole hour, feelin' pretty nervous an' rocky, fer I didn't know what was goin' to happen. Noth'n' did happen, though, 'cept that Ned crossed the river on the steppin'-stones an' halfway over he turned an' laughed an' waved his hand at Gran'dad, who stood in the door an' watched him go. But Gran'dad didn't laugh. He says to me when I come in:

"'Ingua, if ever I'm found dead, you go to Dud Berkey, the constable, an' tell him to arrest Ned Joselyn for murder. D'ye understan'?'

"'I sure do,' says I. 'Guess he'd 'a' shot ye, Gran'dad, if I hadn't come in just when I did.'

"'An' see here,' he went on, 'unless I'm foun' dead, you keep mum 'bout what ye seen to-day. If ye blab a word to anyone, ye'll git me in trouble, an' I'll crush ye as willin' as I'd swat a fly. Me an' Ned is friends ag'in,' says he, 'but I don't trust him.'

"'Does he trust you?' I asked him; an' at first he jus' looked at me an' scowled; but after a minute he answered: 'I don't know how wise the man is. P'r'aps he isn't a fool; but even wise men is foolish sometimes.'

"Well, Josie, that was all, just then. Ned went with his wife Ann to the city, nex' day, an' things here went on as usual. Only, Gran'dad begun to git wakeful nights, an' couldn't sleep. He'd git up an' dress an' go outdoors an' walk aroun' till mornin'. He didn't say noth'n' to me about it, but I watched him, an' one mornin' when he come in I says: 'Why don't ye git some medicine o' Doc Jenkins to make ye sleep?' Then he busts out an' grabs me by the throat an' near choked the life out or me.

"'Ye spy -- ye dirty little spy!' says he, 'ye keep yer eyes shut an' yer mouth shut, or I'll skin-ye alive!' says he.

"The way he looked at me, I was skeered stiff, an' I never said noth'n' more 'bout his sleepin' nights. I guess what made him mad was my sayin' he orter hev a doctor, 'cause doctors cost money an' Gran'dad's so poor he hates t' spend money unnecessary."

"Did he ever again try to choke you?"

"He tried once more, but I was too spry for him. It was a winter night, when it was cold in his room an' he come inter the kitchen, where there was a fire, to write. I sot behind the stove, tryin' to keep warm, an' after a time I seen him look up an' glare at the bare wall a long time. By-'n'-by he says in a low voice: 'Fer the Cause!' an' starts writin' ag'in. 'What cause are ye talkin' about, Gran'dad?' says I.

"I guess he'd fergot I was there, but now he gives a yell an' jumps up an' comes for me with his fingers twistin' and workin' like I'd seen 'em afore. I didn't wait fer him to git near me, you kin bet; I made a dive out the back door an' stood aroun' in the cold tryin' to keep warm while I give him time to cool off where the fire was. When he was writin' ag'in I sneaked in an' he didn't notice me. When Marm was here she used to josh him about the 'Cause,' an' once I heard her tell him she guessed the Cause was hoardin' his money so's to starve his family. Marm wasn't afraid of him, but I am, so I never whisper the word 'Cause' while he's around."

Josie sat in silent reflection for a time. Then she asked softly:

"Does he still walk at night, Ingua?"

"Sometimes. Not so much as he once did, though. He seems to take streaks o' bein' wakeful," explained the girl.

"Have you ever seen him come out, or go in?"

"Lots o' times. When it's moonlight I kin see him through my window, an' he can't see me 'cause my room is dark."

"And does he carry anything with him?"

"Not a thing. He jes' goes out like he does daytimes, an' comes back the same way."

Josie nodded her tousled red head, as if the answers pleased her.

"He's a very clever man, your grandfather," she remarked. "He can fool not only his neighbors, but his own family. But you've more to tell me, Ingua."

"How d'ye know, Josie?"

"Because all this is just the beginning. It is something else that has been worrying you, dear."



Chapter XI The Fate Of Ned Joselyn

The child stared dreamily at the rushing water for several minutes. Then she looked earnestly into Josie's face. Finally, with a sigh, she said:

"I may as well go on an' finish it, I s'pose."

"To be sure," said Josie. "You haven't told me anything very important yet."

"The important part's comin'," asserted Ingua, her tone gradually assuming its former animation. "'Twas last winter on the Thursday between Christmas an' New Year's. It was cold an' snowin' hard, an' it gits dark early them days. Gran'dad an' me was eat'n' supper by lamplight when there come a knock at the door. I jumped up an' opened it an' there stood Ned Joselyn, in a big heavy coat that was loaded with snow, an' kid gloves on, an' his one-eyed spectacle on his face. He come in an' stood while I shut the door, an' Gran'dad glared at him like he does when the devils gits him, and said: 'What -- more?'

"'Sure thing,' says Ned. 'Noth'n' lasts forever.'

"'That's true,' says Gran'dad, holdin' himself in. Then he looks at me, an' back to Ned, an' says: 'I can't see ye here. Where ye stoppin'? At the Kenton house?'

"'Jes' fer to-night,' says Ned. 'It's more private than a hotel.'

"'Go home, then,' says Gran'dad. 'I'll come over, by-'n'-by.'

"Ned opened the door an' went out, sayin' noth'n' more. Gran'dad finished his supper an' then sot by the stove an' smoked his pipe while I washed the dishes. I wondered why he didn't go over an' see Ned, but he sot there an' smoked till I went upstairs to bed. That was queer, for I never knew him to smoke more'n one pipe o' tobacco at a time, before, an' then mostly on Sundays. And I'd never seen his face so hard an' cruel-lookin' as it were that night, and his eyes, seemed like they were made of glass. I didn't undress, fer I knowed there'd be trouble if he went over to Ned's house, and I made up my mind to keep watch o' things.

"So I set still in my room in the attic, an' Gran'dad set still in the room downstairs, an' it must 'a' be'n pretty late when I heard him get up an' go out. I slipped down right after him, meanin' to foller him, an' let myself out the back door so's he wouldn't see me. It had stopped snowin' by then, but it was so cold that the air cut like a knife and the only jacket I had wasn't any too warm fer such weather.

"When I got 'round the house Ol' Swallertail was standin' on the bank, lookin' at the river. I never knew nobody to try the steppin'-stones in winter, an' I s'posed o' course Gran'dad would take the path to the bridge; but he went down the bank, wadin' through the snow, an' started to cross over. The moon an' the snow made it light enough to see easy, after you'd be'n out a few minutes. I watched him cross over an' climb the bank an' make for the house, an' then I run down to the river myself.

"The water covered all the stones, but I knew where they were as well as Gran'dad did. I didn't like my job a bit, but I knew if I waited to go roun' by the bridge that I'd be too late to see anything that happened. So I screwed up courage an' started over. My legs ain't as long as a grown-up's and at the third step I missed the stone an' soused one leg in the water up to my knee. Gee! that was a cold one. But I wouldn't give up, an' kep' on until jus' in the middle, where the water were roarin' the worst, I slipped with both legs and went in to my waist. That settled it for me. I thought I'd drown, for a minute, but I went crazy with fear an' the next thing I knew I was standin' on the bank where I'd come from an' the cold wind was freezin' a sheet of ice on my legs an' body.

"There wasn't no time to lose. Whatever was happenin' over to the big house didn't mean as much to me as death did, an' death was on my track if I didn't get back home afore I froze stiff. I started to run. It ain't far -- look there, Josie, ye could almost make it in three jumps --  but I remember fallin' down half a dozen times in the snow, an' at the last I crawled to the door on my hands an' knees an' had jus' strength enough to rise up an' lift the latch.

"Gran'dad's awful stingy about burnin' wood, but I threw the chunks into the stove till the old thing roared like a furnace an' when I'd thawed out some I got off my shoes an' stockin's an' my wet dress an' put another skirt on. Then I lay in Gran'dad's chair afore the fire an' shivered an' cried like a baby whenever I thought o' that icy river.

"I guess I must 'a' went to sleep, afterwards, fer when I woke up the fire was gett'n' low an' Ol' Swallertail opened the door on a sudden an' walked in. Josie, ye orter seen him! His legs was wet an' icy, too, so he must 'a' slipped on the stones himself; an' he was shakin' all over as if he'd got the ague. His face was a dirty white an' his eyes burnt like two coals. He threw on more wood, reckless-like, an' jerked off his shoes an' socks an' set down t'other side the stove. Neither of us said noth'n' fer awhile an' then he looks at me sort o' curious an' asks:

"'Did ye git across, Ingua?'

"'No,' says I. 'I near got drowned, tryin' it.'

"Then he set silent ag'in, lookin' at the fire. By-'n'-by says he: 'Ingua, yer old enough to hev sense, an' I want ye to think keerful on what I'm goin' ter say. Folks aroun' here don't like you an' me very much, an' if they got a chance -- or even thought they had a chance --  they'd crush us under heel like they would scorpions. That's 'cause we're Craggs, for Craggs ain't never be'n poplar in this neighborhood, for some reason. Now lis'n. I've done with Ned Joselyn. It ain't nay fault as I've cast him off; it's his'n. He's got a bad heart an' he's robbed me right an' left. I could fergive him fer that, because -- well, ye don't need to know why I clung to the feller when I knew he was a scoundrel. But he robbed a cause dearer to my heart than myself, an' for that I couldn't fergive him. Nobody knows Ned were here to-night, Ingua, so if anybody asks ye questions ye didn't see him at all. Fix that firm in yer mind. Ye don't know noth'n' 'bout Ned sence he went away las' October. Ye hain't seen him. Stick to that, girl, an' yer all right; but if ye blab -- if ye ever tell a soul as Ned were here -- I'll hev to kill yer myself, to stop yer mouth. Fix that in yer mind, too.'

"I was so skeered that I jes' looked at him. Then I says in a whisper: 'What did ye do to Ned, Gran'dad?'

"He turned his eyes on me so fierce that I dropped my head.

"'I didn't kill him, if that's what ye mean,' says he. 'I orter strangled him, but I didn't want to swing fer no common thief like Ned Joselyn. Besides, he's -- but that's none o' yer business. So I threatened him, an' that was jus' as good as killin'. He won't show up ag'in here, never; an' he ain't likely to show up anywheres else that he's known. P'raps he'll be hunted for, but he'll keep out a' the way. You an' I ain't got noth'n' to worry about, Ingua -- unless you blab.'

"I didn't believe a word he said, Josie. They was jus' words, an' it was nat'ral he'd lie about that night's work. When I went to bed it was near mornin', but Ol' Swallertail was still sett'n' by the fire.

"Nex' day he went on jus' as usual, an' from then till now he's never spoke to me of that night. In a couple o' weeks we heard as Ned Joselyn had run away. His wife come down here askin' fer him, but nobody'd seen hide ner hair of him. That's all, Josie; that's the whole story, an' I'm glad you know it now as well as I do. Wha' d'ye think? Did Ol' Swallertail kill Ned Joselyn?"

Josie woke from her meditation with a start.

"I -- I'm going to think it over," she said evasively. "It's a queer story, Ingua -- mighty queer -- and it's going to take a lot of thought before I make up my mind about it."



Chapter XII Theories Are Dangerous

"What were you and Ingua talking about for so long?" asked Mary Louise, when she and Josie were alone.

"She was telling me her story," was the reply.

"All of it?"

"Every bit of it, I think."

"Oh, what was it all about?" questioned Mary Louise eagerly.

"I've promised not to tell."

"Not even me, Josie?"

"Not even you. Ingua insisted; and, really, dear, it's better you should know nothing just at present."

"Am I to be left out of all this thrilling mystery?" demanded Mary Louise with an aggrieved air.

"There won't be a thrill in it, until the end, and perhaps not then. But you shall come in at the finish, if not before; I'll promise that."

"Won't this enforced promise to Ingua tie your hands?" queried the other girl, thoughtfully.

"No. I didn't promise not to act, but only to keep the child's secret. For Ingua's sake, as well as to satisfy your curiosity -- and my own -- I'm going to delve to the bottom of Ned Joselyn's disappearance. That will involve the attempt to discover all about Old Swallowtail, who is a mystery all by himself. I shall call on you to help me, at times, Mary Louise, but you're not to be told what is weighing so heavily on poor Ingua's mind."

"Well," said Mary Louise, "if I may help, that will serve to relieve my disappointment to an extent. But I'm surprised at Ingua. I thought she loved and trusted me."

"So she does," asserted Josie. "Since I've heard the story, I'm not surprised at Ingua at all. If you knew all, my dear, you would realize why she believes that one confidant is enough. Indeed, I'm rather surprised that Ingua ventured to confide in me."

"Is it so serious, then?"

"If her fears are justified," replied Josie gravely, "it is very serious."

"But are they justified?" urged Mary Louise.

"Ingua is a child, and very sensitive to impressions. But she is a shrewd child and, living a lonely life, has had ample time to consider the problems that confront her. Whether she is right or wrong in her conjectures, time will determine. But don't question me further, please, or you will embarrass me. To-morrow I want to go to the city, which is the county seat. Will you go with me? And can we get Uncle Eben to drive us over in the car?"

"I'll ask Gran'pa Jim."

Colonel Hathaway was rather amused at the efforts of the two girls to fathom the mystery of Old Swallowtail, but he was willing to assist in any practical way. So Uncle Eben drove them to the county seat next day and Josie spent several hours in the county clerk's office and paid a visit to the chief of police, who knew her father, John O'Gorman, by reputation. Mary Louise shopped leisurely while her friend was busy with her investigations and at last they started for home, where they arrived in time for dinner. On the way, Mary Louise inquired if Josie had secured any information of importance.

"A little," said the girl detective. "For one thing, old Hezekiah Cragg pays taxes on just one bit of land besides that little homestead of his. It is a five-acre tract, but the assessment puts it at an astonishingly low valuation -- scarcely ten per cent of the value of all surrounding property. That strikes me as queer. I've got the plat of it and to-morrow we will look it up."

They found it was not easy to locate that five acres, even with a map, when the two girls made the attempt the next forenoon. But finally, at the end of a lonely lane about a mile and a half from the village, they came upon a stony tract hemmed in by low hills, which seemed to fit the location described. The place was one mass of tumbled rocks. Little herbiage of any sort grew there and its low assessment value was easily explained. The surrounding farms, all highly cultivated, backed up to the little waste valley, which was fenced out -- or rather in -- by the owners of the fertile lands. One faintly trodden path led from the bars of the lane the girls were in toward Mr. Cragg's five acres of stones, but amid the jumble of rocks it would be difficult to walk at all.

"This is an odd freak of nature," remarked Josie, gazing at the waste with a puzzled expression. "It is easy to understand why Mr. Cragg hasn't sold this lot, as he did all his other land. No one would buy it."

"Haven't the stones a value, for building or something?" asked Mary Louise.

"Not in this location, so far from a railway. In my judgment the tract is absolutely worthless. I wonder that so economical a man as Mr. Cragg pays taxes on it."

They went no farther than the edge of the rock-strewn field, for there was nothing more to see. Up the slope of the hill, on the far side from where they stood, were jumbled masses of huge slabs and boulders that might be picturesque but were not especially interesting. The girls turned and retraced their steps to the neglected lane and from thence reached the main road again.

"I have now satisfied myself on two counts," was Josie's comment. "First, that Mr. Cragg owns no property but this stone-yard and his little home, and second, that within the last forty years he has at different times disposed of seventy thousand dollars worth of land left him by his father. The county records prove that. The last sale was made about four years ago, so he has consistently turned all his real estate into ready money."

"What can he have done with so much money?" exclaimed Mary Louise.

"Ah, that is part of the mystery, my dear. If he still has it, then the man is a miser. If he has lost it, he is a gambler, which is just about as bad. Either way, Hezekiah Cragg is not entitled to our admiration, to say the least. Let us admit that in a big city a man might lose seventy thousand dollars in business ventures without exciting adverse criticism except for a lack of judgment; but Old Swallowtail has never left Cragg's Crossing, according to all reports, and I'm sure there is no way for him to squander a fortune here."

"I think he must be a miser," said Mary Louise with conviction. "Ingua once told me of seeing lots of money pass between him and Mr. Joselyn. And -- tell me, Josie -- what is all his voluminous correspondence about?"

"I'm going to investigate that presently," replied her friend. "It isn't quite in line yet but will come pretty soon. To-morrow I shall call upon Old Swallowtail at his office."

"Shall you, really? And may I go with, you, Josie?"

"Not this time. You'd spoil my excuse, you see, for you are going to discharge your sewing-girl, and your sewing-girl is going to apply to Hezekiah Cragg for work. His granddaughter needs some sewing done, by the looks of her wardrobe."

"Oh. Very well. But you will tell me what happens?"

"Of course."

"Once," said Mary Louise, "I proposed going myself to Mr. Cragg, to intercede for Ingua, but the girl thought I would do more harm than good. So I abandoned the idea."

"I think that was wise. I don't expect to get much out of the man except an interview, with a chance to study him at close range. Also I'm anxious to see what that mysterious office looks like."

Mary Louise regarded her friend admiringly.

"You're very brave, Josie," she said.

"Pooh! There's no danger. One of the first things father taught me about the detective business was that all men belong to one tribe, and the criminal is inevitably a coward at heart. Old Swallowtail may be afraid of me, before I'm through with this case, but whether he proves guilty or innocent I shall never fear him a particle."

"Have you any theory, as yet, Josie?"

"No. Theories are dangerous things and never should be indulged in until backed by facts."

"But do not theories often lead to facts? And how about those 'O'Gorman theories' you mentioned, which you were eager to test?"

"Those are mere theories of investigation -- methods to be pursued in certain situations. I believe I shall be able to test some of them in this case. My plan is to find out all I can about everyone and everything, and then marshal my facts against the question involved. If there is no answer, I've got to learn more. If I can't learn more, then the whole thing becomes mere guesswork -- in other words, theory -- more likely to be wrong than right."

Mary Louise seldom argued with Josie's decisions. When, the next morning, her friend started for the village to call upon Old Swallowtail, she pressed her hand and wished her good luck. Josie departed in her plain gingham dress, shoes run over at the heels, hair untidy and uncovered by hat or hood -- a general aspect of slovenly servitude.

Mr. Cragg was never an early riser. He breakfasted at eight o'clock and at half past eight stalked with stiff dignity to town and entered his office without deigning to recognize any villagers he might meet. Josie was aware of this habit. She timed her visit for half-past ten.

Unnoticed she passed through the village street and crept up the stairs at the end of the store building. Before the door marked "H. Cragg, Real Estate" she paused to listen. No sound came from within, but farther along the passage she heard the dull rumble of Miss Huckins' sewing machine.

For once Josie hesitated, but realizing that hesitation meant weakness on such an errand she boldly thrust out a hand and attempted to turn the doorknob.



Chapter XIII Bluff And Rebuff

The door was locked. Immediately Josie pounded upon it with her knuckles and a voice demanded:

"Who is there?"

Instead of replying, Josie knocked again, and suddenly the door was opened and Old Swallowtail stood before her.

"I -- I beg your pardon," said she diffidently; "are you the real estate man?"

"Yes," he replied, standing quietly in the doorway.

"Then you're the man I want to see," she asserted and took a step forward. But he did not move an inch from his position and his eyes were fixed steadfastly on her face.

"I have nothing to sell, at present," he remarked.

"But I want to give you something to sell," she retorted impatiently, summoning her wits to meet the occasion. "Let me in, please. Or do you transact all your business in the hallway?"

Somewhat to her surprise he stepped back and held the door for her to enter. Josie promptly walked in and sat down near a round table, one comprehensive glance fixing in her mind the entire contents of the small room.

There was one window, dim and unwashed, facing the street. It had a thick shade, now raised. Originally the room had been square, and rather crudely plastered and wallpapered, but a wooden partition had afterward been erected to cut the room into two, so that the portion she had entered was long and narrow. Its sole furniture consisted of the round table, quite bare, two or three wooden-bottomed chairs, and against one wall a rack filled with books. During the interview she noted that these books were mostly directories of the inhabitants of various prominent cities in the United States, and such a collection astonished her and aroused her curiosity.

Just at present, however, the partition proved the most interesting thing she observed, for beyond it must be another room which was doubtless the particular sanctum of Old Swallowtail and to which she scarcely expected to gain admittance. The door was closed. It was stout and solid and was fitted with both an ordinary door-lock and a hasp and padlock, the latter now hanging on a nail beside the door.

This much Josie's sharp eyes saw in her first glance, but immediately her attention was demanded by Mr. Cragg, who took a seat opposite her and said in a quiet, well modulated voice: "Now, my girl, state your business." She had planned to tell him how she had come to town to sew for Mary Louise Burrows, how she had now finished her work but was so charmed with Cragg's Crossing that she did not care to leave it during the hot weather to return to the stuffy city. Therefore, she intended to add, if he would let her make some new dresses for Ingua, she would work for half her regular wages. Her dress as a sewing-girl would carry out this deception and the bait of small wages ought to interest the old man. But this clever plan had suddenly gone glimmering, for in order to gain admittance to the office and secure an interview with Old Swallowtail she had inadvertently stated that she had some real estate to dispose of. So sudden a change of base required the girl to think quickly in order to formulate a new argument that would hold his attention.

To gain time she said, slowly:

"My name is Josie Jessup. I'm a sewing-girl by profession."

"Yes, I know," he replied.

"I've been here ten days or so, working for Miss Burrows."

"I have seen you here," said Mr. Cragg.

She wondered how he knew so much, as he had never seemed to favor her with even a glance when by chance they met in the street. But perhaps Ingua had told him.

"I like Cragg's Crossing," continued Josie, assuming a confidential tone, "and I've made up my mind I'd like to live here. There ought to be plenty of work sewing for the farmers' wives, outside of what Miss Huckins does, and it don't cost much to live in a small town. In the city I own a little house and lot left to me by my uncle on my mother's side, and I've decided to trade it for some place here. Don't you know, sir, of someone who'd like to move to the city, and will be glad to make the exchange?"

"I know of no such person," he replied coldly.

"But you will make inquiries?"

"It would be useless. I am very busy to-day, so if you will excuse me -- "

He rose and bowed.

Josie was disappointed. She decided to revert to her first proposition.

"Doesn't your granddaughter need some sewing done, sir?" she asked, with a frank look from her innocent blue eyes.

He stood still, silently studying her face. With one hand he rubbed his chin gently, as if in thought. Then he said:

"We cannot afford to hire our sewing done, but I thank you for the offer. Good morning, Miss -- Jessup."

Walking to the door he held it open and bowed gravely as she walked out. Next moment she heard the key click as it turned in the lock.

Josie, feeling a sense of failure, slowly went down the stairs, entered the store and perched herself upon the sugar-barrel. Old Sol was waiting on a farmer's wife and only gave the girl a glance.

Josie reflected on her interview with Mr. Cragg while it was fresh in her mind. He was no crude, uneducated country bumpkin, despite his odd ways and peculiar dress. Indeed, the man had astonished her by his courtesy, his correct method of speech, his perfect self-assurance. Her visit was calculated to annoy him and to arouse his impatience. After Ingua's report of him she expected he would become scornful or sarcastic or even exhibit violent anger; yet there had been nothing objectionable in his manner or words. Still, he had dismissed her as abruptly as possible and was not eager to grasp an opportunity to exchange real estate.

"That isn't his business at all," she told herself. "It's merely a blind, although he actually did rent the Kenton Place to Colonel Hathaway...I wonder what he does in that office all day. In the inner room, of course. That is his real workshop...He's quite gentlemanly. He has a certain amount of breeding, which Ingua wholly lacks....He must realize what a crude and uncultured little thing his granddaughter is. Then why hasn't he tried to train her differently?...Really, he quite awed me with his stately, composed manner. No one would expect that sort of man to be a murderer. But -- there! haven't I been warned that the educated gentleman is the worst type of criminal, and the most difficult to detect?"

Sol's customer went away and the old man approached the barrel.

"Well," he said, "wanter buy anything to-day?"

"No," said Josie pleasantly, "this is only a social call. I've just come from Old Swallow-tail's office and thought a word with you would cheer me up."

"You! You be'n to Ol' Swallertail's office! Sakes alive, gal, I wouldn't dare do that myself."

"Why not?"

"He goes crazy when he gits mad."

"Are you sure of that?"

"Ev'rybody here knows it, from the three-year-olds up. What did ye go to him for?"

"A little matter of business."

"An' he slammed the door in yer face?"

"No, indeed."

"That's funny," said old Sol, rubbing his forehead in a perplexed way.

"He was very decent to me," continued Josie. "Acted like a gentleman. Talked as if he'd been to school, you know."

"School? Well, I should say he had!" exclaimed the storekeeper. "Ol' Swallertail's the most eddicated man in these 'ere parts, I guess. Ol' Nick Cragg, his daddy, wanted for him to be a preacher -- or a priest, most likely -- an' when he was a boy his ol' man paid good money to hev him eddicated at a the -- at a theo -- at a collidge. But Hezekiah wa'n't over-religious, an' 'lowed he didn't hev no call to preach; so that's all the good the eddication ever done him."

"You've never felt the need of an education, have you?" asked the girl, artlessly.

"Me? Well, I ain't sayin' as I got no eddication, though I don't class myself in book-l'arnin' with Ol' Swallertail. Three winters I went to school, an' once I helped whip the school-teacher. Tain't ev'ry one has got that record. But eddication means more'n books; it means keepin' yer eyes open an' gitt'n' onter the tricks o' yer trade. Ev'ry time I git swindled, I've l'arned somethin', an' if I'd started this store in New York instid o' Cragg's Crossin', they might be runnin' me fer president by this time."

"But what could Cragg's Crossing have done without you?" inquired Josie. "It seems to me you're needed here."

"Well, that's worth thinkin' on," admitted the storekeeper. "And as for Old Swallowtail, he may have learned some tricks of his trade too. But I don't know what his trade is."

"Nobody knows that. I don't b'lieve that business o' his'n is a trade at all; I'll bet it's a steal, whatever its other name happens to be."

"But he doesn't prosper."

"No; he ain't got much t' show fer all these years. Folks used to think he'd got money saved from the sale of his land, till Ned Joselyn come here an' dallied with Ol' Swallertail's savin's an' then took to the woods. It's gener'ly b'lieved that what Cragg had once Ned's got now; but it don't matter much. Cragg hain't got long ter live an' his feed don't cost him an' his little gal much more'n it costs to feed my cat."

There was no further information to be gleaned from Sol Jerrems, so Josie walked home.



Chapter XIV Midnight Vigils

"Well, how is our girl detective progressing in her discovery of crime and criminals?" asked Colonel Hathaway that evening, as they sat in the living-room after dinner.

"Don't call me a girl detective, please," pleaded Josie O'Gorman. "I'm only an apprentice at the trade, Colonel, and I have never realized more than I do at this moment the fact that I've considerable to learn before I may claim membership with the profession."

"Then you're finding your present trail a difficult one to follow?"

"I believe my stupidity is making it difficult," admitted Josie, with a sigh. "Father would scold me soundly if he knew how foolishly I behaved to-day. There was every opportunity of my forcing a clew by calling unexpectedly on Mr. Cragg at his office, but he defeated my purpose so easily that now I'm wondering if he suspects who I am, and why I'm here. He couldn't have been more cautious."

"He could scarcely suspect that," said the Colonel, musingly. "But I've noticed that these simple country people are chary of confiding in strangers."

"Ah, if Mr. Cragg were only that -- a simple, unlettered countryman, as I thought him -- I should know how to win his confidence. But, do you know, sir, he is well educated and intelligent. Once he studied for the priesthood or ministry, attending a theological college."

"Indeed!"

"My informant, the village authority -- who is Sol Jerrems the storekeeper -- says he objected to becoming a priest at the last because he had no leaning that way. My own opinion is that he feared his ungovernable temper would lead to his undoing. I am positive that his hysterical fury, when aroused, has gotten him into trouble many times, even in this patient community."

"That's it," said Mary Louise with conviction; "his temper has often made him cruel to poor Ingua, and perhaps his temper caused unfortunate Ned Joselyn to disappear."

"Have you discovered anything more than you have told me?" she asked.

"Not a thing," replied Mary Louise. "I'm waiting for you to make discoveries, Josie."

"A puzzle that is readily solved," remarked the Colonel, picking up his book, "is of little interest. The obstacles you are meeting, Josie, incline me to believe you girls have unearthed a real mystery. It is not a mystery of the moment, however, so take your time to fathom it. The summer is young yet."

Josie went to her room early, saying she was tired, but as soon as she was alone and free she slipped on a jacket and stealthily left the house. Down the driveway she crept like a shadow, out through the gates, over the bridge, and then she turned down the pathway leading to Old Swallowtail's cottage.

"The stepping-stones are a nearer route," she reflected, "but I don't care to tackle them in the dark."

The cottage contained but three rooms. The larger one downstairs was a combination kitchen and dining room. A small wing, built upon one side, was used by Mr. Cragg for his private apartment, but its only outlet was through the main room. At the back was a lean-to shed, in which was built a narrow flight of stairs leading to a little room in the attic, where Ingua slept. Josie knew the plan of the house perfectly, having often visited Ingua during the day when her grandfather was absent and helped her sweep and make the beds and wash the dishes.

To-night Josie moved noiselessly around the building, satisfied herself that Ingua was asleep and that Mr. Cragg was still awake, and then strove to peer through the shuttered window to discover what the old man was doing.

She found this impossible. Although the weather was warm the window was tightly shut and a thick curtain was drawn across it.

Josie slipped over to the river bank and in the shadow of a tree sat herself down to watch and wait with such patience as she could muster. It was half past nine o'clock, and Ingua had told her that when her grandfather was wakeful, and indulged in his long walks, he usually left the house between ten o'clock and midnight -- seldom earlier and never later. He would go to bed, the child said, and finding he could not sleep, would again dress and go out into the night, only to return at early morning.

Josie doubted that he ever undressed on such occasions, knowing, as he no doubt did, perfectly well what his program for the night would be. She had decided that the nocturnal excursions were not due to insomnia but were carefully planned to avoid possible observation. When all the countryside was wrapped in slumber the old gentleman stole from his cottage and went -- where? Doubtless to some secret place that had an important bearing on his life and occupation. It would be worth while, Josie believed, to discover the object of these midnight excursions. Ingua claimed that her grandfather's periods of wakeful walking were irregular; sometimes he would be gone night after night, and then for weeks he would remain at home and sleep like other folks.

So Josie was not surprised when old Swallowtail's light was extinguished shortly after ten o'clock and from then until midnight he had not left the house. Evidently this was not one of his "wakeful" periods. The girl's eyes, during this time, never left the door of the cottage. The path to the bridge passed her scarcely five yards distant. Therefore, as Hezekiah Cragg had not appeared, he was doubtless sleeping the sleep of the just -- or the unjust, for all sorts and conditions of men indulge in sleep.

Josie waited until nearly one o'clock. Then she went home, let herself in by a side door to which she had taken the key, and in a few minutes was as sound asleep as Old Swallowtail ought to be.

For three nights in succession the girl maintained this vigil, with no result whatever. It was wearisome work and she began to tire of it. On the fourth day, as she was "visiting" with Ingua, she asked:

"Has your grandfather had any sleepless nights lately?"

"I don't know," was the reply. "But he ain't walked any, as he sometimes does, for I hain't heard him go out."

"Do you always hear him?"

"P'r'aps not always, but most times."

"And does he walk more than one night?" inquired Josie.

"When he takes them fits, they lasts for a week or more," asserted Ingua. "Then, for a long time, he sleeps quiet."

"Will you let me know, the next time he takes to walking?"

"Why?" asked the child, suspiciously.

"It's a curious habit," Josie explained, "and I'd like to know what he does during all those hours of the night."

"He walks," declared Ingua; "and, if he does anything else, it's his own business."

"I've wondered," said Josie impressively, "if he doesn't visit some hidden grave during those midnight rambles."

Ingua shuddered.

"I wish ye wouldn't talk like that," she whispered. "It gives me the creeps."

"Wouldn't you like to know the truth of all this mystery, Ingua?"

"Sometimes I would, an' sometimes I wouldn't. If the truth leaked out, mebbe Gran'dad would git inter a lot o' trouble. I don't want that, Josie. I ain't no cause to love Gran'dad, but he's a Cragg an' I'm a Cragg, an' no Cragg ever went back on the fambly."

It seemed unwise to urge the child further to betray her grandfather, yet for Ingua's sake, if for no other reason, Josie was determined to uncover the hidden life of Hezekiah Cragg.

The following night she watched again at her station by the river bank, and again the midnight hour struck and the old man had not left his cottage. His light was extinguished at eleven o'clock. At twelve-thirty Josie rose from the shadow of the tree and slowly walked to the bridge. There, instead of going home, she turned in the direction of the town.

In the sky were a few stars and the slim crescent of a new moon, affording sufficient light to guide her steps. Crickets chirped and frogs in the marshes sang their hoarse love songs, but otherwise an intense stillness pervaded the countryside. You must not consider Josie O'Gorman an especially brave girl, for she had no thought of fear in such solitary wanderings. Although but seventeen years of age, she had been reared from early childhood in an atmosphere of intrigue and mystery, for her detective father had been accustomed to argue his cases and their perplexities with his only child and for hours at a time he would instruct her in all the details of his profession. It was O'Gorman's ambition that his daughter might become a highly proficient female detective.

"There are so many cases where a woman is better than a man," he would say, "and there is such a lack of competent women in this important and fascinating profession, that I am promoting the interests of both my daughter and the public safety by training Josie to become a good detective."

And the girl, having been her father's confidant since she was able to walk and talk, became saturated with detective lore and only needed practical experience and more mature judgment fully to justify O'Gorman's ambition for her.

However, the shrewd old secret service officer well knew that the girl was not yet ready to be launched into active service. The experience she needed was only to be gained in just such odd private cases as the one on which she was now engaged, so he was glad to let her come to Cragg's Crossing, and Josie was glad to be there. She was only content when "working," and however the Cragg mystery developed or resulted, her efforts to solve it were sure to sharpen her wits and add to her practical knowledge of her future craft.

When she reached the town she found it absolutely deserted. Not a light shone anywhere; no watchman was employed; the denizens of Cragg's Crossing were all in bed and reveling in dreamland.

Josie sat on the bottom stair of the flight leading to the store and removed her shoes. Upstairs the family of Sol Jerrems and Miss Huckins the dressmaker were sleeping and must not be disturbed. The girl made no sound as she mounted the stairs and softly stole to the door of H. Cragg's real estate office. Here it was dark as could be, but Josie drew some skeleton keys from her pocket and slid them, one by one, into the lock. The fourth key fitted; she opened the door silently and having entered the room drew the door shut behind her.

The thick shade was drawn over the window. It was as black here as it was in the hallway. Josie flashed a small searchlight on the door of the connecting room and saw that it was not only locked in the ordinary manner but that the padlock she had noted on her former visit to the room was now inserted in the hasp and formed an additional security against intrusion.

While her electric spotlight played upon this padlock she bent over and examined it swiftly but with care.

"A Yale lock," she muttered. "It can't be picked, but it will delay me for only a few minutes."

Then from her pocket she brought out a small steel hack-saw, and as she could not work the saw and hold the flashlight at the same time she went to the window and removed the heavy shade. The light that now came into the room was dim, but sufficient for her purpose. Returning to the door of the mysterious inner room, the contents of which she had determined to investigate, she seized the padlock firmly with one hand while with the other she began to saw through the steel loop that passed through the hasp.

The sound made by the saw was so slight that it did not worry her, but another sound, of an entirely different character and coming from the hallway, caused her to pause and glance over her shoulder.

Slowly the outer door opened and a form appeared in the doorway. It was a mere shadow, at first, but it deliberately advanced to the table, struck a match and lighted a small kerosene lamp.

She was face to face with Old Swallowtail.



Chapter XV "Old Swallowtail"

Josie was so astonished that she still bent over the lock, motionless, saw in hand. In the instant she made a mental review of her proceedings and satisfied herself that she had been guilty of no professional blunder. The inopportune appearance of Mr. Cragg must be attributed to a blind chance -- to fate. So the first wave of humiliation that swept over her receded as she gathered her wits to combat this unexpected situation.

Mr. Cragg stood by the table looking at her. He was very calm. The discovery of the girl had not aroused that violence of temper for which the old man was noted. Josie straightened up, slipped the saw in her pocket and faced him unflinchingly.

"Won't you sit down?" he said, pointing to a chair beside her. "I would like to know why you have undertaken to rob me."

Josie sat down, her heart bounding with joy. If he mistook her for a thief all was not lost and she would not have to write "finis" as yet to this important case. But she made no answer to his remark; she merely stared at him in a dull, emotionless way that was cleverly assumed.

"I suppose," he continued, "you have been told I am rich -- a miser -- and perhaps you imagine I keep my wealth in that little room, because I have taken pains to secure it from intrusion by prying meddlers. I suspected you, my girl, when you came to see me the other day. Your errand was palpably invented. You wanted to get the lay of the room, in preparation for this night's work. But who told you I was worthy of being robbed? Was it Ingua?"

"No," came a surly reply. "She won't mention you to me."

"Very good. But the neighbors -- the busy-bodies around here? Perhaps old Sol Jerrems has gossiped of my supposed hoard. Is it not so?"

Josie dropped her eyes as if confused but remained silent. The old man seemed to regard her as a curiosity, for his cold gray eyes examined her person with the same expression with which he might have regarded a caged monkey.

"Then you do not wish to confess?"

"What's the use?" she demanded with a burst of impatience. "Haven't you caught me at the job?"

He continued to eye her, reflectively.

"The cities breed felons," he remarked. "It is a pity so young a girl should have chosen so dangerous and disastrous a career. It is inevitably disastrous. How did it happen that Colonel Hathaway allowed you to impose on him?"

"I do sewing," she said doggedly.

"In order to gain entrance to a household, I suppose. But Hathaway is wealthy. Why did you not undertake to rob him, instead of me?"

"One at a time," said Josie, with a short laugh.

"Oh, I understand. You expected to make the small pick-ups and then land the grand coup. The answer is simple, after all. But," he added, his voice growing stern and menacing for the first time, "I do not intend to be robbed, my girl. Fleece Hathaway if you can; it is none of my business; but you must not pry into my personal affairs or rifle my poor rooms. Do you understand me?"

"I -- I think so, sir."

"Avoid me, hereafter. Keep out of my path. The least interference from you, in any way, will oblige me to turn you over to the police."

"You'll let me go, now?"

He glanced at her, frowning.

"I am too much occupied to prosecute you -- unless you annoy me further. Perhaps you have this night learned a lesson that will induce you to abandon such desperate, criminal ventures."

Josie stood up.

"I wish I knew how you managed to catch me," she said, with a sigh.

"You were watching my house to-night, waiting until I was safely in bed before coming here. I happened to leave my room for a little air, and going out my back door I passed around the house and stood at the corner, in deep shade. My eyes were good enough to distinguish a form lurking under the tree by the river bank. I went in, put out my light, and returned to my former position. You watched the house and I watched you. You are not very clever, for all your slyness. You will never be clever enough to become a good thief -- meaning a successful thief. After a half hour I saw you rise and take the path to the village. I followed you. Do you understand now? God has protected the just and humbled the wicked."

That final sentence surprised the girl. Coming from his lips, it shocked her. In his former speech he had not denounced her crime, but only her indiscretion and the folly of her attempt. Suddenly he referred to God as his protector, asserting his personal uprightness as warrant for Divine protection; and, singularly enough, his tone was sincere.

Josie hesitated whether to go or not, for Old Swallowtail seemed in a talkative mood and she had already discovered a new angle to his character. By way of diversion she began to cry.

"I -- I know I'm wicked," she sobbed; "it's wrong to steal; I know it is. But I -- I -- need the money, and you've got lots of it; and -- and -- I thought you must be just as wicked as I am!"

His expression changed to one of grim irony.

"Yes," said he, "by common report I am guilty of every sin in the calendar. Do you know why?"

"No; of course I don't!" she answered, softening her sobs to hear more clearly.

"Years ago, when I was a young man, I stabbed a fellow-student in the neck -- a dreadful wound -- because he taunted me about my mode of dress. I was wearing the only clothes my eccentric father would provide me with. I am wearing the same style of costume yet, as penance for that dastardly act -- caused by an ungovernable temper with which I have been cursed from my birth. I would have entered the service of God had it not been for that temper. I am unable to control it, except by avoiding undue contact with my fellow men. That is why. I am living here, a recluse, when I should be taking an active part in the world's work."

He spoke musingly, as if to himself more than to the girl who hung on each word with eager interest. No one had ever told her as much of Old Swallowtail as he was now telling her of himself. She wondered why he was so confidential. Was it because she seemed dull and stupid? Because she was a stranger who was likely to decamp instantly when he let her go? Or was the retrospective mood due to the hour and the unwonted situation? She waited, scarce breathing lest she lose a word.

"The poor fellow whom I stabbed lived miserably for twenty years afterward," he went on, "and I supported him and his family during that time, for his life had been ruined by my act. Later in life and here at the Crossing, people saw me kill a balky horse in a wild rage, and they have been afraid of me ever since. Even more recently I -- "

He suddenly paused, remembering where he was and to whom he was speaking. The girl's face was perfectly blank when he shot a shrewd glance at it. Her look seemed to relieve his embarrassment.

"However," said he in a different tone, "I am not so black as I'm painted."

"I don't think you treat poor Ingua quite right," remarked Josie.

"Eh? Why not?"

"You neglect her; you don't give her enough to eat; she hasn't a dress fit for a ragamuffin to wear. And she's your granddaughter."

He drew in a long breath, staring hard.

"Has she been complaining?"

"Not to me," said Josie; "but she doesn't need to. Haven't I eyes? Doesn't everyone say it's a shame to treat the poor child the way you do? My personal opinion is that you're a poor excuse for a grandfather," she added, with more spirit than she had yet exhibited.

He sat silent a long time, looking at the lamp. His face was hard; his long, slim fingers twitched as if longing to throttle someone; but he positively ignored Josie's presence. She believed he was struggling to subdue what Ingua called "the devils," and would not have been surprised had-he broken all bounds and tried to do her an injury.

"Go!" he said at last, still without looking at her. "Go, and remember that I will not forgive twice."

She thought it best to obey. Very softly she left the room, and as she passed out he was still staring at the flame of the lamp and alternately clenching and unclenching his talon-like fingers.



Chapter XVI Ingua's New Dress

"Well," said Mary Louise, when Josie had related to her friend the story next morning, "what do you think of Old Swallowtail now?"

"About the same as before. I'm gradually accumulating facts to account for the old man's strange actions, but I'm not ready to submit them for criticism just yet. The plot is still a bit ragged and I want to mend the holes before I spread it out before you."

"Do you think he suspects who you are?"

"No; he thinks I'm a waif from the city with a penchant for burglary. He expects me to rob you, presently, and then run away. I'm so unlikely to cross his path again that he talked with unusual frankness to me -- or at me, if you prefer to put it that way. All I gained last night was the knowledge that he's afraid of himself, that his temper cost him a career in the world and obliged him to live in seclusion and that he has a secret which he doesn't intend any red-headed girl to stumble on accidentally."

"And you think he was angry when you accused him of neglecting Ingua?"

"I'm sure he was. It made him more furious than my attempt to saw his padlock. Come, let's run over and see Ingua now. I want to ask how her grandfather treated her this morning."

They walked through the grounds, crossed the river on the stepping-stones and found Ingua just finishing her morning's work. The child greeted them eagerly.

"I'm glad you come," she said, "for I was meanin' to run over to your place pretty soon. What d'ye think hes happened? Las' night, in the middle o' the night -- or p'r'aps nearer mornin' -- Gran'dad begun to slam things aroun'. The smashin' of tables an' chairs woke me up, but I didn't dare go down to see what was the matter. He tumbled ev'rything 'round in the kitchen an' then went inter his own room an' made the fur fly there. I knew he were in one o' his tantrums an' that he'd be sorry if he broke things, but it wasn't no time to interfere. When the rumpus stopped I went to sleep ag'in, but I got up early an' had his breakfas' all ready when he come from his room. I'd picked up all the stuff he'd scattered an' mended a broken chair, an' things didn't look so bad.

"Well, Ol' Swallertail jes' looked aroun' the room an' then at me an' sot down to eat. 'Ingua,' he says pretty soon,' you need a new dress.' Say, girls, I near fell over backwards! 'Go down to Sol Jerrems,' says he, 'an' pick out the goods, an' I'll pay for it. I'll stop in this mornin' an' tell Sol to let ye have it. An',' says he, lookin' at me ruther queer, 'ye might ask that redheaded sewin'-girl that's stay in' at the Hathaways' to make it up fer ye. I don't think she'll ask ye a cent fer the work.'

"'Gran'dad,' says I, 'would ye hev a Cragg accep' charity, even to the makin' of a dress?'

"' No,' says he; 'the girl owes me somethin' an' I guess she'll be glad to square the account.'

"Then he goes away to town an' I've be'n nervous an' flustered ever since. I can't make it out, I can't. Do you owe him anything, Josie?"

"Yes," said Josie with a laugh, "I believe I do. You shall have the dress, Ingua -- all made up -- and I'll go down with you and help pick out the goods."

"So will I!" exclaimed Mary Louise, highly delighted.

"And we will have Miss Huckins cut and fit it," continued Josie. "I'm not much good at that thing, Ingua, so we will have a real dressmaker and I'll pay her and charge it up to what I owe your grandfather."

The little girl seemed puzzled.

"How'd ye happen to owe him anything, Josie?" she asked.

"Didn't he tell you?"

"Not a word."

"Then he expects it to remain a secret, and you mustn't urge me to tell. I'm pretty good at keeping secrets, Ingua. Aren't you glad of that?"

They trooped away to town, presently, all in high spirits, and purchased the dress and trimmings at the store. Old Sol was so astonished at this transaction that he assailed the three girls with a thousand questions, to none of which did he receive a satisfactory reply.

"He didn't put no limit on the deal," said the storekeeper. "He jus' said: 'Whatever the gal picks out, charge it to me an' I'll pay the bill.' Looks like Ol' Swallertail hed gone plumb crazy, don't it?"

Then they went upstairs to Miss Huckins, who was likewise thrilled with excitement at the startling event of Ingua's having a new dress. Mary Louise and Josie helped plan the dress, which was to be a simple and practical affair, after all, and the dressmaker measured the child carefully and promised her a fitting the very next day.

"I don't quite understan'," remarked Ingua, as they walked home after this impressive ceremony, "why you don't make the dress yourself, Josie, an' save yer money. You're a dressmaker, ye say."

"I'm a sewing-girl," replied Josie calmly, "but I've promised Mary Louise to sew for no one but her while I'm here, and I'm too lazy to sew much, anyway. I'm having a sort of vacation, you know."

"Josie is my friend," explained Mary Louise, "and I won't let her sew at all, if I can help it. I want her to be just my companion and have a nice visit before she goes back to the city."

But when the two girls were alone Josie said to Mary Louise:

"Old Cragg isn't so stony-hearted, after all. Just my suggestion last night that Ingua was being neglected has resulted in the new dress."

"He threw things, though, before he made up his mind to be generous," observed Mary Louise. "But this proves that the old man isn't so very poor. He must have a little money, Josie."

Josie nodded her head absently. She was trying hard to understand Mr. Cragg's character, and so far it baffled her. He had frankly admitted his ungovernable temper and had deplored it. Also he had refrained from having Josie arrested for burglary because he was "too occupied to prosecute her." Occupied? Occupied with what? Surely not the real estate business. She believed the true reason for her escape was that he dreaded prominence. Old Swallowtail did not wish to become mixed up with police courts any more than he could help. This very occurrence made her doubt him more than ever.



Chapter XVII A Clew At Last

That night Josie resumed her watch of Cragg's cottage. She did not trust to the shadow of the tree to conceal her but hid herself under the bank of the river, among the dry stones, allowing only her head to project above the embankment and selecting a place where she could peer through some low bushes.

She suspected that the excitement of the previous night might render the old man nervous and wakeful and send him out on one of his midnight prowls. This suspicion seemed justified when, at eleven-thirty, his light went out and a few minutes later he turned the corner of the house and appeared in the path.

He did not seem nervous, however. With hands clasped behind his back and head bowed, he leisurely paced the path to the bridge, without hesitation crossed the river and proceeded along the road in a direction opposite to the village.

Josie was following, keeping herself concealed with utmost care. She remembered that his eyes were sharp in penetrating shadows.

He kept along the main country road for a time and then turned to the right and followed an intersecting road. Half a mile in this direction brought him to a lane running between two farm tracts but which was so little used that grass and weeds had nearly obliterated all traces of wagon-wheels.

By this time Josie's eyes were so accustomed to the dim moonlight that she could see distinctly some distance ahead of her. The sky was clear; there was just enough wind to rustle the leaves of the trees. Now and then in some farmyard a cock would crow or a dog bark, but no other sounds broke the stillness of the night.

The girl knew now where Old Swallowtail was bound. At the end of this lane lay his five acres of stones, and he was about to visit it. The fact gave her a queer little thrill of the heart, for a dozen strange fancies crossed her mind in rapid succession. If he had really killed Ned Joselyn, it was probable he had buried the man in this neglected place, amongst the rubble of stones. Josie had inspected every foot of ground on the Kenton Place and satisfied herself no grave had been dug there. Indeed, at the time of Joselyn's "disappearance" the ground had been frozen so hard that the old man could not have dug a grave. Perhaps after a night or two he had dragged the corpse here and covered it with stones. It would be a safe hiding-place.

And now regret for his act drove the murderer here night after night to watch over the secret grave.

Or, granting that the supposed crime had not been committed, might not Mr. Cragg have discovered some sort of mineral wealth in his stone-yard, which would account for his paying taxes on the place and visiting it so often? Or did he simply love the solitude of the dreary waste where, safe from prying eyes, he could sit among the rocky boulders and commune with himself beneath the moonlit sky?

Such conjectures as these occupied the girl's mind while she stealthily "shadowed" the old man along the lane. Never once did he look behind him, although she was prepared to dissolve from view instantly, had he done so. And at last the end of the lane was reached and he climbed the rail fence which separated it from the valley of stones.

Josie saw him suddenly pause, motionless, as he clung to the rails. She guessed from his attitude that he was staring straight ahead of him at something that had surprised him. A full minute he remained thus before he let himself down on the other side and disappeared from view.

The girl ran lightly forward and, crouching low, peered through the bars of the fence. Half a dozen paces distant the old man stood among the stones in a silent paroxysm of rage. He waved his long arms in the air, anon clenching his fists and shaking them at some object beyond him. His frail old body fluttered back and forth, right and left, as if he were doing a weird dance among the rocks. The violence of his emotion was something terrible to witness and fairly startled the girl. Had he screamed, or sobbed, or shrieked, or moaned, the scene would have been more bearable, but such excess of silent, intense rage, made her afraid for the first time in her life.

She wanted to run away. At one time she actually turned to fly; but then common sense came to her rescue and she resolved to stay and discover what had affected Old Swallowtail so strongly. From her present position she could see nothing more than a vista of tumbled stones, but rising until her head projected above the topmost rail she presently saw, far across the valley, an automobile, standing silhouetted against the gray background.

The machine was at present vacant. It had been driven in from the other side of the valley, where doubtless there were other lanes corresponding with the one she was in. However, there was no fence on that side to separate the lane from the waste tract, so the machine had been driven as close as possible to the edge of the stones.

Although the automobile was deserted, that was evidently the object which had aroused old Cragg's fury, the object at which he was even yet shaking his clenched fists. Josie wondered and watched. Gradually the paroxysm of wrath diminished. Presently the old man stood as motionless as the stones about him. Five minutes, perhaps, he remained thus, controlling himself by a mighty effort, regaining his capacity to think and reason. Then, to the girl's amazement, he tottered toward a large, shelf-like slab of stone and kneeling down, as before an altar, he bared his head, raised his arms on high and began to pray.

There was no mistaking this attitude. Old Swallowtail was calling on God to support him in this hour of trial. Josie felt something clutching at her heart. Nothing could be more impressive than this scene -- this silent but earnest appeal to the Most High by the man whom she suspected of murder -- of crimes even more terrible. She could see his eyes, pleading and sincere, turned upward; could see his gray hair flutter in the breeze; could see his lips move, though they uttered no sound. And after he had poured out his heart to his Maker he extended his arms upon the slab, rested his head upon them and again became motionless.

The girl waited. She was sorely troubled, surprised, even humiliated at being the witness of this extraordinary and varied display of emotion. She felt a sense of intrusion that was almost unjustifiable, even in a detective. What right had anyone to spy upon a communion between God and man?

He rose, at length, rose and walked uncertainly forward, stumbling among the ragged rocks. He made for the far hillside that was cluttered with huge fragments of stone, some weighing many tons and all tumbled helter-skelter as if aimlessly tossed there by some giant hand. And when he reached the place he threaded his way between several great boulders and suddenly disappeared.

Josie hesitated a moment what to do, yet instinct urged her to follow. She had a feeling that she was on the verge of an important discovery, that events were about to happen which had been wholly unforeseen even by old Cragg himself.

She was taking a serious risk by venturing on the stony ground, for under the moonlight her dark form would show distinctly against the dull gray of the stones. Yet she climbed the fence and with her eye fixed on the cluster of rocks where Old Swallowtail had disappeared she made her way as best she could toward the place. Should the old man reappear or the owner of the strange automobile emerge from the rocks Josie was sure to be discovered, and there was no telling what penalty she might be obliged to pay for spying. It was a dreary, deserted place; more than one grave might be made there without much chance of detection.

In a few minutes she had reached the hillside and was among the great boulders. She passed between the same ones where Mr. Cragg had disappeared but found so many set here and there that to follow his trail was impossible unless chance led her aright.

There were no paths, for a rubble of small stones covered the ground everywhere. Between some of the huge rocks the passage was so narrow she could scarcely squeeze through; between others there was ample space for two people to walk abreast. The girl paused frequently to listen, taking care the while to make no sound herself, but an intense silence pervaded the place.

After wandering here and there for a time without result she had started to return to the entrance of this labyrinth when her ears for the first time caught a sound -- a peculiar grinding, thumping sound that came from beneath her feet seemingly, and was of so unusual a character that she was puzzled to explain its cause.

The shadows cast by the towering rocks rendered this place quite dark, so Josie crouched in the deepest shade she could find and listened carefully to the strange sound, trying to determine its origin. It was surely under ground -- a little to the right of her -- perhaps beneath the hillside, which slanted abruptly from this spot. She decided there must be some secret passage that led to a cave under the hill. Such a cave might be either natural or artificial; in either case she was sure old Cragg used it as a rendezvous or workshop and visited it stealthily on his "wakeful" nights.

Having located the place to the best of her ability Josie began to consider what caused that regular, thumping noise, which still continued without intermission.

"I think it must be some sort of an engine," she reflected; "a stamp for ore, or something of that sort. Still, it isn't likely there is any steam or electrical power to operate the motor of so big a machine. It might be a die stamp, though, operated by foot power, or -- this is most likely -- a foot-power printing-press. Well, if a die stamp or a printing press, I believe the mystery of Old Swallowtail's 'business' is readily explained."

She sat still there, crouching between the rocks, for more than two hours before the sound of the machine finally ceased. Another hour passed in absolute silence. She ventured to flash her pocket searchlight upon the dial of her watch and found it was nearly four o'clock. Dawn would come, presently, and then her situation would be more precarious than ever.

While she thus reflected the sound of footsteps reached her ears -- very near to her, indeed -- and a voice muttered:

"Come this way. Have you forgotten?"

"Forgotten? I found the place, didn't I?" was the surly reply.

Then there passed her, so closely that she could have touched them, three dim forms. She watched them go and promptly followed, taking the chance of discovery if they looked behind. They were wholly unconscious of her presence, however, and soon made their way out into the open. There they paused, and Josie, hiding behind a high rock, could both see and hear them plainly.

One was old Cragg; another a tall, thin man with a monocle in his left eye; the third, she found to her surprise, was none other than Jim Bennett the postman. The tall man held in his arms a heavy bundle, securely wrapped.

"You'll surely get them off to-morrow?" said Cragg to him,

"Of course," was the answer. "You may be certain I'll not have them on my hands longer than is necessary."

"Do you mean to play square, this time?"

"Don't be a fool," said the tall man impatiently. "Your infernal suspicions have caused trouble enough, during the past year. Hidden like a crab in your shell, you think everything on the outside is going wrong. Can't you realize, Cragg, that I must be loyal to C. I. L.? There's no question of my playing square; I've got to."

"That's right, sir," broke in Jim Bennett. "Seems to me he's explained everything in a satisfactory manner -- as far as anyone could explain."

"Then good night," said Cragg, gruffly, "and -- good luck."

"Good night," growled the tall man in return and made off in the direction of the automobile, carrying the package with him. The other two stood silently watching him until he reached the car, took his seat and started the motor. Presently the machine passed out of sight and then Bennett said in a tone of deepest respect:

"Good night, Chief. This meeting was a great thing for C. I. L. It brings us all nearer to final success."

"I wish I could trust him," replied Cragg, doubtfully. "Good night, Jim."

The postman made off in another direction and the old man waited until he had fully disappeared before he walked away over the stones himself. Josie let him go. She did not care to follow him home. Weary though she was from her long vigil she determined to examine the rocks by daylight before she left the place.

The sun was just showing its rim over the hills when she quitted Hezekiah Cragg's five acres of stones and took the lane to the highway. But her step was elastic, her eyes bright, her face smiling.

"I've found the entrance, though I couldn't break in," she proudly murmured. "But a little dynamite -- or perhaps a few blows of an axe --  will soon remove the barrier. This affair, however, is now too big and too serious for me to handle alone. I must have help. I think it will amaze dear old Dad to know what I've stumbled on this night!"



Chapter XVIII Doubts And Suspicions

Mary Louise entered her friend's room at seven o'clock and exclaimed: "Not up yet?"

Josie raised her head drowsily from the pillow.

"Let me sleep till noon," she pleaded. "I've been out all night."

"And did you learn anything?" was the eager question.

"Please let me sleep!"

"Shall I send you up some breakfast, Josie?"

"Breakfast? Bah!"

She rolled over, drawing the clothes about her, and Mary Louise softly left the darkened room and went down to breakfast.

"Gran'pa Jim," said she, thoughtfully buttering her toast, "do you think it's right for Josie to be wandering around in the dead of night?"

He gave her an odd look and smiled.

"If I remember aright, it was one Miss Mary Louise Burrows who thrust Josie into this vortex of mystery."

"You didn't answer my question, Gran'pa Jim."

"I can imagine no harm, to girl or man, in being abroad in this peaceful country at night, if one has the nerve to undertake it. You and I, dear, prefer our beds. Josie is wrapped up in the science of criminal investigation and has the enthusiasm of youth to egg her on. Moreover, she is sensible enough to know what is best for her. I do not think we need worry over her nightly wanderings, which doubtless have an object. Has she made any important discovery as yet?"

"I believe not," said Mary Louise. "She has learned enough to be positive that old Mr. Cragg is engaged in some secret occupation of an illegal character, but so far she is unable to determine what it is. He's a very queer old man, it seems, but shrewd and clever enough to keep his secret to himself."

"And how about the disappearance of Mr. Joselyn?"

"We're divided in opinion about that," said the girl. "Ingua and I both believe Mr. Cragg murdered him, but Josie isn't sure of it. If he did, however, Josie thinks we will find the poor man's grave somewhere under the stones of the river bed. There was no grave dug on our grounds, that is certain."

Colonel Hathaway regarded her seriously.

"I am sorry, Mary Louise," he remarked, "that we ever decided to mix in this affair. I did not realize, when first you proposed having Josie here, that the thing might become so tragic."

"It has developed under investigation, you see," she replied. "But I am not very sure of Josie's ability, because she is not very sure of it herself. She dare not, even yet, advance a positive opinion. Unless she learned something last night she is still groping in the dark."

"We must give her time," said the Colonel.

"We have accomplished some good, however," continued the girl. "Ingua is much happier and more content. She is improving in her speech and manners and is growing ambitious to become a respectable and refined young lady. She doesn't often give way to temper, as she used to do on every occasion, and I am sure if she could be removed from her grandfather's evil influence she would soon develop in a way to surprise us all."

"Does her grandfather's influence seem to be evil, then?" asked the Colonel.

"He has surrounded her with privations, if not with actual want," said she. "Only the night before last he was in such a violent rage that he tried to smash everything in the house. That is surely an evil example to set before the child, who has a temper of her own, perhaps inherited from him. He has, however, bought her a new dress -- the first one she has had in more than a year -- so perhaps the old man at times relents toward his granddaughter and tries to atone for his shortcomings."

Gran'pa Jim was thoughtful for a time.

"Perhaps," he presently remarked, "Mr. Cragg has but little money to buy dresses with. I do not imagine that a man so well educated as you report him to be would prefer to live in a hovel, if he could afford anything better."

"If he is now poor, what has he done with all his money?" demanded Mary Louise.

"That is a part of the mystery, isn't it? Do you know, my dear, I can't help having a kindly thought for this poor man; perhaps because he is a grandfather and has a granddaughter -- just as I have."

"He doesn't treat her in the same way, Gran'pa Jim," said she, with a loving look toward the handsome old Colonel.

"And there is a perceptible difference between Ingua and Mary Louise," he added with a smile.

They were to have Ingua's dress fitted by Miss Huckins that morning, and as Josie was fast asleep Mary Louise went across to the cottage to go with the girl on her errand. To her surprise she found old Mr. Cragg sitting upon his little front porch, quite motionless and with his arms folded across his chest. He stared straight ahead and was evidently in deep thought. This was odd, because he was usually at his office an hour or more before this time.

Mary Louise hesitated whether to advance or retreat. She had never as yet come into personal contact with Ingua's grandfather and, suspecting him of many crimes, she shrank from meeting him now. But she was herself in plain sight before she discovered his presence and it would be fully as embarrassing to run away as to face him boldly. Moreover, through the open doorway she could see Ingua passing back and forth in the kitchen, engaged in her customary housework. So on she came.

Mr. Cragg had not seemed to observe her, at first, but as she now approached the porch he rose from his chair and bowed with a courtly grace that astonished her. In many ways his dignified manners seemed to fit his colonial costume.

"You will find Ingua inside, I believe," he said.

"I -- I am Mary Louise Burrows."

Again he bowed.

"I am glad to meet you, Miss Burrows. And I am glad that you and Ingua are getting acquainted," he rejoined, in even, well modulated tones. "She has not many friends and her association with you will be sure to benefit her."

Mary Louise was so amazed that she fairly gasped.

"I -- I like Ingua," she said. "We're going into town to have her new dress tried on this morning."

He nodded and resumed his chair. His unexpected politeness gave her courage.

"It's going to be a pretty dress," she continued, "and, if only she had a new hat to go with it, Ingua would have a nice outfit. She needs new shoes, though," as an afterthought, "and perhaps a few other little things -- like stockings and underwear."

He was silent, wholly unresponsive to her suggestion.

"I -- I'd like to buy them for her myself," went on the girl, in a wistful tone, "only Ingua is so proud that she won't accept gifts from me."

Still he remained silent.

"I wonder," she said, with obvious hesitation, "if you would allow me to give you the things, sir, and then you give them to Ingua, as if they came from yourself."

"No!" It was a veritable explosion, so fierce that she started back in terror. Then he rose from his chair, abruptly quitted the porch and walked down the path toward the bridge in his accustomed deliberate, dignified manner.

Ingua, overhearing his ejaculation, came to the open window to see what had caused it.

"Oh, it's you, Mary Louise, is it?" she exclaimed. "Thank goodness, you've drove Gran'dad off to the office. I thought he'd planted himself in that chair for the whole day."

"Are you ready to go to Miss Huckins'?" asked Mary Louise.

"I will be, in a few minutes. Gran'dad was late gett'n' up this mornin' and that put things back. He had the 'wakes' ag'in last night."

"Oh; did he walk out, then?"

"Got back at about daylight and went to bed. That's why he slep' so late."

Mary Louise reflected that in such a case Josie ought to have some news to tell her. She answered Ingua's inquiries after Josie by saying she was engaged this morning and would not go to town with them, so presently the two girls set off together. Mary Louise was much better qualified to direct the making of the new dress than was Josie, and she gave Miss Huckins some hints on modern attire that somewhat astonished the country dressmaker but were gratefully received. There was no question but that Mary Louise was stylishly, if simply, dressed on all occasions, and so Miss Huckins was glad to follow the young girl's advice.

They were in the dressmaker's shop a long time, fitting and planning, and when at length they came down the stairs they saw Sol Jerrems standing in his door and closely scrutinizing through his big horn spectacles something he held in his hand. As Mary Louise wished to make a slight purchase at the store she approached the proprietor, who said in a puzzled tone of voice:

"I dunno what t' say to you folks, 'cause I'm up in the air. This money may be genooine, but it looks to me like a counterfeit," and he held up a new ten-dollar bill.

"I want a roll of tape, please," said Mary Louise. "I hope your money is good, Mr. Jerrems, but its value cannot interest us."

"I dunno 'bout that," he replied, looking hard at Ingua, "Ol' Swallertail gimme this bill, not ten minutes ago, an' said as his gran'darter was to buy whatever she liked, as fur as the money would go. That order was so queer that it made me suspicious. See here: a few days ago ol' Cragg bought Ingua a dress -- an' paid for it, by gum! -- an' now he wants her t' git ten dollars' wuth o' shoes an' things! Don't that look mighty strange?"

"Why?" asked Mary Louise.

"'Cause it's the first money he's spent on the kid since I kin remember, an' he's allus talkin' poverty an' says how he'll die in the poorhouse if prices keep goin' up, as they hev durin' the furrin war that's now hummin' acrost the water. If he's that poor, an' on a sudden springs a ten-dollar bill on me for fixin's fer his kid, there's sure somethin' wrong somewhere. I got stuck on a bill jus' like this a year ago, an' I ain't goin' to let any goods go till I find out for sure whether it's real money or not."

"When can you find out?" inquired Mary Louise.

"To-morrer there's a drummer due here f'm the city -- a feller keen as a razor -- who'll know in a minute if the bill is a counterfeit. If he says it's good, then Ingua kin trade it out, but I ain't goin' to take no chances."

Ingua came close to the storekeeper, her face dark with passion.

"Come," said Mary Louise, taking the child's arm, "let us go home. I am sure Mr. Jerrems is over particular and that the money is all right. But we can wait until to-morrow, easily. Come, Ingua."

The child went reluctantly, much preferring to vent her indignation on old Sol. Mary Louise tried to get her mind off the insult.

"We'll have the things, all right, Ingua," she said. "Wasn't it splendid in your grandfather to be so generous, when he has so little money to spend? And the ten dollars will fit you up famously. I wish, though," she added, "there was another or a better store at the Crossing at which to trade."

"Well, there ain't," observed Ingua, "so we hev to put up with that Sol Jerrems. When I tell Gran'dad about this business I bet he'll punch Sol Jerrems' nose."

"Don't tell him," advised Mary Louise.

"Why not?"

"I think he gave this money to Mr. Jerrems on a sudden impulse. Perhaps, if there is any question about its being genuine, he will take it back, and you will lose the value of it. Better wait until to-morrow, when of course the drummer will pronounce it all right. My opinion is that Mr. Jerrems is so unused to new ten dollar bills that having one makes him unjustly suspicious."

"I guess yer right," said Ingua more cheerfully. "It's amazin' that Gran'dad loosened up at all. An' he might repent, like you say, an' take the money back. So I'll be like ol' Sol -- I'll take no chances."



Chapter XIX Good Money For Bad

At luncheon Josie appeared at the table, fresh as ever, and Mary Louise began to relate to her and to her grandfather the occurrences of the morning. When she came to tell how Sol Jerrems had declared the money counterfeit, Josie suddenly sprang up and swung her napkin around her head, shouting gleefully:

"Glory hallelujah! I've got him. I've trapped Old Swallowtail at last."

They looked at her in amazement.

"What do you mean?" asked Mary Louise.

Josie sobered instantly.

"Forgive me," she said; "I'm ashamed of myself. Go on with the story. What became of that counterfeit bill?"

"Mr. Jerrems has it yet. He is keeping it to show to a commercial traveler, who is to visit his store to-morrow. If the man declares the money is good, then Ingua may buy her things."

"We won't bother the commercial traveler," said Josie, in a tone of relief. "I'm going straight down to the store to redeem that bill. I want it in my possession."

Colonel Hathaway regarded her gravely.

"I think our female detective, having said so much and having exhibited such remarkable elation, must now explain her discoveries to us more fully," said he.

"I'd rather not, just yet," protested Josie. "But what have I said in my madness, and what did my words imply?"

"From the little I know of this case," replied the Colonel, "I must judge that you believe Mr. Cragg to be a counterfeiter, and that his mysterious business is -- to counterfeit. In this out-of-the-way place," he continued, thoughtfully, "such a venture might be carried on for a long time without detection. Yet there is one thing that to me forbids this theory."

"What is that, sir?"

"A counterfeiter must of necessity have confederates, and Mr. Cragg seems quite alone in the conduct of his mysterious business."

Josie smiled quite contentedly. Confederates? Last night's discoveries had proved that Old Swallowtail had two of these, at least.

"Please don't lisp a word of this suspicion at present," she warned her friends. "If I am right -- and I have no doubt of that -- we are about to uncover a far-reaching conspiracy to defraud the Government. But the slightest hint of danger would enable them to escape and I want the credit of putting this gang of desperadoes behind the bars. Really, I'd no idea, when I began the investigation, that it would lead to anything so important. I thought, at first, it might be a simple murder case; simple, because the commonest people commit murder, and to the detective the deed is more revolting than exciting. But we may dismiss the murder suspicion entirely."

"Oh, indeed! What about Ned Joselyn's mysterious disappearance?" asked Mary Louise.

"Joselyn? He disappeared for a purpose," answered Josie. "I saw him last night -- monocle and all -- acting as old Cragg's confederate. Ned Joselyn is one of those I hope to land in prison."

Her hearers seemed quite bewildered by this positive statement.

"Where were you last night?" inquired Mary Louise.

"At that five acres of stones we once visited, which is Mr. Cragg's private property. Hidden somewhere in the hillside is a cavern, and in that cavern the counterfeit money is made. I have heard the printing-press turning it out in quantity; I saw Ned Joselyn come away with a package of the manufactured bills and heard Old Swallowtail implore him to 'play square' with the proceeds. There was another of the gang present, also; a man whom I had considered quite an innocent citizen of Cragg's Crossing until I discovered him with the others. I think it was he who operated the press. It has been a very pretty plot, a cleverly conducted plot; and it has been in successful operation for years. But the gang is in the toils, just now, and little redheaded Josie O'Gorman is going to score a victory that will please her detective daddy mightily." Josie was surely elated when she ventured to boast in this manner. The others were duly impressed.

"You don't mean to arrest those men alone, do you, Josie?" asked the Colonel somewhat anxiously.

"No, indeed. I'm not yet quite ready to spring my trap," she replied. "When the time comes, I must have assistance, but I want to get all my evidence shipshape before I call on the Secret Service to make the capture. I can't afford to bungle so important a thing, you know, and this ten dollar bill, so carelessly given the storekeeper, is going to put one powerful bit of evidence in my hands. That was a bad slip on old Cragg's part, for he has been very cautious in covering his tracks, until now. But I surmise that Mary Louise's pleading for Ingua, this morning, touched his pride, and having no real money at hand he ventured to give the storekeeper a counterfeit. And old Sol, having been caught by a counterfeit once before -- I wonder if Old Swallowtail gave him that one, too? -- became suspicious of the newness of the bill and so played directly into our hands. So now, if you'll excuse me, I'll run to town without further delay. I won't rest easy until that bill is in my possession."

"I'll go with you," said Mary Louise eagerly.

Half an hour later the two girls entered the store and found the proprietor alone. Mary Louise made a slight purchase, as an excuse, and then Josie laid ten silver dollars on the counter and said carelessly:

"Will you give me a ten dollar bill for this silver, Mr. Jerrems? I want to send it away in a letter."

"Sure; I'd ruther hev the change than the bill," he answered, taking out his wallet. "But I wouldn't send so much money in a letter, if I was you. Better buy a post-office order."

"I know my business," she pertly replied, watching him unroll the leather wallet. "No; don't give me that old bill. I'd rather have the new one on top."

"That new one," said he, "I don't b'lieve is good. Looks like a counterfeit, to me."

"Let's see it," proposed Josie, taking the bill in her hand and scrutinizing it. "I can tell a counterfeit a mile away. No; this is all right; I'll take it," she decided.

"Yer like to git stung, if ye do," he warned her.

"I'll take my chances," said Josie, folding the bill and putting it in her purse. "You've got good money for it, anyhow, so you've no kick coming, that I can see."

"Why, that must be the bill Mr. Cragg gave you," Mary Louise said to the storekeeper, as if she had just recognized it.

"It is," admitted Sol.

"Then Ingua can now buy her outfit?"

"Any time she likes," he said. "But I want it reg'lar understood that the sewin'-girl can't bring the money back to me, if she finds it bad. I ain't sure it's bad, ye know, but I've warned her, an' now it's her look-out."

"Of course it is," agreed Josie. "But don't worry. The bill is good as gold. I wish I had a hundred like it."

On their way home Josie stopped to call on Ingua, while Mary Louise, at her friend's request, went on.

"I've two important things to tell you," Josie announced to the child. "One is that you needn't worry any more about Ned Joselyn's being dead. A girl whom I know well has lately seen him alive and in good health, so whatever your grandfather's crimes may have been he is not a murderer."

Ingua was astounded. After a moment she gasped out:

"How d'ye know? Who was the girl? Are ye sure it were Ned Joselyn?"

"Quite sure. He has probably been in hiding, for some reason. But you mustn't tell a soul about this, Ingua; especially your grandfather. It is part of the secret between us, and that's the reason I have told you."

Ingua still stared as if bewildered.

"Who was the girl?" she whispered.

"I can't tell you her name, but you may depend upon the truth of her statement, just the same."

"And she's sure it were Ned Joselyn she saw?"

"Isn't he tall and thin, with a light moustache and curly hair, and doesn't he wear a glass in one eye?"

"With a string to it; yes! That's him, sure enough. Where'd she see him?"

"Don't ask me questions. It's a part of the girl's secret, you know. She let me tell you this much, so that you wouldn't worry any longer over the horror of that winter night when your grandfather went to the Kenton house and Joselyn disappeared. I think, Ingua, that the man is crooked, and mixed up with a lot of scoundrels who ought to be in jail."

Ingua nodded her head.

"Gran'dad told him he was crooked," she affirmed. "I don't say as Gran'dad is a saint, Josie, but he ain't crooked, like Ned -- ye kin bank on that -- 'cause he's a Cragg, an' the Craggs is square-toes even when they're chill'ins."

Josie smiled at this quaint speech. She was sorry for poor Ingua, whose stalwart belief in the Cragg honesty was doomed to utter annihilation when her grandsire was proved to have defrauded the Government by making counterfeit money. But this was no time to undeceive the child, so she said:

"The other bit of news is that Sol Jerrems has traded the bill which he thought was bad for good money, so you can buy your things any time you please."

"Then it wasn't counterfeit?"

"I saw it myself. I've lived in the city so long that no one can fool me with counterfeit money. I can tell it in two looks, Ingua. So I'd rather have a nice new bill than ten clumsy silver dollars and I made the trade myself."

"Where'd ye get so much money, Josie?"

"My wages. I don't do much work, but I get paid regularly once a week."

She didn't explain that her father made her a weekly allowance, but Ingua was satisfied.

"What do you think I orter buy with that money, Josie? I need so many things that it's hard to tell where to begin and where to leave off."

"Let's make a list, then, and figure it out."

This occupied them some time and proved a very fascinating occupation to the poor girl, who had never before had so much money to spend at one time.

"I owe it all to Mary Louise," she said gratefully, as Josie rose to depart. "It seems like no one can refuse Mary Louise anything. When she asked me to be more careful in my speech didn't I do better? I slips, now an' then, but I'ms always tryin'. And she tackled Gran'dad. If you or me -- or I -- had asked Gran'dad for that money, Josie, we'd never 'a' got it in a thousan' years. Why do you s'pose Mary Louise gits into people the way she does?"

"It's personality, I suppose," answered Josie, thoughtfully. And then, realizing that Ingua might not understand that remark, she added: "There's no sham about Mary Louise; she's so simple and sweet that she wins hearts without any effort. You and I have natures so positive, on the contrary, that we seem always on the aggressive, and that makes folks hold aloof from us, or even oppose us."

"I wish I was like Mary Louise," said Ingua with a sigh.

"I don't," declared Josie. "We can't all be alike, you know, and I'd rather push ahead, and get a few knocks on the way, then have a clear path and no opposition."



Chapter XX An Unexpected Appearance

For a week it was very quiet at Cragg's Crossing. The only ripple of excitement was caused by the purchase of Ingua's new outfit. In this the child was ably assisted by Mary Louise and Josie; indeed, finding the younger girl so ignorant of prices, and even of her own needs, the two elder ones entered into a conspiracy with old Sol and slyly added another ten dollars to Ingua's credit. The result was that she carried home not only shoes and a new hat -- trimmed by Miss Huckins without cost, the material being furnished from the fund -- but a liberal supply of underwear, ribbons, collars and hosiery, and even a pair of silk gloves, which delighted the child's heart more than anything else.

Miss Huckins' new dress proved very pretty and becoming, and with all her wealth of apparel Ingua was persuaded to dine with Mary Louise at the Kenton house on Saturday evening. The hour was set for seven o'clock, in order to allow the girl to prepare her grandfather's supper before going out, and the first intimation Old Swallowtail had of the arrangement was when he entered the house Saturday evening and found Ingua arrayed in all her finery.

He made no remark at first, but looked at her more than once -- whether approvingly or not his stolid expression did not betray. When the girl did not sit down to the table and he observed she had set no place for herself, he suddenly said:

"Well?"

"I'm goin' to eat with the Hathaways to-night," she replied. "Their dinner ain't ready till seven o'clock, so if ye hurry a little I kin wash the dishes afore I go."

He offered no objection. Indeed, he said nothing at all until he had finished his simple meal. Then, as she cleared the table, he said:

"It might be well, while you are in the society of Mary Louise and Colonel Hathaway, to notice their method of speech and try to imitate it."

"What's wrong with my talk?" she demanded. She was annoyed at the suggestion, because she had been earnestly trying to imitate Mary Louise's speech.

"I will leave you to make the discovery yourself," he said dryly.

She tossed her dishes into the hot water rather recklessly.

"If I orter talk diff'rent," said she, "it's your fault. Ye hain't give me no schooling ner noth'n'. Ye don't even say six words a week to me. I'm just your slave, to make yer bed an' cook yer meals an' wash yer dishes. Gee! how'd ye s'pose I'd talk? Like a lady?"

"I think," he quietly responded, "you picked up your slang from your mother, who, however, had some education. The education ruined her for the quiet life here and she plunged into the world to get the excitement she craved. Hasn't she been sorry for it many times, Ingua?"

"I don't know much 'bout Marm, an' I don't care whether she's sorry or not. But I do know I need an eddication. If Mary Louise hadn't had no eddication she'd 'a' been just like me: a bit o' junk on a scrap-heap, that ain't no good to itself ner anybody else."

He mused silently for a while, getting up finally and walking over to the door.

"Your peculiarities of expression," he then remarked, as if more to himself than to the child, "are those we notice in Sol Jerrems and Joe Brennan and Mary Ann Hopper. They are characteristic, of the rural population, which, having no spur to improve its vocabulary, naturally grows degenerate in speech."

She glanced at him half defiantly, not sure whether he was "pokin' fun at her" or not.

"If you mean I talks country talk," said she, "you're right. Why shouldn't I, with no one to tell me better?"

Again he mused. His mood was gentle this evening.

"I realize I have neglected you," he presently said. "You were thrust upon me like a stray kitten, which one does not want but cannot well reject. Your mother has not supplied me with money for your education, although she has regularly paid for your keep."

"She has?" cried Ingua, astounded. "Then you've swindled her an' me both, for I pays for more'n my keep in hard work. My keep? For the love o' Mike, what does my keep amount to? A cent a year?"

He winced a little at her sarcasm but soon collected himself. Strangely enough, he did not appear to be angry with her.

"I've neglected you," he repeated, "but it has been an oversight. I have had so much on my mind that I scarcely realized you were here. I forgot you are Nan's child and that you -- you needed attention."

Ingua put on her new hat, looking into a cracked mirror.

"Ye might 'a' remembered I'm a Cragg, anyhow," said she, mollified by his tone of self reproach. "An' ye might 'a' remembered as you're a Cragg. The Craggs orter help each other, 'cause all the world's ag'in 'em."

He gave her an odd look, in which pride, perplexity and astonishment mingled.

"And you are going into the enemy's camp to-night?"

"Oh, Mary Louise is all right. She ain't like them other snippy girls that sometimes comes here to the big houses. She don't care if I am a Cragg, or if I talks country. I like Mary Louise."

When she had gone the old man sat in deep thought for a long time. The summer evening cast shadows; twilight fell; darkness gradually shrouded the bare little room. Still he sat in his chair, staring straight ahead into the gloom and thinking.

Then the door opened. Shifting his eyes he discovered a dim shadow in the opening. Whoever it was stood motionless until a low, clear voice asked sharply:

"Anybody home?"

He got up, then, and shuffled to a shelf, where he felt for a kerosene lamp and lighted it.

"Come in, Nan," he said without turning around, as he stooped over the lamp and adjusted the wick.

The yellow light showed a young woman standing in the doorway, a woman of perhaps thirty-five. She was tall, erect, her features well formed, her eyes bright and searching. Her walking-suit was neat and modish and fitted well her graceful, rounded form. On her arm was a huge basket, which she placed upon a chair as she advanced into the room and closed the door behind her.

"So you've come back," remarked Old Swallowtail, standing before her and regarding her critically.

"A self-evident fact, Dad," she answered lightly, removing her hat. "Where's Ingua?"

"At a dinner party across the river."

"That's good. Is she well?"

"What do you care, Nan, whether she is well or not?"

"If she's at a dinner party I needn't worry. Forgive the foolish question, Dad. Brennan promised to bring my suit case over in the morning. I lugged the basket myself."

"What's in the basket?"

"Food. Unless you've changed your mode of living the cupboard's pretty bare, and this is Saturday night. I can sleep on that heartbreaking husk mattress with Ingua, but I'll be skinned if I eat your salt junk and corn pone. Forewarned is forearmed; I brought my own grub."

As she spoke she hung her hat and coat on some pegs, turned the lamp a little higher and then, pausing with hands on hips, she looked inquisitively at her father.

"You seem pretty husky, for your age," she continued, with a hard little laugh.

"You've been prospering, Nan."

"Yes," sitting in a chair and crossing her legs, "I've found my forte at last. For three years, nearly, I've been employed by the Secret Service Department at Washington."

"Ah."

"I've made good. My record as a woman sleuth is excellent. I make more money in a week -- when I'm working -- than you do in a year. Unless -- " She paused abruptly and gave him a queer look.

"Unless it's true that you're coining money in a way that's not legal."

He stood motionless before her, reading her face. She returned his scrutiny with interest. Neither resumed the conversation for a time. Finally the old man sank back into his chair.

"A female detective," said he, a little bitterly, "is still -- a female."

"And likewise a detective. I know more about you, Dad, than you think," she asserted, in an easy, composed tone that it seemed impossible to disturb. "You need looking after, just at this juncture, and as I've been granted a vacation I ran up here to look after you."

"In what way, Nan?"

"We'll talk that over later. There isn't much love lost between us, more's the pity. You've always thought more of your infernal 'Cause' than of your daughter. But we're Craggs, both of us, and it's the Cragg custom to stand by the family."

It struck him as curious that Ingua had repeated almost those very words earlier that same evening. He had never taught them the Cragg motto, "Stand Fast," that he could remember, yet both Nan and her child were loyal to the code. Was he loyal, too? Had he stood by Nan in the past, and Ingua in the present, as a Cragg should do?

His face was a bit haggard as he sat in his chair and faced his frank-spoken daughter, whose clear eyes did not waver before his questioning gaze.

"I know what you're thinking," said she; "that I've never been much of a daughter to you. Well, neither have you been much of a father to me. Ever since I was born and my unknown mother -- lucky soul! -- died, you've been obsessed by an idea which, lofty and altruistic as you may have considered it, has rendered you self-centered, cold and inconsiderate of your own flesh and blood. Then there's that devilish temper of yours to contend with. I couldn't stand the life here. I wandered away and goodness knows how I managed to live year after year in a struggle with the world, rather than endure your society and the hardships you thrust upon me. You've always had money, yet not a cent would you devote to your family. You lived like a dog and wanted me to do the same, and I wouldn't. Finally I met a good man and married him. He wasn't rich but he was generous. When he died I was thrown on my own resources again, with a child of my own to look after. Circumstances forced me to leave Ingua with you while I hunted for work. I found it. I'm a detective, well-known and respected in my profession."

"I'm glad to know you are prosperous," he said gently, as she paused. He made no excuses. He did not contradict her accusations. He waited to hear her out.

"So," said Nan, in a careless, offhand tone, "I've come here to save you. You're in trouble."

"I am not aware of it."

"Very true. If you were, the danger would be less. I've always had to guess at most of your secret life. I knew you were sly and secretive. I didn't know until now that you've been crooked."

He frowned a little but made no retort.

"It doesn't surprise me, however," she continued. "A good many folks are crooked, at times, and the only wonder is that a clever man like you has tripped and allowed himself to fall under suspicion. Suspicion leads to investigation -- when it's followed up -- and investigation, in such cases, leads to -- jail."

He gave a low growl that sounded like the cry of an enraged beast, and gripped the arms of his chair fiercely. Then he rose and paced the room with frantic energy. Nan watched him with a half smile on her face. When he had finally mastered his wrath and became more quiet she said:

"Don't worry, Dad. I said I have come to save you. It will be fun, after working for the Government so long, to work against it. There's a certain red-headed imp in this neighborhood who is the daughter of our assistant chief, John O'Gorman. Her name is Josie O'Gorman and she's in training for the same profession of which I'm an ornament. I won't sneer at her, for she's clever, in a way, but I'd like to show O'Gorman that Nan Shelley -- that's my name in Washington -- is a little more clever than his pet. This Josie O'Gorman is staying with the Hathaway family. She's been probing your secret life and business enterprises and has unearthed an important clew in which the department is bound to be interested. So she sent a code telegram to O'Gorman, who left it on his desk long enough for me to decipher and read it. I don't know what the assistant chief will do about it, for I left Washington an hour later and came straight to you. What I do know is that I'm in time to spike Miss Josie's guns, which will give me a great deal of pleasure. She doesn't know I'm your daughter, any more than O'Gorman does, so if the girl sees me here she'll imagine I'm on Government business. But I want to keep out of her way for a time. Do you know the girl, Dad?"

"Yes," he said.

"She's rather clever."

"Yes."

"I think she'd have nabbed you, presently, if I hadn't taken hold of the case so promptly myself. With our start, and the exercise of a grain of intelligence, we can baffle any opposition the girl can bring to bear. Do you wish to run away?"

"No," he growled.

"I'm glad of that. I like the excitement of facing danger boldly. But there's ample time to talk over details. I see you've had your supper, so I'll just fry myself a beefsteak."

She opened her basket and began to prepare a meal. Old Swallowtail sat and watched her. Presently he smiled grimly and Nan never noticed the expression. Perhaps, had she done so, she would have demanded an explanation. He rarely smiled, and certainly his daughter's disclosures were not calculated to excite mirth, or even to amuse.



Chapter XXI A Case Of Nerves

The "hotel" at the Crossing was not an imposing affair. Indeed, had there not been an "office" in the front room, with a wooden desk in one corner, six chairs and two boxes of sawdust to serve as cuspidors, the building might easily have been mistaken for a private residence. But it stood on the corner opposite the store and had a worn and scarcely legible sign over the front door, calling it a hotel in capital letters.

The Hoppers, who operated the establishment, did an excellent business. On week days the farmers who came to town to trade made it a point to eat one of Silas Hopper's twenty-five cent dinners, famous for at least five miles around for profusion and good cookery. On Sundays -- and sometimes on other days -- an automobile party, touring the country, would stop at the hotel for a meal, and Mrs. Hopper was accustomed to have a chicken dinner prepared every Sunday in the hope of attracting a stray tourist. There were two guest rooms upstairs that were religiously reserved in case some patron wished to stay overnight, but these instances were rare unless a drummer missed his train and couldn't get away from the Crossing until the next day.

The Sunday following the arrival of Ingua's mother in town proved a dull day with the Hoppers, who had been compelled to eat their chicken dinner themselves in default of customers. The dishes had been washed and Mary Ann, the daughter of the house, was sitting on the front porch in her Sunday gown and a rocking-chair, when an automobile drove up to the door and a dapper little man alighted. He was very elaborately dressed, with silk hat, patent-leather shoes and a cane setting off his Prince Albert coat and lavender striped trousers. Across his white waistcoat was a heavy gold watch-guard with an enormous locket dangling from it; he had a sparkling pin in his checkered neck-scarf that might be set with diamonds but perhaps wasn't; on his fingers gleamed two or three elaborate rings. He had curly blond hair and a blond moustache and he wore gold-rimmed eyeglasses. Altogether the little man was quite a dandy and radiated prosperity. So, when the driver of the automobile handed out two heavy suit cases and received from the stranger a crisp bill for his services, Mary Ann Hopper realized with exultation that the hotel was to have a guest.

As the car which had brought him rolled away the little man turned, observed Mary Ann, and removing his silt hat bowed low.

"I presume," said he in precise accents, "that this town is that of Cragg's Crossing, and that this building is the hotel. Am I correct in the surmise?"

"I'll call Pa," said Mary Ann, somewhat embarrassed. Drummers she could greet with unconcern, but this important individual was a man of a different sort. His brilliant personality dazzled her.

Mr. Hopper came out in his shirtsleeves, gave one look at his customer and put on his coat.

"Goin' to stay, sir?" he asked.

"For a time, if I like the accommodations," was the reply. "I am in need of perfect quiet. My doctor says I must court tranquility to avoid a nervous breakdown. I do not know your town; I do not know your hotel; I hired a man in the city to drive me until I came to a quiet place. He assured me, on the way, that this is a quiet place."

"I dunno him," said Hopper, "but he didn't put up no bluff. If ye can find a quieter place ner this, outside a graveyard, I'll board ye fer noth'n'."

"I thank you for your assurance, sir. Can you show me to the best room you can place at my disposal?"

"Had dinner?"

"I thank you, yes. I am weary from the long ride. I will lie down for an hour. Then I will take my usual walk. When I return I would like an omelet with mushrooms -- I suppose you have no truffles? -- for my evening meal."

The landlord grinned and picked up the suit cases.

"We're jest out o' truffles an' we're out o' mushrooms," he said, "but we're long on eggs an' ye can have 'em omeletted or fried or b'iled, as it suits yer fancy. Sophie's best hold is cookin' eggs. Sophie's my wife, ye know, an' there ain't no better cook in seven counties, so the drummers say."

As he spoke he entered the house and led the way up the stairs.

"Thank you; thank you," said the stranger. "I am glad your good wife is an experienced cook. Kindly ask her to spare no expense in preparing my meals. I am willing to pay liberally for what I receive."

"This room, with board," remarked Hopper, setting down the suit cases in the front corner bedchamber, "will cost you a dollar a day, or five dollars a week -- if you eat our reg'lar meals. If ye keep callin' fer extrys, I'll hev to charge ye extry."

"Very reasonable; very reasonable, indeed," declared the stranger, taking a roll of bills from his pocket. "As I am at present unknown to you, I beg you to accept this five-dollar bill in advance. And now, if you will bring me a pitcher of ice-water, I will take my needed siesta. My nerves, as you may have observed, are at somewhat of a tension to-day."

"We're out o' ice," remarked the landlord, pocketing the money, "but ye'll find plenty of good cold water at the pump in the back yard. Anything else, sir?"

"I thank you, no. I am not thirsty. Ice-water is not necessary to my happiness. You will pardon me if I ask to be left alone -- with my nerves."

Hopper went away chuckling. His wife and Mary Ann were both at the foot of the stairs, lying in wait to question him.

"That feller's as good as a circus," he asserted, taking off his coat again and lighting his corncob pipe. "He's got nerves an' money, an' he's come here to git rid of 'em both."

"Who is he?" demanded Mrs. Hopper.

"By gum, I fergot to ask him. I got thanked fer ev'rything I did an' ev'rything I couldn't do, an' I've got five dollars o' his money in my jeans as a evidence o' good faith. The whole performance sort o' knocked me out."

"No wonder," asserted, his wife sympathetically.

"I'll bet he's some punkins, though," declared Mary Ann, "an' he'll be a godsend to us after a dull week. Only, remember this, if he kicks on the feed he don't git no satisfaction out o' me."

"I don't think he'll kick on anything," said her father. "He wants eggs for his supper, in a omelet."

"He couldn't want anything that's cheaper to make," said Mrs. Hopper. "The hens are layin' fine jus' now."

"When he comes down, make him register," suggested Mary Ann. "If ye don't, we won't know what ter call him."

"I'll call him an easy mark, whatever his name is," said the landlord, grinning at his own attempt at wit.

The stranger kept his room until five o'clock. Then he came down, spick and span, his cane under his arm, upon his hands a pair of bright yellow kid gloves.

"I will now indulge in my walk," said he, addressing the family group in the office. "My nerves are better, but still vibrant. I shall be further restored on my return."

"Jest sign the register," proposed Hopper, pointing to a worn and soiled book spread upon the counter. "Hate to trouble ye, but it's one o' the rules o' my hotel."

"No trouble, thank you; no trouble at all," responded the stranger, and drawing a fountain-pen from his pocket he approached the register and wrote upon the blank page. "I hope there is, nothing to see in your town," he remarked, turning away. "I don't wish to see anything. I merely desire to walk."

"Yer wish'll come true, I guess," said Hopper. "I've lived here over twenty year an' I hain't seen noth'n' yet. But the walkin' is as good as it is anywhere."

"Thank you. I shall return at six o'clock -- for the omelet," and he walked away with short, mincing steps that seemed to them all very comical.

Three heads at once bent over the register, on which the stranger had I written in clear, delicate characters: "Lysander Antonius Sinclair, B. N., Boston, Mass."

"I wonder what the 'B. N.' stands for," said Mary Ann Hopper, curiously.

"Bum Nerves, o' course," replied the landlord. "He's got 'em, sure enough."



Chapter XXII Ingua's Mother

"And how do you like your grandfather? Is he good to you?" asked Mrs. Scammel on Sunday forenoon, as she sat on the porch beside her small daughter. Old Swallowtail did not usually go to his office on Sundays, but kept his room at the cottage and wrote letters. To-day, however, he had wandered down the path and disappeared, and Nan and Ingua were both glad to see him go.

"No," answered the child to both questions.

"You don't like him?"

"How can I, when he jes' sets an' glares at me ev'ry time he comes into the house -- 'cept when he complains I ain't doin' my work proper? It were a sort o' mean trick o' yours, Marm, leavin' me here to slave fer that ol' man while you was off in the cities, havin' a good time."

"Yes," said Nan, "I was frolicking with starvation until I got a job, and it was the sort of job that wouldn't allow having a child around. But since I've been making money I've sent Dad five dollars every week, for your clothes and board."

"You have?"

"Every week."

"Ten cents a week would pay for all the grub he gives me, an' there ain't a beggar in the county that sports the rags an' tatters I does. That new dress I had on las' night was the first thing in clothes he's bought me for a year, and I guess I wouldn't have had that if Mary Louise hadn't told him he orter dress me more decent."

Nan's brow grew dark.

"I'll have it out with him for that," she promised. "What does he do with his money, Ingua?"

"Salts it, I guess. I never see him have any. It's one o' the mysteries, Marm. Mysteries is thick aroun' Gran'dad, an' folks suspicion 'most anything about him. All I know is that he ain't no spendthrift. Once, when Ned Joselyn used to come here, there was lots of money passed between 'em. I saw it myself. I helped pick it up, once, when they quarreled an' upset the table an' spilled things. But since Ned run ayray. Gran'dad's be'n more savin' than ever."

"Ingua," said Nan, thoughtfully, "I want you to tell me all you know about Ned Joselyn, from the time he first came here."

Ingua regarded her mother with serious eyes.

"All?" she inquired.

"Everything, little or big, that you can recollect."

"You'll stick to Gran'dad, won't ye?"

"That's what I'm here for. There are enemies on his trail and I mean to save him."

"What's he done?"

"I've got to find that out. When I was here before, I knew he had some secret interest to which he was devoted, but I was too indifferent to find out what it was. Now I want to know. If I'm going to save him from the penalties of his crime I must know what the crime is. I think this man Joselyn is mixed up with it in some way, so go ahead and tell me all you know about him."

Ingua obeyed. For more than an hour she earnestly related the story of Ned Joselyn, only pausing to answer an occasional question from her mother. When she came to that final meeting at Christmas week and Joselyn's mysterious disappearance, Nan asked:

"Do you think he killed him?"

"I was pretty sure of it till yest'day, when Josie told me a friend of hers had seen him alive an' well."

"Josie O'Gorman?"

"No, Josie Jessup. She's the sewin'-girl over to Mary Louise's."

"I know; but that girl has more names than one. Do you know her very well, Ingua?"

"She's my best chum," declared the child. "Josie's a dandy girl, an' I like her."

"Have you told her anything about your gran'dad?"

"A little," Ingua admitted, hesitating.

"See here," said Nan, scowling, "I'll put you wise. This red-headed Josie O'Gorman is a detective. She's the daughter of the man I work for in Washington -- the assistant chief of the Department -- and she is here to try to land your gran'dad in jail. What's more, Ingua, she's likely to do it, unless you and I find a way to head her off."

Ingua's face depicted astonishment, grief, disappointment. Finally she said:

"Gran'dad didn't murder Ned, for Josie herself told me so; so I can't see what he's done to go to jail for."

"He has counterfeited money," said Nan in a low voice.

"Gran'dad has?"

"So they say, and I believe it may be true. Josie has wired her father that she's got the goods on Old Swallowtail and has asked that somebody be sent to arrest him. I saw the telegram and made up my mind I'd get the start of the O'Gormans. Dad won't run away. I've warned him they are on his trail and he didn't make any reply. But I wouldn't be surprised if he's gone, this very day, to cover up his traces. He's bright enough to know that if he destroys all evidence they can't prove anything against him."

She spoke musingly, more to herself than the child beside her, but Ingua drew a deep sigh and remarked:

"Then it's all right. Gran'dad is slick. They'll hev to get up early in the mornin' to beat him at his own game. But I wonder what he does with the counterfeit money, or the real money he trades it for."

"I think I know," said her mother. "He's chucked a fortune into one crazy idea, in which his life has been bound up ever since I can remember, and I suppose he tried counterfeiting to get more money to chuck away in the same foolish manner."

"What crazy idea is that?" inquired Ingua.

"I'll tell you, sometime. Just now I see your friend Josie coming, and that's a bit of good luck. I'm anxious to meet her, but if she sees me first she won't come on." As she spoke she rose swiftly and disappeared into the house. "Stay where you are, Ingua," she called from within in a low voice; "I don't want her to escape."

Josie was even now making her way across the stepping-stones. Presently she ran up the bank, smiling, and plumped down beside Ingua.

"Top o' the morning to you," said she. "How did you enjoy your first evening in society?"

"They were all very good to me," replied Ingua slowly, looking at her friend with troubled eyes. "I had a nice time, but -- "

"You were a little shy," said Josie, "but that was only natural. When you get better acquainted with Mary Louise and the dear old Colonel, you'll -- "

She stopped abruptly, for looking up she saw standing in the doorway Nan Shelley -- by which name she knew her -- who was calmly regarding her. The shock of surprise, for shock it surely was, seemed brief, for almost instantly Josie completed her broken speech:

"When you know them better you'll feel quite at home in their society. Hello, Nan."

"What! Josie O'Gorman? You here?" with well-affected surprise.

"You know it. But how came you here, Nan? Has Daddy sent you to help me?"

"Help you! In what way?"

"Help me enjoy country life," said Josie, coloring at her slip.

"Why, I'm on a vacation. You don't seem to understand. I'm -- Ingua's mother."

Josie's self-control wasn't proof against this second shock. Her blue eyes stared amazed. With a low exclamation she stood up and faced the woman.

"Ingua's mother! You, Nan?"

"Just so," with a quiet smile.

"Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself," declared Josie with righteous indignation. "You're one of the best paid women in the Department, and you've left your poor child here to starve and slave for a wretched old -- ," she paused.

"Well, what is he?" asked Nan with tantalizing gentleness.

"An old skinflint, at the least. Shame on you, Nan! Ingua is a dear little girl, and you -- you're an unnatural mother. Why, I never suspected you were even married."

"I'm a widow, Josie."

"And Old Swallowtail is your father? How strange. But -- why did you come here just now?" with sudden suspicion.

"I've just finished the Hillyard case and they gave me a vacation. So I came here to see my little girl. I didn't know she was being neglected, Josie. I shall take better care of her after this. My visit to Cragg's Crossing is perfectly natural, for I was born here. But you? What are you up to, Josie?"

"I'm visiting Mary Louise Burrows."

"With what object?"

A detective must be quick-witted. Josie's brain was working with lightning-like rapidity. In a few brief seconds she comprehended that if Nan was Old Swallowtail's daughter, home on a vacation, she must not be allowed to know that Josie was conducting a case against her father. Otherwise she might interfere and spoil everything. She knew Nan of old and respected her keen intelligence. Once, when they had been pitted against each other, Josie had won; but she was not sure she could defeat Nan a second time. Therefore it was imperative that old Cragg's daughter remain in ignorance of the fact that Josie was awaiting reinforcements from Washington in order to arrest Nan's father as a counterfeiter. Also Josie realized instantly that Ingua was likely to tell her mother all she knew about Joselyn, including the story she had told Josie; so, without hesitation she answered Nan's question with apparent frankness:

"Really, Nan, I came here on a wild-goose chase. A man named Ned Joselyn had mysteriously disappeared and his wife feared he had met with foul play. I traced him to this place and as Colonel Hathaway and Mary Louise were living here -- in Mrs. Joselyn's own house, by the way --  I had myself invited as their guest. Well, the long and short of it is that Joselyn isn't murdered, after all. He simply skipped, and since I came here to worry my poor brain over the fellow he has been discovered, still in hiding but very much alive."

"You suspected my father of killing him?"

"I did; and so did others; but it seems he didn't. But, even with that precious bubble burst, Mary Louise insists on my staying for a visit; so here I am, and your little girl has become my friend."

Ingua knew this story to be quite correct, as far as it regarded her grandfather and Ned Joselyn. Its straightforward relation renewed her confidence in Josie. But Nan knew more than Josie thought she did, having intercepted the girl's telegram to her father; so she said with a slight sneer which she took no pains to conceal:

"You're a clever girl, Josie O'Gorman; a mighty clever girl. You're so clever that I wouldn't be surprised if it tripped you, some day, and landed you on your pug nose."

Which proved that Nan was not clever, for Josie's indulgent smile masked the thought: "She knows all and is here to defend her father. I must look out for Nan, for she has a notion I'm still on the track of Hezekiah Cragg."



Chapter XXIII Peculiar People

Old Swallowtail came home at about four o'clock in the afternoon. The day was hot, yet the old man seemed neither heated nor wearied. Without a word to his daughter or Ingua he drew a chair to the little shady porch and sat down in their company. Nan was mending her child's old frock; Ingua sat thinking.

For half an hour, perhaps, silence was maintained by all. Then Nan turned and asked:

"Have you covered your tracks?"

He turned his glassy, expressionless eyes toward her.

"My tracks, as you call them," said he, "have been laid for forty years or more. They are now ruts. I cannot obliterate them in a day."

The woman studied his face thoughtfully.

"You are not worrying over your probable arrest?"

"No."

"Then it's all right," said she, relieved. "You're a foxy old rascal, Dad, and you've held your own for a good many years. I guess you don't need more than a word of warning."

He made no reply, his eyes wandering along the path to the bridge. Mary Louise was coming their way, walking briskly. Her steps slowed a bit as she drew nearer, but she said in an eager voice:

"Oh, Mrs. Scammel, Josie has told me you are here and who you are. Isn't it queer how lives get tangled up? But I remember you with gratitude and kindliest thoughts, because you were so considerate of my dear Gran'pa Jim. And to think that you are really Ingua's mother!"

Nan rose and took the girl's hands in her own.

"I fear I've been a bad mother to my kid," she replied, "but I thought she was all right with her grandfather and happy here. I shall look after her better in the future."

Mary Louise bowed to Mr. Cragg, who nodded his head in acknowledgment. Then she sat down beside Ingua.

"Are you plannin' to take me away from here, Mama?" asked the child.

"Wouldn't you rather be with me than with your grandfather?" returned Nan with a smile.

"I dunno," said Ingua seriously. "You're a detective, an' I don't like detections. You ain't much like a mother to me, neither, ner I don't know much about you. I dunno yet whether I'm goin' to like you or not."

A wave of color swept over Nan's face; Mary Louise was shocked; the old man turned his inscrutable gaze down the path once more.

"I like it here," continued the child, musingly: "Gran'dad makes me work, but he don't bother me none 'cept when the devils get, hold o' him. I 'member that you git the devils, too, once in awhile, Marm, an' they're about as fierce as Gran'dad's is. An' I gets 'em 'cause I'm a Cragg like the rest o' you, an' devils seem to be in the Cragg blood. I've a notion it's easier to stand the devils in the country here, than in the city where you live."

Nan didn't know whether to be amused or angry.

"Yet you tried to run away once," she reminded Ingua, "and it was Mary Louise who stopped you. You told me of this only an hour ago.

"Didn't I say the devils pick on me sometimes?" demanded the girl. "An' Mary Louise was right. She fought the devils for me, and I'm glad she did, 'cause I've had a good time with her ever since," and she pressed Mary Louise's hand gratefully.

Her child's frankness was indeed humiliating to Nan Scammel, who was by no means a bad woman at heart and longed to win the love and respect of her little girl. Ingua's frank speech had also disturbed Mary Louise, and made her sorry for both the child and her mother. Old Swallowtail's eyes lingered a moment on Ingua's ingenuous countenance but he exhibited no emotion whatever.

"You're a simple little innocent," remarked Nan to Ingua, after a strained pause. "You know so little of the world that your judgment is wholly unformed. I've a notion to take you to Washington and buy you a nice outfit of clothes -- like those of Mary Louise, you know -- and put you into a first-class girls' boarding-school. Then you'll get civilized, and perhaps amount to something."

"I'd like that," said Ingua, with a first display of enthusiasm; "but who'd look after Gran'dad?"

"Why, we must provide for Dad in some way, of course," admitted Nan after another pause. "I can afford to hire a woman to keep house for him, if I hold my present job. I suppose he has a hoard of money hidden somewhere, but that's no reason he wouldn't neglect himself and starve if left alone. And, if he's really poor, I'm the one to help him. How does that arrangement strike you, Ingua?"

"It sounds fine," replied the girl, "but any woman that'd come here to work, an' would stan' Gran'dad's devils, wouldn't amount to much, nohow. If we're goin' to move to the city," she added with a sigh, "let's take Gran'dad with us."

This conversation was becoming too personal for Mary Louise to endure longer. They talked of Mr. Cragg just as if he were not present, ignoring him as he ignored them. With an embarrassed air Mary Louise rose.

"I must go now," said she. "I just ran over to welcome you, Mrs. Scammel, and to ask you and Ingua to dine with us to-morrow night. Will you come? Josie O'Gorman is with us, you know, and I believe you are old friends."

Nan hesitated a moment.

"Thank you," she replied, "we'll be glad to come. You've been mighty good to my little girl and I am grateful. Please give my regards to Colonel Hathaway."

When Mary Louise had gone the three lapsed into silence again. Ingua was considering, in her childish but practical way, the proposed changes in her life. The mother was trying to conquer her annoyance at the child's lack of filial affection, tacitly admitting that the blame was not Ingua's. The old man stared at the path. Whatever his thoughts might be he displayed no hint of their nature.

Presently there appeared at the head of the path, by the bridge, the form of a stranger, a little man who came on with nervous, mincing steps. He was dressed in dandified fashion, with tall silk hat, a gold-headed cane and yellow kid gloves. Almost had he reached the porch when suddenly he stopped short, looked around in surprise and ejaculated:

"Bless me -- bless me! I -- I've made a mistake. This is a private path to your house. No thoroughfare. Dear me, what an error; an unpardonable error. I hope you will excuse me -- I -- I hope so!"

"To be sure we will," replied Nan with a laugh, curiously eyeing the dapper little man. "The only way out, sir, is back by the bridge."

"Thank you. Thank you very much," he said earnestly. "I -- I am indulging in a stroll and -- and my mind wandered, as did my feet. I -- I am an invalid in search of rest. Thank you. Good afternoon."

He turned around and with the same mincing, regular steps retreated along the path. At the bridge he halted as if undecided, but finally continued along the country road past the Kenton Place.

Ingua laughed delightedly at the queer man. Nan smiled. Old Swallowtail had altered neither his position nor his blank expression.

"He's a queer fish, ain't he?" remarked the girl. "He's pretty lively for an invalid what's lookin' for rest. I wonder when he landed, an' where he's stoppin'."

Something in the child's remark made Nan thoughtful. Presently she laid down her work and said:

"I believe I'll take a little walk, myself, before dark. Want to go along, Ingua?"

Ingua was ready. She had on her new dress and hoped they might meet someone whom she knew. They wandered toward the town, where most of the inhabitants were sitting outf of doors -- a Sunday afternoon custom. Jim Bennett, in his shirtsleeves, was reading a newspaper in front of the postoffice; Sol Jerrems and his entire family occupied the platform before the store, which was of course locked; Nance Milliker was playing the organ in the brown house around the corner, and in front of the hotel sat Mary Ann Hopper in her rocking-chair.

Nan strolled the length of the street, startling those natives who had formerly known her, Ingua nodded and smiled at everyone. Mary Ann Hopper called, as they passed her: "Hullo, Ingua. Where'd ye git the new duds?"

"Miss Huckins made 'em," answered Ingua proudly.

"I guess I'll go and shake hands with Mrs. Hopper," said Nan. "Don't you remember me, Mary Ann? I'm Nan Cragg."

"Gee! so y'are," exclaimed Mary Ann wonderingly. "We all 'spicioned you was dead, long ago."

"I'm home for a visit. You folks seem prosperous. How's business?"

"Pretty good. We got a new boarder to-day, a feller with bum nerves who come from the city. Gee! but he's togged out t' kill. Got money, too, an' ain't afraid to spend it. He paid Dad in advance."

"That's nice," said Nan. "What's his name?"

"It's a funny name, but I can't remember it. Ye kin see it on the register."

Nan went inside, leaving Ingua with Mary Ann, and studied the name on the register long and closely.

"No," she finally decided, "Lysander isn't calculated to arouse suspicion. He wears a wig, I know, but that is doubtless due to vanity and not a disguise. I at first imagined it was someone O'Gorman had sent down here to help Josie, but none of our boys would undertake such a spectacular personation, bound to attract attention. This fellow will become the laughing-stock of the whole town and every move he makes will be observed. I'm quite sure there is nothing dangerous in the appearance here of Mr. Lysander Antonius Sinclair."

She chatted a few minutes with Mrs. Hopper, whom she found in the kitchen, and then she rejoined Ingua and started homeward. Scarcely were mother and child out of sight when Mr. Sinclair came mincing along from an opposite direction and entered the hotel. He went to his room but soon came down and in a querulous voice demanded his omelet, thanking the landlady again and again for promising it in ten minutes.

He amused them all very much, stating that an omelet for an evening meal was "an effective corrective of tired nerves" and would enable him to sleep soundly all night.

"I sleep a great deal," he announced after he had finished his supper and joined Mr. Hopper on the porch. "When I have smoked a cigar -- in which luxury I hope you will join me, sir -- I shall retire to my couch and rest in the arms of Morpheus until the brilliant sun of another day floods the countryside."

"P'r'aps it'll rain," suggested the landlord.

"Then Nature's tears will render us sweetly sympathetic."

He offered his cigar case to Mr. Hopper, who recognized a high priced cigar and helped himself.

"Didn't see anything to make ye nervous, durin' yer walk, did ye?" he inquired, lighting the weed.

"Very little. It seems a nice, quiet place. Only once was I annoyed. I stumbled into a private path, just before I reached the river, and -- and had to apologize."

"Must 'a' struck Ol' Swallertail's place," remarked the landlord.

"Old Swallowtail? Old Swallowtail? And who is he?" queried the stranger.

Hopper was a born gossip, and if there was any one person he loved to talk of and criticize and "pick to pieces" it was Old Swallowtail. So he rambled on for a half hour, relating the Cragg history in all its details, including the story of Ingua and Ingua's mother, Nan Cragg, who had married some unknown chap named Scammel, who did not long survive the ceremony.

Mr. Sinclair listened quietly, seeming to enjoy his cigar more than he did the Cragg gossip. He asked no questions, letting the landlord ramble on as he would, and finally, when Hopper had exhausted his fund of fact and fiction, which were about evenly mixed, his guest bade him good night and retired to his private room.

"It ain't eight o'clock, yet," said the landlord to his wife, "but a feller with nerves is best asleep. An' when he's asleep he won't waste our kerosene."

No, Mr. Sinclair didn't waste the Hopper kerosene. He had a little pocket arrangement which supplied him with light when, an hour before midnight, he silently rose, dressed himself and prepared to leave the hotel. He was not attired in what Mary Ann called his "glad rags" now, but in a dark gray suit of homespun that was nearly the color of the night. The blond wig was carefully locked in a suit case, a small black cap was drawn over his eyes, and thus -- completely transformed -- Mr. Hopper's guest had no difficulty in gaining the street without a particle of noise betraying him to the family of his host.

He went to the postoffice, pried open a window, unlocked the mail bag that was ready for Jim Bennett to carry to the morning train at Chargrove and from it abstracted a number of letters which he unsealed and read with great care. They had all been written and posted by Hezekiah Cragg. The man spent a couple of hours here, resealing the envelopes neatly and restoring them to the mail bag, after which, he attached the padlock and replaced the bag in exactly its former position. When he had left the little front room which was devoted by the Bennetts to the mail service, the only evidence of his visit was a bruised depression beside the window-sash which was quite likely to escape detection.

After this the stranger crept through the town and set off at a brisk pace toward the west, taking the road over the bridge and following it to the connecting branch and thence to the lane. A half hour later he was standing in old Cragg's stone lot and another hour was consumed among the huge stones by the hillside -- the place where Josie had discovered the entrance to the underground cave. Mr. Sinclair did not discover the entrance, however, so finally he returned to town and mounted the stairs beside Sol Jerrem's store building to the upper hallway.

In five minutes he was inside of Cragg's outer office; in another five minutes he had entered the inner office. There he remained until the unmistakable herald of dawn warned him to be going. However, when he left the building there was no visible evidence of his visit. He was in his own room and in bed long before Mrs. Hopper gave a final snore and wakened to light the kitchen fire and prepare for the duties of the day.



Chapter XXIV Facing Danger

Nan's presence at Cragg's Crossing rendered Josie O'Gorman uneasy. She had the Cragg case so well in hand, now, and the evidence in her possession was so positively incriminating, in her judgment, that she did not like to be balked by a clever female detective from her father's own office. She had little doubt but Nan would do all in her power to save old Hezekiah Cragg from the penalty of his misdeeds, and her greatest fear was that he might utterly disappear before O'Gorman sent her assistance.

With this fear growing in her mind, on Monday she determined to send another telegram to her father, urging haste, so she obtained permission from the Colonel to have Uncle Eben drive her and Mary Louise to the city, there being no telegraph office at Chargrove Station. But she timed the trip when no trains would stop at Chargrove during her absence and at the telegraph office she sent an imperative message to John O'Gorman at Washington demanding instant help. Since all counterfeiting cases belonged distinctly to the Secret Service Department she had little doubt her father would respond as soon as the affairs at the office would permit him to do so. But the delay was exasperating, nevertheless. Indeed, Josie was so sure that the crisis of her case was imminent that she determined to watch old Cragg's house every night until his arrest could be made. If he attempted to escape she would arrest him herself, with the aid of the little revolver she carried in her dress pocket.

On their return journey they overtook Mr. Sinclair at about a mile from the Crossing. They had never seen the man before, but when he signaled them. Uncle Eben slowed up the machine and stopped beside him.

"I beg a thousand pardons," said the dapper little stranger, removing his silk hat and bowing profoundly to the two girls, "but would you mind taking me to the town? I -- I -- fear I have turned my ankle; not seriously, you know, but it is uncomfortable; so if I may sit beside your chauffeur the favor will be greatly appreciated."

"To be sure," said Mary Louise with ready. "Can you get in unaided, or do you wish Uncle Eben to assist you?"

"Thank you; thank you a thousand times, young lady," said he, climbing into the front seat. "I'm stopping at the hotel," he explained, as the car again started, "for rest and quiet, because of my nervous condition. My doctor said I would suffer a nervous breakdown if I did not seek rest and quiet in the seclusion of some country village. So I came here, and -- it's secluded; it really is."

"I hope your ankle is not seriously injured, sir," said Mary Louise. "Take the gentleman to the hotel, Uncle Eben."

"Thank you," said the little man, and fussily removing a card-case from an inner pocket he added: "My card, please," and handed it to Mary Louise.

Josie glanced at the card, too. She had been regarding the stranger thoughtfully, with the same suspicions of him that Nan had formerly entertained. The card was not printed; it was engraved: one point in the man's favor. His blond hair was a wig; she had a good view of the back of it and was not to be deceived. But perhaps the moustache, which matched the hair, was genuine. Carefully considering the matter, she did not think anyone would come to Cragg's Crossing in disguise unless he were a confederate of Hezekiah Cragg, helping to circulate the counterfeit money. This odd Mr. Sinclair might be such a person and working under the direction of Ned Joselyn. Joselyn was in hiding, for some unexplained reason; Sinclair could appear openly. There might be nothing in this supposition but Josie determined to keep an eye on the nervous stranger.

He was profuse in his thanks when they let him out at Hopper's Hotel and Uncle Eben chuckled all the way home.

"Dat man am shuah some mighty 'stravagant punkins, in he's own mind," he remarked. "He oughteh git he's pictur' took in dat outfit, Ma'y Weeze, jes' to show how 'dic'lous a white man can look. He'll have all de kids in town a-chasin' of him, if he gits loose on de streets. All he needs is a brass ban' to be a circus parade."

Nan and Ingua came over to dinner that evening and Josie was very cordial to Ingua's mother, who treated her chief's daughter with the utmost friendliness. Both Ingua and Mary Louise were surprised by their politeness and comradeship, but neither of the principals was deceived by such a display. Each was on her guard, but realized it was wise to appear friendly.

Monday night Josie lurked in the shadows of the river bank until daybreak, never relaxing her espionage of the Cragg house for a moment. All was quiet, however.

Tuesday passed without event. Tuesday night Josie was at her post again, her eyes fixed on the dim light that shone from Mr. Cragg's room. Had she been able to see through the walls of the cottage she would have found the old man seated in his private apartment opposite his daughter. Could she have heard their conversation -- the low, continuous hum of Old Swallowtail's voice, broken only by an occasional question from Nan -- she would surely have been astonished. Nan was not much astonished, save at the fact that her father had at last voluntarily confided to her the strange story of his life, a life hitherto unknown to her. She was not easily surprised, but she was greatly impressed, and when he finally rose from his chair and went out into the night Nan sat in meditation for some time before she followed him. Ingua had long been asleep.

Josie, lurking outside, had not expected Old Swallowtail to leave the premises unless he planned to run away. His delivery of counterfeit money to Ned Joselyn had been of too recent a date to render it necessary that he revisit his stone-yard for some time to come, she argued; yet to-night, at a little after eleven o'clock, she saw his shadow pass from the house and take the path to the bridge.

Josie followed. At the bridge Mr. Cragg turned westward and at once she surmised he was bound for his rocky five acres. The old man walked deliberately, never thinking to look behind him. He might not have observed anything suspicious had he turned, but a hundred feet behind him came Josie O'Gorman, deftly dodging from tree to bush to keep in the dark places by the wayside. And behind Josie silently moved a little man in gray homespun, whose form it would be difficult to distinguish even while he stood in the open. Josie, like the prey she stalked, was too occupied to look behind.

Old Swallowtail reached the stone-yard and climbed the fence. While he paused there Josie crept close and noticed a light which suddenly flashed from the hillside. It was a momentary flash and not very brilliant, but she knew it was a signal because the old man at once started forward. She let him lead on until he disappeared among the rocks and then she boldly followed. She knew now where the secret entrance to the cavern was located.

Threading her way cautiously through the maze of rocks the girl finally reached a slanting shelf beneath which she crept on hands and knees. At its farthest edge was a square door of solid oak, rather crudely constructed but thick and substantial. This door stood ajar.

Josie, crouching beside the secret entrance, wondered what she ought to do. The regular thumping, as of machinery, which she had heard once before, now began and continued without interruption. Here was an opportunity to catch the counterfeiters redhanded, but she was one small girl as opposed to a gang of desperate criminals.

"Oh, dear!" she whispered, half aloud, "I wish father had paid some attention to my telegram."

"He did," responded a soft voice beside her.



Chapter XXV Father And Daughter

The girl would have screamed had not a hand been swiftly laid across her lips to stifle the sound. She tried to rise, but the shelf of rock beneath which she crouched prevented her. However, she struggled until an arm was passed firmly around her waist and a stern voice said warningly:

"Josie! Control yourself."

Instantly her form relaxed and became inert. She breathed hard and her heart still raced, but she was no longer afraid.

"Kiss me, Daddy!" she whispered, and the man obeyed with a chuckle of delight.

There was silence for a time, while she collected herself. Then she asked in a businesslike tone:

"When did you get here?"

"Sunday," said he.

"Good gracious! You must have caught the first train after getting my wire."

"I did. A certain gang of unknown counterfeiters has been puzzling me a good deal lately, and I fancied you had located the rascals."

"I have," said Josie exultantly.

"Where?" he asked.

"The rascals are down below us this very minute, Daddy. They are at our mercy."

"Old Cragg and Jim Bennett?"

"Yes; and perhaps others."

"M-m-m," mumbled O'Gorman, "you've a lot to learn yet, Josie. You're quick; you're persevering; you're courageous. But you lack judgment."

"Do you mean that you doubt my evidence?" she asked indignantly.

"I do."

"I've the counterfeit bill here in my pocket, which Cragg tried to pass on the storekeeper," she said.

"Let me see it."

Josie searched and found the bill. O'Gorman flashed a circle of light on it and studied it attentively.

"Here," he said, passing it back to her. "Don't lose it, Josie. It's worth ten dollars."

"Isn't it counterfeit?" she asked, trying to swallow a big lump that rose in her throat.

"It is one of the recent issues, good as gold."

She sat silent, rigid with disappointment. Never had she been as miserable as at this moment. She felt like crying, and a sob really did become audible in spite of her effort to suppress it. Again O'Gorman passed his arm affectionately around her waist and held her close while she tried to think what it all meant.

"Was that bill your only basis of suspicion, dear?" he presently inquired.

"No, indeed. Do you hear that noise? What are they doing down there?"

"I imagine they are running a printing press," he replied.

"Exactly!" she said triumphantly. "And why do these men operate a printing press in a secret cavern, unless they are printing counterfeit money?"

"Ah, there you have allowed your imagination to jump," returned her father. "Haven't I warned you against the danger of imagination? It leads to theory, and theory leads -- nine times in ten -- to failure."

"Circumstantial evidence is often valuable," declared Josie.

"It often convicts," he admitted, "but I am never sure of its justice. Whenever facts are obtainable, I prefer facts."

"Can you explain," she said somewhat coldly, for she felt she was suffering a professional rebuke, "what those men below us are printing, if not counterfeit money?"

"I can," said he.

"And you have been down there, investigating?"

"Not yet," he answered coolly.

"Then you must be theorizing, Daddy."

"Not at all. If you know you have two marbles in one pocket and two more in another pocket, you may be positive there are four altogether, whether you bother to count them individually or not."

She pondered this, trying to understand what he meant.

"You don't know old Cragg as well as I do," she asserted.

"Let us argue that point," he said quickly. "What do you know about him?"

"I know him to be an eccentric old man, educated and shrewd, with a cruel and murderous temper; I know that he has secluded himself in this half-forgotten town for many years, engaged in some secret occupation which he fears to have discovered. I am sure that he is capable of any crime and therefore -- even if that bill is good -- I am none the less positive that counterfeiting is his business. No other supposition fits the facts in the case."

"Is that all you know about old Cragg?" asked O'Gorman.

"Isn't it enough to warrant his arrest?" she retorted.

"Not quite. You've forgotten to mention one thing among his characteristics, Josie."

"What is that?"

"Cragg is an Irishman -- just as I am."

"What has that to do with it?"

"Only this: his sympathies have always been interested in behalf of his downtrodden countrymen. I won't admit that they are downtrodden, Josie, even to you; but Cragg thinks they are. His father was an emigrant and Hezekiah was himself born in Dublin and came to this country while an infant. He imagines he is Irish yet. Perhaps he is."

There was a note of bewilderment in the girl's voice as she asked:

"What has his sympathy for the Irish to do with this case?"

"Hezekiah Cragg," explained O'Gorman, speaking slowly, "is at the head of an organization known as the 'Champions of Irish Liberty.' For many years this C. I. L. fraternity has been growing in numbers and power, fed by money largely supplied by Cragg himself. I have proof, indeed, that he has devoted his entire fortune to this cause, as well as all returns from his business enterprises. He lives in comparative poverty that the Champions of Irish Liberty may finally perfect their plans to free Ireland and allow the Irish to establish a self-governing republic."

"But -- why all this secrecy, Daddy?" she asked wonderingly.

"His work here is a violation of neutrality; it is contrary to the treaty between our country and England. According to our laws Hezekiah Cragg and his followers, in seeking to deprive England of her Irish possession, are guilty of treason."

"Could he be prosecuted for sympathizing with his own race?"

"No; for sending them arms and ammunition to fight with, yes. And that is what they have been doing."

"Then you can arrest him for this act?"

"I can," said O'Gorman, "but I'll be hanged if I will, Josie. Cragg is an idealist; the cause to which he has devoted his life and fortune with a steadfast loyalty that is worthy of respect, is doomed to failure. The man's every thought is concentrated on his futile scheme and to oppose him at this juncture would drive him mad. He isn't doing any real harm to our country and even England won't suffer much through his conspiracy. But, allowing for the folly of his attempt to make his people free and independent, we must admire his lofty philanthropy, his self-sacrifice, his dogged perseverence in promoting the cause so near and dear to his heart. Let some other federal officer arrest him, if he dares; it's no work for an O'Gorman."

Josie had encountered many surprises during her brief career as an embryo detective, but this revelation was the crowning astonishment of her life. All her carefully prepared theories concerning Hezekiah Cragg had been shattered by her father's terse disclosure and instead of hating Old Swallowtail she suddenly found sympathy for his ideals welling in her heart. Josie O 'Gorman was Irish, too.

She pondered deeply the skilled detective's assertions and tried to fit them to her knowledge of old Cragg's character. The story seemed to account for much, but not all. After a time she said:

"But this mysterious business of his, which causes him to write so many letters and to receive so many answers to them -- what connection can it have with the Champions of Irish Liberty?"

"Very little," said her father, "except that it enables Cragg to earn more money to feed into the ever-hungry maw of the Cause. Cragg's 'business' is one of the most unique things of the sort that I have ever encountered. And, while it is quite legitimate, he is obliged to keep it secret so as not to involve his many customers in adverse criticism."

"What on earth can it be?"

"It pertains to heaven, not earth, my dear," said O'Gorman dryly. "Cragg was educated for the ministry or the priesthood -- I can't discover whether he was Catholic or Protestant -- but it seems he wasn't fitted for the church. Perhaps he already had in mind the idea of devoting his life to the land that gave him birth. Anyhow, he was a well versed theologian, and exceptionally brilliant in theses, so when his money gave out he began writing sermons for others to preach, doing a mail-order business and selling his products to those preachers who are too busy or too lazy to write their own sermons. He has a sort of syndicate established and his books, which I have examined with admiration and wonder, prove he supplies sermons to preachers of all denominations throughout the United States. This involves a lot of correspondence. Every week he writes a new sermon, prints a large number of copies and sends one to each of his clients. Of course he furnishes but one man in a town or city with his products, but there are a good many towns and cities to supply."

"Is he printing sermons now?" asked Josie.

"Perhaps so; or it may be he is printing some circular to be distributed to the members of the C. I. L. Jim Bennett, the husband of the postmistress here, was once a practical printer, and he is a staunch member of the Irish fraternity. Cragg has known of this underground cavern for years, and at one time it was a regular meeting-place for his order of Champions. So he bought a printing press and, to avoid the prying eyes of his neighbors, established it here. That is the whole story of Cragg's 'crime,' Josie, and it is very simple when once fully explained."

"Do you mean to say you've discovered all this in the two days since you've been here?" asked the girl, in amazement.

"Every bit of it. I came prepared to arrest a gang of counterfeiters, and stumbled on this very interesting but quite harmless plot."

"Where have you been hiding since Sunday?" she inquired.

"Why, I didn't hide at all," he asserted. "Don't you remember giving me a ride yesterday in the Hathaway automobile?"

Josie sat silent. She was glad it was so dark under that shelf of rock, for she would rather her father did not read her humiliation and self-reproach.

"Daddy," she said, with a despairing accent, "I'm going to study to be a cook or a stenographer. I'll never make a decent detective -- like Nan, for instance."

O'Gorman laughed.

"Poor Nan!" he exclaimed. "She's been more befuddled than you over this mysterious case. And Cragg is her own father, too. Come, Josie, it's getting late; let's go home."



Chapter XXVI The Plot

When they were over the stones and in the lane again, walking arm in arm toward the village, Josie's logical mind turned from her own failure to a consideration of the story her father had just told her.

"I can't understand," she remarked, "how Joselyn came into this affair, what happened to him, or why he is once more the secret associate of old Cragg."

"Joselyn," said the old detective, "is a clever grafter -- in other words, an unmitigated scoundrel. Now do you understand?"

"Not quite," confessed Josie.

"He's Irish."

"Isn't his name Scotch?"

"Yes, but Joselyn isn't his name. If you're inclined to pick up his record and follow it through, you'll probably find him pursuing his various adventures under many aliases. He doesn't belong in this country, you know, has only been here a few years, so his adventures would probably cover two continents. The fellow always manages to keep just within our laws, although sometimes he gets dangerously near the edge. The world is full of men like Joselyn. They don't interest me."

"Then he belongs to the band of Champions?" asked Josie.

"Yes. In going over Cragg's books and papers in his private office the other night, I found sufficient references to Ned Joselyn to figure out his story with a fair degree of accuracy," said O'Gorman. "He was born in Ireland, got into trouble over there with the authorities, and fled to America, where he met Annabel Kenton and married her. Getting in touch with Old Swallowtail, he joined the Champions and attended to the outside business for Mr. Cragg, purchasing supplies and forwarding them, with money, to the patriots in Ireland. I suppose he made a fair rake-off in all these dealings, but that did not satisfy him. He induced Cragg to invest in some wild-cat schemes, promising him tremendous earnings which could be applied to the Cause. Whether he really invested the money turned over to him, or kept it for himself, is a subject for doubt, but it seems that the old man soon suspected him of double-dealing and they had so many quarrels that Cragg finally threatened to turn him over to the authorities for extradition. That was when our precious Ned thought it wise to disappear, but afterward another peace was patched up, owing largely to the fact that Joselyn knew so much of the workings of the secret order that it was safer to have him for a friend than an enemy."

"I'm thinking of his poor wife," said Josie. "Does she know now where her husband is?"

"I think not. At first, in order to win the confidence of old Cragg, Ned applied considerable of his wife's money to the Cause, and while she would probably forgive his defalcations he thinks it wiser to keep aloof from her. She foolishly trusted him to 'settle' her mother's estate, and I'm sure he managed to settle most of it on himself. His value to Cragg lay in his ability to visit the different branches of the Champions, which are pretty well scattered throughout the United States, and keep them in touch one with the other. Also he purchased arms and ammunition to be forwarded secretly to Ireland. So you see it was quite impossible for the old man to break with him wholly, rascal though he knows him to be."

"I see," said Josie. "Joselyn has him in his power."

"Entirely so. A hint from him to the authorities would result in an embargo on any further shipments to the rebels in Ireland and so completely ruin the usefulness of the order of Champions. The fellow seems to be a thorn deeply embedded in the side of Old Swallowtail, who will suffer anything to promote the cause of Irish liberty."

"Ingua thinks her grandfather tried to kill Ned, at one time," remarked the girl.

"It's a wonder, with his rabid temper, that he didn't do so," said O'Gorman. "But perhaps he realized that if he was hanged for Joselyn's murder his beloved Order would be without a head and in sorry straits. Thousands of Irishmen are feeding the funds of the Champions, aside from what Cragg himself dumps into the pot. So the old fellow is in a responsible position and mustn't commit murder, however much he may long to, because it would jeopardize the fortunes of his associates. However, the end is not yet, and unless Joselyn acts square in his future dealings he may yet meet with a tragic fate."

"I wonder what was in that package he took away with him the other night?" mused Josie. "I was sure, at the time, it was counterfeit money."

"It probably contained the monthly printed circular to the various branches of the order. Jim Bennett prints them in that underground cavern and Ned Joselyn sees they are distributed."

"Well," said Josie with a sigh, "you've pricked my bubble, Daddy, and made me ashamed. With all my professed scorn of theories, and my endeavors to avoid them, I walked straight into the theoretic mire and stuck there."

O'Gorman pressed her arm affectionately.

"Never you mind, my dear," in a consoling tone; "you have learned a lesson that will be of great value to you in your future work. I dare not blame you, indeed, for I myself, on the evidence you sent me, came rushing here on a wild-goose chase. One never knows what is on the other side of a page till he turns it, and if we detectives didn't have to turn so many pages, only to find them blank, we'd soon rid the country of its malefactors. But here we are at the Kenton gateway. Go to bed, Josie dear, and pleasant dreams to you."

"Will I see you again?" she asked.

"No; I'm off by the early train. But you must stay here and have your visit out with Mary Louise. It won't hurt you to have a free mind for awhile."

He kissed her tenderly and she went in.



Chapter XXVII Nan's Triumph

The night's events were not yet ended. An automobile left the edge of the stone-yard, followed a lane and turned into the main highway, where it encountered a woman standing in the middle of the road and waving her arms. She was distinctly visible in the moonlight.

The man with the monocle slowed the car and came to a sudden stop, rather than run her down.

"What's the matter?" he demanded impatiently.

"Wait a minute; I want to talk to you."

"Can't stop," he replied in a querulous tone. "I've got fifty miles to make before daylight. Out of my way, woman."

With a dexterous motion she opened the door and sprang into the seat beside him.

"Here! Get out of this," he cried.

"Drive on," she said calmly. "It'll save time, since you're in a hurry."

"Get out!"

"I'm going to ride with you. Why bother to argue?"

He turned nervously in his seat to get a look at her, then shifted the clutch and slowly started the car. The woman sat quiet. While bumping over the uneven road at a reckless speed the driver turned at times to cast stealthy glances at the person beside him. Finally he asked in exasperation:

"Do you know where I'm going?"

"You haven't told me."

"Do you know who I am?"

"How should I?"

"Oh, very well," with a sigh of relief. "But isn't this rather -- er --  irregular?"

"Very."

Again he drove for a time in silence. In the direction they were following they whirled by a village every three or four miles, but the country roads were deserted and the nearest city of any size lay a good fifty miles on.

"I don't know who you are," observed the woman presently, "but I can hazard a guess. You call yourself Joselyn -- Ned Joselyn -- but that isn't your name. It's the name you married Annabel Kenton under, but it doesn't belong to you."

He gave a roar of anger and started to slow down the car.

"Go ahead!" she said imperatively.

"I won't. You're going to get out of here, and lively, too, or I'll throw you out."

"Do you feel anything against your side?" she asked coolly.

"Yes," with a sudden start.

"It's the muzzle of a revolver. I think it's about opposite your heart and my finger is on the trigger. Go ahead!"

He turned the throttle and the car resumed its former speed.

"Who the deuce are you?" he demanded, in a voice that trembled slightly.

"Like yourself, I have many names," she said. "In Washington they call me Nan Shelley; at Cragg's Crossing I'm Mrs. Scammel, formerly Nan Cragg."

"Oh -- ho!" with a low whistle of astonishment. "Nan Cragg, eh! So you've returned from your wanderings, have you?" with a derisive sneer.

"For a time. But in wandering around I've found my place in the world and I'm now a lady detective, not an especially high-class occupation but satisfactory as a bread-winner. I find I'm quite talented; I'm said to be a pretty fair detective."

She could feel him tremble beside her. He moved away from her as far as he could but the pressure against his side followed his movements. After a time he asked defiantly:

"Well, being a detective, what's your business with me? I hope you're not fool enough to think I'm a criminal."

"I don't think it; I know it. You're an unusual sort of a criminal, too," she replied. "You're mixed up in a somewhat lawless international plot, but it isn't my present business to bring you to book for that."

"What is your present business?"

"To discover what you've done with my father's money."

He laughed, as if relieved.

"Spent it for the cause of Ireland."

"Part of it, perhaps. But the bulk of the money you've taken from the Champions of Irish Liberty, most of which came out of my father's own pocket, and practically all the money he gave you to invest for him, you have withheld for your own use."

"You're crazy!"

"I know the bank it's deposited in."

Again he growled, like a beast at bay.

"Whatever I have on deposit is to be applied to the Cause," said he. "It's reserved for future promotion."

"Have you seen to-day's papers?" she inquired.

"No."

"The revolution in Ireland has already broken out."

"Great Scott!" There was sincere anxiety in his voice now.

"It is premature, and will result in the annihilation of all your plans."

"Perhaps not."

"You know better," said she. "Anyhow, your actions are now blocked until we see how the rebellion fares. The Irish will have no further use for American money, I'm positive, so I insist that my father receive back the funds he has advanced you, and especially his own money which he gave you to invest and you never invested."

"Bah! If I offered him the money he wouldn't take it.

"Then I'll take it for him," she asserted. "You'll give up that money because you know I can have you arrested for -- well, let us say a breach of American neutrality. You are not a citizen of the United States. You were born in Ireland and have never been naturalized here."

"You seem well posted," he sneered.

"I belong to the Government Secret Service, and the Bureau knows considerable," she replied dryly.

He remained silent for a time, his eyes fixed upon the road ahead. Then he said:

"The Government didn't send you to get Cragg's money away from me. Nor did Cragg send you."

"No, my father is afraid of you. He has been forced to trust you even when he knew you were a treacherous defaulter, because of your threats to betray the Cause. But you've been playing a dangerous game and I believe my father would have killed you, long ago, if -- "

"Well, if what?"

"If you hadn't been his own nephew."

He turned upon her with sudden fierceness.

"Look out!" she called. "I've not the same objection to killing my cousin."

"Your cousin!"

"To be sure. You are the son of Peter Cragg, my father's brother, who returned to Ireland many years ago, when he was a young man. Ned Joselyn is an assumed name; you are Ned Cragg, condemned by the British government for high treason. You are known to be in America, but only I knew where to find you."

"Oh, you knew, did you?"

"Yes; all your various hiding-places are well known to me."

"Confound you!"

"Exactly. You'd like to murder me, Cousin Ned, to stop my mouth, but I'll not give you the chance. And, really, we ought not to kill one another, for the Cragg motto is 'a Cragg for a Cragg.' That has probably influenced my poor father more than anything else in his dealings with you. He knew you are a Cragg."

"Well, if I'm a Cragg, and you're a Cragg, why don't you let me alone?"

"Because the family motto was first ignored by yourself."

For a long time he drove on without another word. Evidently he was in deep thought and the constant pressure of the revolver against his side gave him ample food for reflection. Nan was thinking, too, quietly exulting, the while. As a matter of fact she had hazarded guess after guess, during the interview, only to find she had hit the mark. She knew that Ned Cragg had been condemned by the British government and was supposed to have escaped to America, but not until now was she sure of his identity with Ned Joselyn. Her father had told her much, but not this. Her native shrewdness was alone responsible for the discovery.

"We're almost there, aren't we?" asked Nan at last.

"Where?"

"At the house where you're at present hiding. We've entered the city, I see, and it's almost daybreak."

"Well?"

"I know the Chief of Police here. Am I to have that, money, Cousin Ned, or -- "

"Of course," he said hastily.



Chapter XXVIII Planning The Future

It was nearly a month later when Mary Louise, walking down to the river on an afternoon, discovered Ingua sitting on the opposite bank and listlessly throwing pebbles into the stream. She ran across the stepping-stones and joined her little friend.

"How is your grandfather this morning?" she asked.

"I guess he's better," said Ingua. "He don't mumble so much about the Lost Cause or the poor men who died for it in Ireland, but Ma says his broken heart will never mend. He's awful changed, Mary Louise. To-day, when I set beside him, he put out his hand an' stroked my hair an' said: 'poor child -- poor child, you've been neglected. After all,' says he, 'one's duties begin at home.' He hasn't had any fits of the devils lately, either. Seems like he's all broke up, you know."

"Can he walk yet?" inquired Mary Louise.

"Yes, he's gett'n' stronger ev'ry day. This mornin' he walked to the bridge an' back, but he was ruther wobbly on his legs. Ma said she wouldn't have left him, just now, if she wasn't sure he'd pick up."

"Oh. Has your mother gone away, then?"

"Left last night," said Ingua, "for Washington."

"Is her vacation over?"

"It isn't that," replied the child. "Ma isn't going to work any more, just now. Says she's goin' to take care o' Gran'dad. She went to Washington because she got a telegram saying that Senator Ingua is dead."

"Senator Ingua?"

"Yes; he was my godfather, you see. I didn't know it myself till Ma told me last night. He was an uncle of Will Scammel, my father that died, but he wasn't very friendly to him an' didn't give him any money while he lived. Ma named me after the Senator, though, 'cause she knew which side her bread was buttered on, an' now he's left me ten thousand dollars in his will."

"Ten thousand!" exclaimed Mary Louise, delightedly, "why, you Craggs are going to be rich, Ingua. What with all the money your mother got back from Ned Joselyn and this legacy, you will never suffer poverty again."

"That's what Ma says," returned the child, simply. "But I dunno whether I'll like all the changes Ma's planned, or not. When she gets back from Washington she's goin' to take me an' Gran'dad away somewheres for the winter, an' I'm to go to a girls' school."

"Oh, that will be nice."

"Will it, Mary Louise? I ain't sure. And while we're gone they're goin' to tear down the old shack an' build a fine new house in its place, an' fix up the grounds so's they're just as good as the Kenton Place."

"Then your mother intends to live here always?"

"Yes. She says a Cragg's place is at Cragg's Crossing, and the fambly's goin' to hold up its head ag'in, an' we're to be some punkins around here. But -- I sorter hate to see the old place go, Mary Louise," turning a regretful glance at the ancient cottage from over her shoulder.

"I can understand that, dear," said the other girl, thoughtfully; "but I am sure the change will be for the best. Do you know what has, become of Ned Joselyn?"

"Yes; he an' Annabel Kenton -- that's his wife -- have gone away somewheres together; somewheres out West, Ma says. He didn't squander Ann's money, it seems; not all of it, anyhow; didn't hev time, I s'pose, he was so busy robbin' Gran'dad. Ned run away from Ann, that time he disappeared, 'cause English spies was on his tracks an' he didn't want to be took pris'ner. That was why he kep' in hidin' an' didn't let Ann know where he was. He was afraid she'd git rattled an' blab."

"Oh; I think I understand. But he will have to keep in hiding always, won't he?"

"I s'pose so. Ma says that'll suit her, all right. Am I talkin' more decent than I used to, Mary Louise?"

"You're improving every day, Ingua."

"I'm tryin' to be like you, you know. Ma says I've been a little Arab, but she means to make a lady of me. I hope she will. And then -- "

"Well, Ingua?"

"You'll come to visit me, some time, in our new house; won't you?"

"I sure will, dear," promised Mary Louise.

<eob>

Tom And Some Other Girls: A Public School Story

By

Mrs. George De Horne Vaizey



Chapter One.

A Change.

"Yes, she must go to school!" repeated Mr Chester.

A plaintive sob greeted his words from the neighbourhood of the sofa. For once in her life Mrs Chester's kindly, good-tempered face had lost its smiles, and was puckered up into lines of distress. She let one fat, be-ringed hand drop to her side and wander restlessly over the satin skirt in search of a pocket. Presently out came a handkerchief, which was applied to each eye in turn, and came away bedewed with tears.

"It will break my heart to part from her!" she faltered. Her husband laughed with masculine scepticism.

"Oh, nonsense, dear," he said; "hearts are not so easily broken. You are too sensible to grieve over what is for the child's good, and will get used to the separation, as other mothers have done before you. It will be the making of Rhoda to leave home for a few years, to mix with other girls, and find her level. She is getting an altogether exaggerated idea of her own importance!"

"Her level, indeed! Find her level! I should like to know the school where you could find another girl like her!" cried the mother, in a tone which showed plainly enough who was responsible for Miss Rhoda's conceit. The tears dried on her face for very indignation, and she sat upright in her seat, staring across the room.

It was a gorgeous apartment, this drawing-room of Erley Chase, the residence of Henry Chester, Esquire, and Marianne his wife; a gorgeous room in the literal acceptance of the term, for each separate article of furniture looked as if it had been chosen more from the fact of its intrinsic value than for its usefulness or beauty.

Mr Chester, the son of a country clergyman, had considered himself passing rich when a manufacturer uncle took him into his employ, at a salary of £400 a year. The first thing he did after this position was assured was to marry his old love, the daughter of the village doctor, with whom he had played since childhood; and the young couple spent the first dozen years of their married lives very happily and contentedly in a little house in a smoky manufacturing town. The bachelor uncle was proud of his clever nephew and fond of the cheery little wife, who was always kind and thoughtful even when gout and a naturally irritable temper goaded him into conduct the reverse of amiable. When Harold was born, and christened after himself, he presented the child with a silver mug, and remarked that he hoped he would turn out better than most young men, and not break his parents' hearts as a return for their goodness. When Jim followed, the mug was not forthcoming; but when little Rhoda made her appearance six years later he gave her a rattle, and trusted that she would improve in looks as she grew older, since he never remembered seeing an uglier baby. He was certainly neither a gracious nor a liberal old gentleman, but the young couple were blessed with contented minds and moderate ambitions, so they laughed good-naturedly at his crusty speeches, and considered themselves rich, inasmuch as they were able to pay their way and were spared anxiety for the future. And then an extraordinary thing happened! The old man died suddenly, and left to his beloved nephew a fortune which, even in these days of millionaires, might truthfully be called enormous. Henry Chester could not believe the lawyers when the amount of his new wealth was broken to him, for his uncle had lived so unostentatiously that he had had no idea of the magnitude of his savings. The little wife, who had never known what it was to spend sixpence carelessly in all her thirty-five years, grew quite hysterical with excitement when an arithmetical calculation proved to her the daily riches at her disposal; but she recovered her composure with wonderful celerity, and expressed her intention of enjoying the goods which the gods had sent her. No poking in gloomy town houses after this! No hoarding of riches as the poor old uncle had done, while denying himself the common comforts of life! She herself had been economical from a sense of duty only, for her instincts were all for lavishness and generosity -- and now, now! Did not Henry feel it a provision of Providence that Erley Chase was empty, and, as it were, waiting for their occupation?

Her husband gasped at the audacity of the idea. Erley Chase! the finest place around, one of the largest properties in the county, and Marianne suggested that he should take it! that he should remove from his fifty - pound house into that stately old pile! The suggestion appalled him, and yet why not? His lawyer assured him that he could afford it; his children were growing up, and he had their future to consider. He thought of his handsome boys, his curly-headed girl, and decided proudly that nothing was too good for them; he looked into the future, and saw his children's children reigning in his stead, and the name of Chester honoured in the land. So Erley Chase was bought, and little Mrs Chester furnished it, as we have seen, to her own great contentment and that of the tradespeople with whom she dealt; and in the course of a few months the family moved into their new abode.

At first the country people were inclined to look coldly on the new - comers, but it was impossible to keep up an unfriendly attitude towards Mr and Mrs Chester. They were utterly free from affectation, and, so far from apeing that indifference to wealth adopted by most nouveaux riches, were so frankly, transparently enchanted with their new possessions that they were more like a couple of children with a new toy than a steady-going, middle-aged couple. They won first respect, and then affection, and were felt to be a decided acquisition to the well - being of the neighbourhood, since they were never appealed to in vain in the cause of charity.

In the days of her own short means, when she had been obliged to look helplessly at the trials of her neighbours, Mrs Chester had solaced herself by dreaming of what she would do if she had money and to spare, and to her credit be it said, she did not forget to put those dreams into execution when the opportunity arose. The days are past when fairy godmothers flash suddenly before our raptured eyes, clad in spangled robes, with real, true wings growing out of their shoulders, but the race is not dead; they appear sometimes as stout little women, in satin gowns and be-feathered bonnets, and with the most prosaic of red, beaming faces. The Chester barouche was not manufactured out of a pumpkin, nor drawn by rats, but none the less had it spirited away many a Cinderella to the longed-for ball, and, when the Prince was found, the fairy godmother saw to it that there was no lack of satin gowns, or glassy slippers. Dick Whittingtons, too, sitting friendless by the roadside, were helped on to fortune; and the Sleeping Beauty was rescued from her dull little home, and taken about to see the world. It is wonderful what fairy deeds can be accomplished by a kind heart and a full purse, and the recipients of Mrs Chester's bounty were relieved from undue weight of obligation by the transparent evidence that her enjoyment was even greater than their own!

Harold went to Eton and Oxford, and Jim to Sandhurst; but Rhoda stayed at home and ruled supreme over her mother, her governesses, and the servants of the establishment. Her great-uncle's wish had been fulfilled, inasmuch as she grew up tall and straight, with a mane of reddish-gold hair and more than an average share of good looks. She was clever, too, and generous enough to have acknowledged her faults if it had for one moment occurred to her that she possessed any; which it had not. It was one of Mrs Chester's articles of faith that her daughter was the most beautiful, the most gifted, and the most perfect of created beings, and Rhoda agreeably acquiesced in the decision, and was pitiful of other girls who were not as herself. Every morning when she had not a headache, and did not feel "floppy" or "nervey," she did lessons with Fraulein, who adored her, and shed tears behind her spectacles when obliged to point out a fault. Then the two would repair together to the tennis courts and play a set, the pupil winning by six games to love; or go a bicycle ride, when Rhoda would practise fancy figures, while her good, but cumbersome, companion picked herself up from recumbent positions on the sidewalk, and shook the dust from her garments. At other times Rhoda would put on her riding habit and go a ride round the estate, taking care to emerge from the west gate at the moment when the village children were returning from school. The little girls would "bob" in old-fashioned style, and the boys would pull off their caps, and Rhoda would toss her flaxen mane and acknowledge their salutations with a gracious smile and a wave of the little gloved hand. The children thought she looked like a fairy princess, and no more dreamt that she was of the same flesh and blood as themselves than did Miss Rhoda herself. Then came lunch, and more often than not some excuse for getting off the hour's lessons with Fraulein before the "visiting professors" arrived. Music master, drawing master, French master -- they each came in their turn, and Rhoda exerted herself to do her best, as she invariably did, given the stimulus of an audience, and was praised and flattered to her heart's desire. It was a happy life, and most satisfactory from the girl's point of view; so that it seemed most annoying that it should be interrupted, and by Fraulein too, who had always been so meek and tractable! Who could have imagined when she went home for the summer holidays that an old love would appear and insist upon marrying her out of hand?

"But what am I to do?" cried Rhoda, when the news was first received; and then, in stern disapproval, "I'm surprised at Fraulein! At her age she should know better. She always professed to be so devoted. I can't understand how she could make up her mind to leave me."

"It must have been a terrible trial to her, dearest," said Mrs Chester soothingly, and she meant what she said. How could any one prefer a fat, long-haired, spectacled lover (all Germans were fat, long-haired, and spectacled!) to her beautiful, clever daughter? She sighed, once for Rhoda's disappointment, and once again, and with an added stab, for herself.

Several times lately Mr Chester had hinted that Rhoda was getting too much for Fraulein, and should be sent to school, while Harold had treacherously seconded his father with remarks of such brotherly candour as made his mother hot with indignation. Jim was mercifully away from home, but even so it was two against one, and she instinctively felt that Fraulein's defection would be seized upon by the enemy and the attack pressed home upon the first opportunity. And now it had come, and there sat the poor, dear soul, shedding tears of anguish on her lace-edged handkerchief, as she vainly tried to oppose the inevitable.

"I cannot, and will not, part from my child!"

"Nonsense, mother, you parted from me, and I shall take it as a personal insult if you insinuate that you would feel Rhoda's absence more than you did mine. Remember how delighted you were when I came back! Remember the holidays, how happy you were, how interested in all I had to tell!"

Harold Chester crossed the room, and laid his hand on his mother's shoulder with a kindly gesture. He looked as if he were made on the same principle as the other objects of vertu in the room, and if Mrs Chester had desired to possess "the most superfine specimen of sons and heirs," she had certainly got her wish, so far as appearances were concerned. Harold was tall and fair, with aquiline features and a manly carriage. His hair would have curled if it had not been cropped so close to his head; his clothes were of immaculate cut. At twenty-five he was known as one of the most daring sportsmen in the county, and if he had not distinguished himself at college, he had, at least, scrambled through with the crowd. His mother declared with pride that he had never given her an hour's anxiety since he had had the measles, and thanked Heaven for her mercies every time she saw him ride off to the hunt in his beautiful pink coat. Harold was her first-born darling, but Rhoda was the baby, and she could not bring herself to believe that her baby was growing up.

"The child will fret and break her heart. I don't care about myself, but I will not have her made unhappy. She has such a sensitive heart!" She sobbed as she spoke, and Harold laughed.

"You trust me, mater; Rhoda is as well able to take care of herself as any girl can be. You will regret it all your life long if you keep her at home now. School is what she needs, and school she must have, if she is to make a woman worth having. She is a jolly little soul, and I'm proud of her; but her eyes are so taken up admiring Miss Rhoda Chester that she has no attention left for anything else. Let her go, mother, and find out that there are other girls in the world beside herself!"

"But the other girls will b-b-bully her. They will make fun of her and laugh at her little ways -- "

"And a good -- " Harold checked himself and said cheerily: "Rhoda won't let herself be bullied without knowing the reason why, mother. Whatever faults she may have, no one can accuse her of lack of spirit. I believe she would like to go. She has very few girl friends, and would enjoy the new experience."

"We will tell her about it, and see what she says," said Mr Chester; and at that very moment the door opened and Rhoda walked into the room.



Chapter Two.

What Rhoda Thought.

Father, mother, and brother looked at Rhoda, and felt a pardonable pride in her appearance. Her white evening frock showed off the fair complexion and golden locks, and she carried herself with an erect, fearless mien which made a pleasant contrast to the stooping backs and shambling gait of most growing girls. If she were not regularly pretty, her air of assurance forced onlookers to think her so, despite their better judgment, and there was about her a breezy atmosphere of health and youth. She looked from one to the other of the watching faces, and smiled in a good-humoured, tolerant manner, which showed a dimple in the round cheek.

"Hatching mischief!" she cried, nodding her head sagely. "The way in which your voices ceased as I entered the room was highly suspicious. Never mind -- I'll go to bed soon, and then you can talk at your ease. It is awkward when birthdays are drawing near! ... Chain bracelets are very nice, with turquoises set here and there, and I rather like that new edition of Shakespeare with a lot of dear little books fitted into a case. I don't object to brooches either, or ornaments for my room -- "

"But, strange to say, we were not thinking of giving you anything! We were talking of a much more serious consideration than a birthday. We were talking of your Future Education," said Mr Chester, solemnly. He spoke so impressively, and with such very large capitals to the last two words, that Rhoda was startled into attention, and turned her eyes upon him in wonder.

"My -- future -- education? Why, what do you -- what am I going to do?"

"We have been considering the advisability of sending you to school. You are nearly sixteen, and have been educated at home all your life, and now that Fraulein cannot return I feel strongly that it would be for your good to spend a couple of years at school among girls of your own age. Your mother naturally dreads the parting, and fears that you would be unhappy, but Harold thinks that you would enjoy the experience. What is your own impression? Do you dislike the idea, or feel inclined towards it?"

Rhoda meditated, and her mother watched her with wistful eyes. At the first mention of the word "school" the girl had started with surprise, and her eyes had looked wide and puzzled, but now as she stood deliberating, it was not dismay, but rather pleasure and excitement, that showed in her face. The eyes gleamed complacently, the dimple dipped, the fair head tilted itself, and Rhoda said slowly -- 

"I think I should -- like it! It would be a -- change!"

Alas for Mrs Chester, and alas for every mother in that sharp moment when she realises that the nestling which she has been keeping so safe and warm is already beginning to find the nest too narrow for its ambitions, and is longing to fly away into the big, wide world! Two salt tears splashed on to the satin gown, but no one saw them, for the girl was engrossed in her own feelings, while Mr Chester was saying brightly -- 

"That's my brave girl! I knew you would be no coward."

Harold watched his sister with mingled pity and amusement.

"They'll take it out of her! They'll take it out of her! Poor little Ro! Won't she hate it, and won't it do her good!" he said to himself, shrewdly. "And, after the first, I shouldn't wonder if she became a prime favourite!"

Rhoda seated herself on a crimson plush chair, and folded her hands on her knees, in an attitude of expectation. She was an impetuous young person, and could brook no delay when once her interest was aroused. School having been mentioned as a possibility of the future, it became imperative to settle the matter off-hand.

Which school? When? Who would take her? What would she have to buy? What were the rules? When were the holidays? How long would they be? Where would she spend them? -- One question succeeded another in breathless succession, making Mr Chester smile with indulgent amusement.

"My dear child, how can I tell? So far it is only a suggestion. Nothing is settled. We have not even thought of one school before another -- "

"If she goes at all, I should like her to go to Miss Moorby's, at Bournemouth," said Mrs Chester quickly. "She only takes ten girls, and I'm told it is just like a home -- hot bottles in all the beds, and beef - tea at eleven -- "

"Mother!" cried Rhoda, in a tone of deep reproach. Her eyes flashed, and she drew herself up proudly. "No, indeed! If I go at all, I will do the thing properly, and go to a real school, and not a hot-house. I don't want their old beef-tea and bottles. I want to go to a nice, big, sporty school, where they treat you like boys, and not young ladies, and put you on your honour, and don't bind you down by a hundred sickening little rules. I want to go to," -- she drew a long breath, and glanced at her mother, as if bracing herself to meet opposition -- "to Hurst Manor! There! I've read about it in magazines, and Ella Mason had a cousin who had been there, and she said it was -- simply mag.! She was Head Girl, and ruled the house, and came out first in the games, and she said she never had such sport in her life, and found the holidays quite fearfully flat and stale in comparison."

"You don't become Head Girl all at once," interposed Harold, drily; while Mrs Chester gave another sob at the idea that home could ever be looked upon in so sad a light.

"Hurst Manor?" she repeated vaguely. "That's a strange name. I never heard of the place before. What do you know about it that makes you want to go, darling? Are you quite sure it is nice, and what is the Head Mistress like, and how many young la --  girls does she take? Not too many, I hope, for I can't see how they can be properly looked after when there are more than twenty or thirty. I've heard terrible stories of delicacy for life arising from neglect. You remember poor, dear Evie Vane! Her glands swelled, and nobody noticed, and -- "

"My glands never swell. They know better. Over two hundred girls, mother; but they are divided into different houses, with a staff of teachers in charge of each, so there's no fear of being neglected; and it's much more fun living in a crowd. I'm tired of talking to the same people over and over again, and should love a variety. Among the hundred girls, one would be sure to find one or two whom one could really like."

Harold laughed again, a sleepy laugh, which brought a flash into his sister's eyes. That was the worst of Harold; he was so superior! He never argued, nor contradicted, but he had a way of smiling to himself, of throwing back his head and half shutting his eyes, which made Rhoda feel as if throwing cushions at him would be the only adequate relief to her feelings. She glared at him for a moment, and then turned her back on him in a marked manner and addressed herself to her father.

"You will write to Miss Bruce at once, won't you, father, and arrange for me to go at the beginning of the term?"

"I will write for particulars, or, better still, your mother and I will go down to see the place for ourselves. I should like you to go to the school you fancy, if it can be arranged, and I suppose this is as good as any."

"Better!" Rhoda declared rapturously, "a thousand times better! Ella Mason said so; and she knows, because her cousin's sisters have all been at different schools -- one at Cheltenham, one at Saint Andrew's, one at Wycombe, and she declares that Hurst beats them all. It must be so, since it has adopted all the good ideas and abandoned the bad." She went on with a rambling statement which seemed to imply that Miss Bruce had been in turn sole proprietor of each of these well-known schools before abandoning them in favour of her new establishment; that Hurst Manor buildings had been recently erected, at vast expense, to provide every possible convenience for the pupils, and at the same time was a nobleman's seat of venerable interest; that sports and games formed the chief interest of the pupils, lessons being relegated to an appropriate secondary position; while, astonishing to relate, the honours in all University examinations fell to "Hurst girls," and every woman who had made a name for herself had graduated from its ranks! She detailed these interesting items of information with sublime assurance; and, when Harold mildly pointed out inconsistencies, retorted scornfully that she supposed she might be allowed to know, since Ella's cousin had said so, and she had been there, and seen for herself! Mrs Chester supported her by murmurs of assent, and little warning frowns to her son, which in dumb language signified that he was to be a good boy, and not aggravate his sister; and Mr Chester put his arm round her waist, and looked down at her, half smiling, half pitiful. The pitiful expression grew, and became so marked that the girl gazed at him in surprise. Why did he look so sorry? Was he already feeling the blank which her absence would leave? Did he fear that she would be home-sick, and regret her hasty decision? She stared into his face with her bright blue eyes, and her father gazed back, noting the firm chin, the arched brows, the characteristic tilt of the head. This overweening confidence of youth -- he was asking himself earnestly -- was it altogether a misfortune, or but raw material out of which great things were to be made in the future? Was it not better to go forth to meet life's battle with a light heart and fearless tread than trembling and full of doubt? Surely it was better, and yet his heart was sore for the girl, as the heart of a leader must be sore when he sends his soldiers to the front, knowing that no victory is won without a cost, no fight without a scar. Something very like a tear glittered in the father's eye, and at the sight Rhoda's face softened into a charming tenderness. She snuggled her head into his neck, and rubbed her soft cheeks against his, murmuring absurd little sentences of endearment, as to a child of two years old.

"Whose pet is it, then? Whose own precious? The nicest old sweet in the world."

Mr Chester pushed the girl aside, and put on a frown of portentous ferocity to conceal the delight with which her demonstration had, in reality, filled him. He loved to feel the sweep of the crisp locks, the touch of the soft cheek; he even appreciated, if the truth must be told, being addressed as a "precious," but wild horses would not have induced him to confess as much, and he made haste to leave the room with Harold lest perchance any sign of his real feelings might betray themselves to the sharp feminine eye.

Left alone with her mother, Rhoda clasped her hands behind her back, and paced slowly up and down. It was a relief, after all, to be rid of the men, and be able to talk things over with a feminine hearer who never brought forward inconvenient quibbles, who accepted statements as facts, as of course they were, and agreed to propositions in a quiet, reasonable manner. Rhoda thought out several important matters in that march to and fro, and announced the result in a decisive manner.

"I must have a complete new outfit! I don't believe in taking half-worn things. You can send them away to that poor clergyman in Ireland, with the five daughters. Geraldine, isn't it, who 'fits' my clothes? Well, Geraldine shall have my blue silk, and the fawn jacket, and the blouses, and the grey dress. If the arm-holes stick into her as much as they do into me, she will wish I had never been invented. She can have my best hat, too, if she wants it. I hate it, and at 'Hurst' you never wear anything but sailors', with the school colours. There is a blue house, and a pink, and a green, and a yellow, and a red; that's the way they arrange in all big schools, and I only hope and pray it won't be my fate to be yellow, or what an image I'll look! Other things being equal, Mum dear, kindly say you think the blue house would be best for my health and morals. I want to live in, you understand, not out --  that's one point I have quite decided."

"In what, dearest? Out of what? I don't understand what you mean."

"In school itself. There are three houses in the school building and three in the grounds, and, of course, if you live 'out' you have ten minutes' walk over to classes, whatever the weather may be. I should object to shivering across the first thing in the morning in rain and snow and getting all splashed and blown. No one can call me a coddle, but I do like comfort, and it would be a dreadful fag -- "

"I should think so, indeed; most risky! I wouldn't hear of it for you. If you go at all you must live in, and have a comfortable room, with a fire in cold weather."

"Oh, well; I don't know if you can expect that. We mustn't be too exacting. You will look after my clothes at once, mother, won't you? for there will be so much to get. I want things nice, you know! I should like the girls to see that I had decent belongings. I love having all the little things complete and dainty. I think girls ought to be particular about them. It's a sign of refinement. I can't endure shabby things round me."

"Of course not, darling; and there's no reason why you should. Write down a list of what you want, so that we shan't forget anything when we are in town. You shall have all you need; but, oh! dear me, I don't know how shall I live when you have gone. I shall break my heart without you!" And Mrs Chester's tears once more rolled down her cheeks. It seemed to her at this moment that the greatest trouble which her happy life had known was this projected parting from her beloved daughter.



Chapter Three.

Anticipations.

Two days later Mr and Mrs Chester started on their tour of inspection, and Rhoda reflected that she could not employ herself better during their absence than by preparing, so far as might be, for the life ahead. She went upstairs to her own sitting-room, and made a sweeping survey of her treasures. The books in the hanging cases must, of course, be left behind, since they were too numerous to carry. She looked lovingly at their bright gold and leather backs, and took down a special favourite here and there, to dip into its contents. The Waverley novels ran in a long, yellow line across one shelf; Dickens, clad in red, came immediately beneath; and a whole row of poets on the bottom shelf. Wordsworth was a prize from Fraulein, but his pages were still stiff and unread; Longfellow opened of himself at "Hiawatha"; while Tennyson, most beloved of all, held half a dozen markers at favourite passages. His portrait hung close at hand, a copy of that wonderful portrait by Watts, which seems to have immortalised all the power and beauty of the strange, sad face. Rhoda nicked a grain of dust from the glass surface, and carefully straightened the frame against the wall, for this picture was one of her greatest treasures, and respected accordingly. Another case held books of stories, ranging from the fairy tales of childhood to the publications of last year; a third was devoted to bound volumes of magazines, and a fourth to the less showy and interesting school-books.

"It's no use taking you!" said Rhoda scornfully. "I expect you are quite out of date. You can stay here and rest, and when I come back I'll point out your errors, and send you into the lumber-room to make room for the new ones!" Then she turned her attention to the mantelpiece, on which reposed a quite extraordinary number of miniature jugs. Jugs, jugs everywhere, and nothing but jugs; blue jugs, yellow jugs, brown jugs, red jugs; Worcester jugs with delicate white figures against a background of blue; jugs worth a penny sterling at the village emporium; plain jugs, iridescent jugs; jugs with one handle, with two, with three, with none at all. Their variety was as puzzling as their number, but Rhoda gazed at them with all the pride of the collector. "Jugs" -- unrivalled by postcards, stamps, or crests -- had been her mania for a year on end, and the result was dear to her heart. To find a new jug to add to the collection had appeared one of the chief objects in travelling; an expedition to town had been a failure or success, according as it discovered jugs or no jugs.

In her anxiety for their safety she had even volunteered to dust her own mantelpiece, and now, alas! she must leave them to the tender mercies of Mary and her assistants! It was a painful reflection, and after a moment's consideration she determined not to risk it, but to store the darlings away in some safe hiding-place until her return.

No sooner said than done. Each little jug was wrapped in a separate roll of tissue paper, fitted into a drawer of the writing-table, and securely locked against invasion. The process of "putting away" thus begun extended itself indefinitely. The photographs in their various frames must be arranged and divided; nice relations and very dearest friends, to be taken to school, disagreeable or "middling" relations, and merely "dearest friends," to be laid aside in another drawer; fragile ornaments to be hidden, in case they were broken; silver and brass in case they tarnished; letters to be destroyed, to be tied up in packets, to be answered before leaving home; pieces of fancy work to be folded away, in case sacrilegious hands should dare to put them to any other use than that for which they were intended.

Rhoda set to work with the energy of ten women, and worked away until the once tidy room had become a scene of wildest confusion; until sofa, table, and chairs were alike piled high with bundles. Then of a sudden her energy flagged, she grew tired and discouraged, and wished she had left the stupid old things where she had found them. It occurred to her as a brilliant inspiration that there was no possible hurry, and that sitting under the trees reading a book, and drinking lemon squash, was a much more agreeable method of spending a hot summer's day than working like a charwoman. She carried her latest book into the garden forthwith, ordered the "squash," and spent an hour of contented idleness before lunch.

The story, however, was not interesting enough to tempt a second reading during the afternoon, for the heroine was a girl of unimpeachable character, who pursued her studies at home under the charge of a daily governess, and such a poor-spirited creature could hardly be expected to commend herself to a girl who had decided for two whole days to go to the newest of all new schools, and already felt herself far removed from such narrow experiences. Rhoda cast about in her mind for the next diversion, and decided to bicycle across the park to call upon the Vicar's daughter the self-same Ella Mason who had been her informant on so many important points. Ella would be indeed overcome to hear that Rhoda herself was to be a "Hurst" girl, and there would be an increased interest in hearing afresh those odd pieces of information which had fallen from the cousin's lips.

She felt a thrill of relief on hearing that her friend was at home, and in finding her alone in the morning-room, which looked so bare and colourless to eyes accustomed to the splendours of the Chase. Something of the same contrast existed between the two girls themselves, for while Rhoda sat glowing pink and white after her ride, Ella's cheeks were as pale as her dress, and her eyes almost as colourless as the washed-out ribbon round her waist. She was not a beauty by any means, but unaffectedly loving and unselfish, rejoicing in her friend's news, though it would deprive her of a favourite companion, and she was all anxiety to help and encourage. She knitted her brow to remember all that the cousin had said of Hurst Manor, wishing only that she had listened with more attention to those pearls of wisdom.

"Yes, she said that they did a great deal of Latin. All the girls learn it, and it seems to be looked on as one of the most important subjects. They translate Horace and Livy and all kinds of learned books."

"Humph! I shan't!" declared Rhoda coolly. "I don't approve of Latin for girls. It's silly. Of course, if you intend to teach, or be a doctor, or anything like that, it may be useful, but for ordinary stop - at-home girls it's nonsense. What use would Latin be to me, I should like to know? I shall take modern languages instead. I can read and write French fluently, though it doesn't come quite so easy to speak it, and German, of course, is second nature after jabbering with Fraulein all these years. I should think in German if I would allow myself, but I won't. I don't think it is patriotic. There is not very much that any one can teach me of French or German!"

"Then what is the use of studying them any more?" inquired Ella, aptly enough; but Rhoda was not a whit discomposed.

"My dear, it is ever so much pleasanter doing things that you understand! The first stages are such a grind. Well, what next? What other subjects are important?"

"Mathematics. Some of the girls are awfully clever, and are ever so far on in Euclid. I did one book with father; but it worried me so, and I cried so much one day when he altered the letters and put the whole thing out, that he grew tired, and said I could give it up. You didn't do any with Fraulein, I think?"

"No; it's a nuisance. I wish I did now; but I'll have to begin at once, that's all! I'll get Harold's old books and cram up before I go, so that I can just bring in an expression now and then, as if I knew all about it. Girls are so patronising if they think you are a beginner... I'm pretty well up in history, and can say reams of poetry, and play, and draw, and paint in water colours -- "

"Ye-es!" assented Ella feebly. She was afraid to say so much in words, but her conviction was that her friend's methods of work would seem strangely antiquated when contrasted with the vivid strength of the new regime. She recalled Rhoda's mild copies of village scenes, with cottages in the foreground, trees to the rear, and a well-regulated flight of swallows on the sky line, and mentally placed them beside her cousin's vigorous sketches on the Slade system, where two or three lines seemed to do the work of a dozen, and prettiness was a thing abhorred! She remembered the lessons in theory and harmony, and trembled for her friend's awakening. "Yes," she repeated. "Oh, of course; and then there are other things besides lessons -- a girl can make herself popular by being pleasant and obliging, and the outdoor life is so fascinating. Games every day, just as if you were boys, and each one trying to get into a higher team, and as keen and enthusiastic as she can be. You will enjoy the games, Rhoda!"

"Now that's just one thing I wanted to talk to you about!" cried Rhoda earnestly. "I'm glad you reminded me. Of course, tennis and croquet are all right. I can play a very good set, and beat most ladies at croquet. One time this summer I made five hoops in one turn, and took my partner with me, but of course I don't do that every day of the week. I'm all right for summer games, but winter is coming on, and I shall have to play that horrid old hockey, and I haven't the remotest idea how it is done. I've never seen a match, but you have, and I want you to tell me all about it, so that I may know what to do, and not make an idiot of myself. You went to the Betham ground when you were staying there, and saw the girls' team play. Go on! Describe it! Tell me all about it, and everything they did!"

Ella drew a deep breath, and looked awed and important.

"Well! it was a county match, and one team wore white blouses and the other pink. They had on blue skirts, very short, and awful feet! Some had great pads on each ankle, and some had leggings, and some had nothing at all. I should have swathings of cotton wool a foot wide, for it made my ankles ache just to see the sticks swinging about! It was an icy day; the wind went through us like knives and scissors, and we stood on little planks of wood and shuddered, with furs up to our ears, but they wore no hats or jackets, and their sleeves went flap, flap, as thin as possible. There was only one pretty one among them, all the rest looked -- hideous! There was a goal at one end, here, and another, here." Ella drew a rough map of the ground on the back of an envelope, and Rhoda looked on with breathless interest. "This team wanted to make a goal here, and the other side tried to prevent them. They whacked with their sticks, and off went the ball, and each side flew after it, trying to send it the way they wanted, and one poor, wretched girl stood before each goal to prevent the enemy's ball from entering. I expected they would both die of consumption the next day, but I met them out at tea, quite spry and lively, and they said they didn't feel cold a bit. I didn't believe them, but that's nothing. An umpire marched about in leggings, and blew a whistle, and called out 'Off side! Off side!'"

"And what did he mean by that?"

Ella hesitated, uncertainly. Her knowledge of the game was of the slightest, but she was anxious to help her friend, and gallantly tried to recall odd explanations.

"Oh, well, I think one of the wrong side hit, you know, and there is a rule that you may not send the ball straight forward to one of your own side, but must hit it back to some one behind you."

"But that's silly! If you want to get on as fast as you can, why on earth must you go back? If they never hit forward, how can they win. Do you mean to say they never send it forwards towards the goal?"

"Oh, yes, yes! One girl was splendid. She hit magnificently. She ran like a man, and sent it flying before her, and made three goals herself."

"Then how -- why -- what -- what in the world did you mean by saying that you mustn't do it?" demanded Rhoda sternly, and Ella made a gesture as of tearing her hair in confusion.

"I don't know! It isn't easy to understand a game when you see only one match. I was confused myself, but I know each side tries for a different goal, and there are 'backs' and 'half-backs' and 'forwards,' just as at football, and, whatever you do, you must not raise your stick above your waist. It's a murderous-looking game, anyhow. I wondered that they weren't all killed; and one girl's hand was bleeding horribly. I asked her if it was very painful, and she stared and said, 'Oh, I hadn't noticed it!' and mopped it up with her handkerchief. Awfully callous, I call it."

"Oh, I don't know!" replied Rhoda, airily. "Those flesh wounds don't hurt. I should never think of taking any notice of a little thing like that. Well, I can't say I am very much wiser for your instructions, my dear, but I will pump Harold and see what I can get out of him. I have no doubt I could hit all right, for I have a quick eye, and if you can play one or two games it helps you with the rest. But I should be pretty mad if I made a hit and they whistled at me and made me come back. I like to know what I am about."

"You had better be a goal-keeper," advised Ella, wisely; "you have no running to do until the ball comes your way, and then at it you go, tooth and nail! Stop it somehow -- anyhow -- with your hands, your feet, your skirt, your stick. I believe there is an etiquette about it, don't you know, as there is about all those things, and that it's more swagger to stop it one way than another, but the main thing is to stop it somehow, and that you simply must do!"

"Humph! If you can! What happens if you can't?"

"Emigrate to Australia by the first boat! I should think so, at least, to judge by the faces of the other girls when one poor creature did let a ball in. Feerocious, my dear! there was no other word for it. My heart ached for her. But it was a stupid miss, for it looked so easy. I felt sure I could have stopped it."

"It's all a matter of nerve. If you lose your head you are sure to play the fool at a critical moment. Fraulein was like that. The moment the game went against her she began to hop about, and puff and pant, and work herself into such a fever that she couldn't even see a ball, much less hit it. I kept calm, and so of course I always won."

It did strike Ella that victory under such circumstances would be easily gained, but she was too loyal to say so, and Rhoda leant back against the cushions of the sofa, and continued to discourse on games in general, and school games in particular, with an air of such intimacy and knowledge that no one would have suspected that the object of her visit had been to listen, rather than to teach.

Ella listened meekly to a recital of what her friend intended to do, and be; of the examinations she would pass, the honours she would gain; the influence she would exercise over her fellows; and sighed to think of her own limitations, and the impossibility of such a career ever falling to her lot. And then Rhoda rose, and put on her gloves preparatory to saying good-bye.

"I shall come down to see you again, of course, but I shall be very busy. I am going to have a complete new outfit, and everything as nice as possible."

"Ye-es," said the Vicar's daughter.

"I shall have all my best skirts lined with silk."

"Ah!" sighed Ella, and felt a pang of keenest envy. She had never possessed a silk lining in her life. It seemed to her at times that if she could only hear herself rustle as she walked, there would be nothing left to wish for in life!

"They will think you are a Princess!" she said, and Rhoda smiled, and did not attempt to deny the impeachment.



Chapter Four.

Departure.

Mr and Mrs Chester returned from their visit to Hurst Manor with somewhat different accounts of the establishment. The father was delighted with all he had seen, thought the arrangements excellent, and Miss Bruce a charming and lovable woman. The mother did not see how draughts were to be avoided in those long, bare passages, considered the hours of work cruelly long, and was convinced that Miss Bruce could be very stern if she chose. Her husband laughed, and declared that a school of two hundred girls would fare badly indeed if she could not, and the maternal fears were silenced at once by his banter, and by Rhoda's fearless confidence.

It was finally decided that the girl should join at the beginning of the term, and preparations were set on foot without delay. It was almost like buying a trousseau, Rhoda declared; and certainly no bride-elect could have taken a keener interest in her purchases. The big, new box with her initials on the side; the dressing-bag with its dainty fittings; the writing-case and workbox; the miniature medicine chest stocked with domestic remedies, in case she should feel feverish or chilled, have earache, toothache, or headache; be threatened with sore throat or swollen glands -- they were all new possessions, and as such afforded acute satisfaction, for though the wardrobe list was disappointingly short, there were at least no restrictions as to quality.

When the key was turned in her box Rhoda heaved a sigh of satisfaction in the confidence that not one of the two hundred girls could possess a better equipment than her own. Then she looked round her dismantled room, and felt a pang of depression. It looked so dead -- as if its owner had already departed, and left it to its fate. The wardrobe door swung apart and revealed the empty pegs; the drawers were pulled open and showed piles of torn-up letters; the carpet was strewn with pins. All the treasured ornaments had been stored away, and the ugly ones looked uglier than ever, as if infected by the general dejection. In story-books girls were wont to bid a sentimental adieu to their maiden bowers before leaving for a new sphere, but Rhoda did not feel in the least inclined to be sentimental; she took to her heels instead and ran downstairs, only too glad to escape from her dreary surroundings, and presently she and her mother were driving towards the station on the first stage of the eventful journey.

The village women stood at the doors of their cottages to put their aprons to their eyes, and murmur, "Ay, poor dear!" as she drove past; little Tommy Banks threw a nosegay of marigolds through the carriage window, and waddled away, scarlet with confusion; and there was quite a gathering of friends on the platform.

Ella had brought a box of home-made Fuller's sweets from herself and a dainty copy of The Christian Year as the Vicar's farewell offering; Mrs Ross had a stack of magazines for reading on the journey, and little Miss Jones, who owed all the comforts of life to Mrs Chester's friendship, presented the most elaborate "housewife," stocked with every necessary which it seemed probable that a girl at school would not require. It was all most touching and gratifying. Even the station - master came up to express his good wishes, and the one-eyed porter blurted out, "Glad to see you back, Miss!" as if it were impossible to suppress his feelings a moment longer.

Rhoda felt an insight into the feelings of Royalty as she stood at the window of the carriage, graciously smiling and bowing so long as she remained in sight, and when this excitement was over, another appeared to take its place. Mrs Chester was discovered to be crying in quite uncontrolled fashion, and at the sight of her tears Rhoda put on her severest air.

"Mother! What are you doing? You must not cry! Please remember that in half an hour we shall be at Euston, and meet the school. I should never get over it if the girls saw my mother with a red face!"

Mrs Chester mopped her eyes obediently, and made a valiant effort to regain her composure. For herself, poor dear, she cared little about appearances, but Rhoda had already exhibited an intense anxiety that she should make a good impression on the minds of her future school-fellows. Each separate article of clothing had been passed in review, while the bonnet had been changed three times over before the critic was satisfied. It would never do to spoil an effect which had been achieved with so much trouble; so the unselfish creature gulped down her tears, and tried to talk cheerfully on impersonal topics, keeping her eyes fixed on the landscape the while, lest the sight of her child might prove too much for her resolution.

Rhoda was immaculate in blue serge coat and skirt, and sailor hat with a band of school colours. Nothing could have been simpler; but there are ranks in even the simplest garments, and she was agreeably conscious that her coat was not as other coats, neither was her skirt as other skirts. The hand of the Regent Street tailor was seen in both, and there was a new arrangement of pleats at the back which ought in itself to secure the admiration of the school! She was all complacency until Euston was reached, when the first glimpse at a group of "Hurst" girls smote her to earth. She had sewn the band on her hat upside down, putting the wide stripe next the brim, which should by rights have been the place of the narrow! To the cold, adult mind such a discovery might seem of trifling importance, but to the embryo school-girl it was fraught with agonising humiliation. It looked so ignorant, so stupid; it marked one so hopelessly as a recruit; Rhoda's cheeks burned crimson; she looked searchingly round to see if by chance any other strangeling had fallen into the same error, but, so far as bands were concerned, she was solitary among the throng.

A governess, seeing the two figures standing apart from the rest, came forward and welcomed Rhoda with a few kindly words, but she was too busy to spare time for more than a greeting. Fresh girls kept arriving with every moment -- a crowd of brisk, alert, bustling young creatures, skurrying along bags in hand, and bright eyes glancing to right and left. At every step forward there would come a fresh recognition, a nod of the head, a wave of the hand, a quick "Halloa!" more eloquent than elegant. Rhoda felt a spasm of loneliness at the realisation that no greeting waited for herself, and at the strangeness of the many faces. She looked critically around and came to the most unfavourable conclusions.

"I don't like that one -- she's a fright! I hate that one -- she's so affected. Those two look common; I won't have anything to do with them. The big one with spectacles looks horribly learned. The one with the violin has a most unmusical face. She looks fit for stratagems if you like! The little one in brown is a cunning fox, I can see it in her eyes. Of all the plain, uninteresting, stodgy set of girls -- "

There was a movement inside the saloon carriage opposite, and a large mamma clad in black, with a profusion of bugles, stepped on to the platform and marched stolidly away. She steered a course clear of the crowd of girls, the ends of her mantle floating behind her, like a brig in full sail before the breeze, while her poor little daughter hung out of the doorway gazing after her, sobbing bitterly, and mouthing in pathetic, helpless misery.

Mrs Chester began to cry at once in sympathy, and even Rhoda felt a smarting of the eyes. It was coming! The crucial moment was at hand; the bell was ringing, the girls were crowding into the carriages, the governess stepped forward and spoke a warning word.

"You had better come now, dear! Please take your seat."

Rhoda turned and bent her tall young head to her little mother, but neither spoke -- the tension was too great. Mrs Chester's face was tremulous with agitation, the girl's white and defiant. Then she stepped into the carriage and seated herself among the crowd of strangers. The girls were all silent now, pale of face and red of eye, a few crying openly, the majority fighting against emotion. The mothers came to the edge of the platform, and stared in through the windows.

"It is like looking at animals in a cage," said Rhoda to herself, and then the wheels began to move, she saw her mother's quivering face -- saw it from a distance -- saw it no more -- and realised for the first time, with a great, bitter pang of anguish, the meaning of farewell!

She had not intended to cry, she had never believed it possible that she would cry, but it was hard work to resist it during the next half - hour, when every second bore her further from home, and the strangeness of her surroundings pressed more heavily upon her. Other girls were beginning to cheer up and exchange confidences with their companions, but she had no one with whom to talk. Two girls opposite -- the foxey one and the affected one -- were chatting quite merrily together. The affected one, whose name appeared to be Hilda, had spent part of her holiday at Boulogne, and was discoursing on the delights of Continental bathing, while Foxey, not to be outdone, would have her know that Scarborough kept pace with all the Continental methods.

Another girl made the harrowing discovery that she had left her spectacles at home, and announced the same to a chum, who remarked that it was "a ripping joke!" The violin girl had had a bicycling accident, and exhibited her scars with pride. The shock of parting over, they all seemed very happy together, very friendly, very absorbed; far too much absorbed to notice a new-comer, or trouble themselves on her behalf. The governess stood by Rhoda's side for a few minutes and made remarks in an aggressively cheerful manner, but her reception was not encouraging, and presently she went away, and did not return.

Rhoda looked at the pictures in her magazines, or pretended to look, for her brain was so much occupied with other matters that she could not grasp their meaning, and after five minutes' inspection would hardly have been able to say whether she had been studying the features of a country landscape or those of a society beauty. Then she turned and cautiously examined her neighbours. The girl to the right was a square, stolid-looking creature, square-faced, square-shouldered, with square toes to her boots, and elbows thrust out on each side in square, aggressive fashion. Her eyes were small and light, and her nose a defiance of classic traditions; the corners of her mouth turned down, and she had at once the solemnest and the most mischievous expression it is possible to imagine. After a critical survey of her charms, Rhoda felt that she was not the person with whom to force a conversation, and turned her attention to the neighbour on her left.

A recruit, surely; for, though her hat-band was in order, there was in her mien an absence of that brisk, independent air which seemed to characterise the old Hurst girl. A pretty damsel, too, with curling hair and soft dark eyes, which at the present moment were bent in elaborate scrutiny on the paper before her. Rhoda noticed that it was the advertisement page at which she was looking, and suspected a pre - occupation kindred to her own. She coughed slightly and ventured a gentle question -- 

"Is this your first term at school?"

The dark-eyed girl turned a fleeting glance upon her, so fleeting that it seemed as if she had never altered her position, and replied monosyllabically:

"Yes."

"You are going up, like me, for the first time?"

"Yes."

"And you have never been to school before?"

"Yes."

"I mean a boarding school. A big school like this, on all the new lines?"

"Yes."

This was disconcerting! What did she mean? It was her first term, she was a new girl, and yet she had been up before! What was the girl thinking about! She might really trouble herself to say more than one single word.

"But you said -- I understood you to say -- "

Brown Eyes turned fiercely upon her, and fairly snapped in indignation.

"I don't care what I said, or what you understood. Can't you see I want to be quiet? Can't you leave me alone? If I am a new girl, I don't want to howl before all the others, do I! Very well, then! don't make me talk! Read your book, and let me read mine."

"I beg your pardon!" said Rhoda, in her most stately manner. She took up her magazine obediently, but now it was more impossible than ever to read it, for she was tingling with mortification. Such a snub from a stranger, and when she was trying to be friendly too! It would be a long time before she troubled Brown Eyes again. Her thoughts went back regretfully to Ella, the loyal, the sympathetic, the faithfully admiring. If Ella were only here now, how different it would be! Why had she not thought of it before, and asked her parents to pay Ella's fees, so that she might have the solace of her presence? They would have done it gladly, but, alas! Ella could not have been spared from home. She had to help her mother; to be governess as well as pupil, teaching the younger children for part of every day. No! Ella was impossible; but the craving for companionship grew so intense that it even conquered the dread inspired by her other companion, and strengthened her to make yet another effort.

The train had just left a station whose name was familiar in her ears, and she realised that they had crossed the boundary between two counties, and were now in Blankshire, in which Hurst Manor itself was situated. To remark on this fact seemed an innocent and natural manner of opening a conversation, so she turned towards Square Face, and said brightly, "Now we are in Blankshire, I see! I have never been here before. The country looks very pretty and undulating."

The girl turned and stared at her with a wooden stolidity of feature. Seen at close quarters she appeared to Rhoda as at once the most extraordinarily ugly and comical-looking creature she had ever beheld. Her little eyes blinked, and the thin lips flapped up and down in an uncanny fashion that refused to be likened to any ordinary thing. There was a moment's silence, then she repeated in a tone of the utmost solemnity -- 

"The country is very pretty and undulating -- you are quite right. Your remark is most apt! May I ask if you would object to my repeating it to my friend over here? She would be so very much interested."

She was so preternaturally grave, that for a moment Rhoda was taken in by the pretence, the next she flushed angrily, and tilted her head in the air, but it was of no avail, for already the next girl was tittering over the quotation, and turning to repeat it in her turn. The simple words must surely contain some hidden joke, for on hearing it each listener was seized with a paroxysm of laughter, and face after face peered forward to stare at the originator, and chuckle with renewed mirth. It was a good ten minutes before it had travelled round the carriage and been digested by each separate traveller, and then, so far from dying out, it acquired fresh life from being adapted to passing circumstances, as when the train having stopped at a junction and moved on again with a jerk, Square Face fell prone into her companion's arms, and excused herself with a bland -- 

"Excuse me, dear. It's my little way. I am so pretty and undulating," and instantly the titters burst out afresh.

Rhoda's face was a study, but even as she sat fuming with passion, a voice spoke in her ear from the side where Brown Eyes still studied her advertisements.

"Laugh, can't you?" said the voice. "Laugh, too, as if you enjoyed the joke. It's the only way. They will go on all the more if they see you are angry."

"I hate them all!" hissed Rhoda savagely, and the other heaved a sigh.

"Ah, so do I, but they shan't hate me if I know it! I'm sorry I snapped, but I'll talk now, and for pity's sake don't look so dismal. Let us look over this paper together, and make remarks, and smile as if we were enjoying ourselves too."

"I don't feel as if I should ever enjoy myself again. It's hateful going to school. If I had known it was as bad as this I would never have come."

"There's a lake in the grounds. We will drown ourselves together after tea, but in the meantime do please keep up appearances. Don't give yourself away before all these girls!"

Rhoda looked at her curiously, and felt a thrill of comfort at finding a friend in the midst of her desolation. "What is your name?" she queried eagerly, and the dark eyes met hers in a solemn stare.

"Marah, for bitterness. That's how I feel to-day, anyhow. My godmothers and godfather christened me Dorothy, and in festive moments I have even answered to 'Doll,' but I'd murder any one who called me that to-day. Now, I'll show you something interesting... I've travelled on this line before, and if you look out of the window you can catch a glimpse of Hurst Manor as we pass the next station. It stands in its own grounds with nothing between it and the line. Over there to the right -- you can't miss it if you keep your eyes open. Now! There! That gaunt, grey building."

Rhoda looked, and there it lay -- a gaunt building, indeed, with row upon row of tall, bare windows staring like so many eyes, and out-standing wings flanked like sentinels on either side. The poor recruit's face lengthened with horror.

"It looks," she said dismally, "like a prison! It looks as if when you once got in, you would never never get out any more!"



Chapter Five.

First Impressions.

Ten minutes later the journey came to an end, and the girls surged out on to the platform of the country station. A line of waggonettes, cheerfully denominated "Black Marias" by the pupils, was in waiting, and with less confusion than might have been expected the girls divided into different parties, and seated themselves in the carriages marked with their own house colours. Rhoda and her travelling companions, being all "blue," were among the first to drive off, each girl clutching the handbag which contained the immediate necessities of her toilet, and chattering away at the pitch of her voice. "Square Face" was evidently the wag of the party, and was treated with an admiring deference which seemed to bespeak a position of importance. She was professionally addressed as "Tom," and Rhoda from her seat opposite, read the words, "Thomasina Bolderston," upon the label of the bag, and reflected that she had never heard a name more entirely appropriate to its owner. It was at once so ugly, so uncommon, and so arresting to the memory, while Tom herself, once seen, could never be forgotten, nor confounded with another girl. There she sat, the keen autumn air blanching her cheeks and reddening her eyes, her arms crossed squarely over her bag, her lips twitching with mischievous enjoyment. She had but to roll her eyes, and the girls went into fresh convulsions of laughter; and when, at the entrance to "Hurst" grounds, she took out her handkerchief and affected to sob, the merriment reached an almost hysterical pitch. Rhoda, however, failed to appreciate the humour of the joke, being inclined to cry in good truth as the grim doorway yawned before her, and she caught a glimpse of the chill, grey hall, so different from the glowing warmth of her own dear home.

Dorothy gripped her arm in sympathetic fashion as they alighted and fell into position in the long line of girls, who had suddenly thrown off their hoyden airs, and assumed a demeanour of severe propriety. The queue wended its serpentine course down the hall itself, and across a smaller corridor to the head of the great staircase, where stood a lady in a black silk dress, and a cap with lavender ribbons, crowning bands of iron-grey hair. She was in reality small of stature, but she held herself with an air which gave her the appearance of being six feet high at least, and as she shook hands with each girl she addressed to her a word of greeting.

"How do you do, Mary? Glad to see you, Kathleen. Hope you are better, Ella. Welcome back, Carrie!" and so on, and so on. Occasionally there came a hesitation, and the greeting terminated without a name being added, but whenever this was the case there was a knitting of the brows which showed distinct annoyance. Miss Bruce evidently took a pride in remembering her pupils, and was hard on herself for any forgetfulness. When it came to the turn of the new girls, she detained them a moment to hope they would be happy, before waving them forward with an encouraging smile.

"That's what we call being 'presented.' She is the Queen, and on the next landing are 'the Lords,' and on the second 'the Commons,'" whispered a girl, who being herself only in her second term was not averse from posing as preceptor. Rhoda lifted her eyes and beheld an array of governesses standing before her, shaking hands and welcoming the pupils in their turn. Some looked formidable and learned, some did not. Some had the orthodox braided locks and spectacles, some even condescended to the frivolity of a 'fringe,' but one and all bore themselves with a dignity worthy of a foremost position in the newest of all new schools.

Rhoda passed by as in a dream, and felt far more interest in "the Commons," who were for the most part young women removed from girlhood by so slight a barrier that there was a tone of comradeship in their voices, a sympathetic understanding in their glance. The sweetest looking of all was evidently in special charge of the Blues, and, walked by the side of the two new girls as the detachment filed along the endless corridor towards its own apartments.

"You two are sisters? No! Ah, well, you must pretend you are, for a day or two at least, until you get over the first loneliness. Every one feels lonely at first among such a crowd of strangers, but it soon passes, and we are very happy together. You must come and sit with me in my little den sometimes. I'll ask you to tea on Sunday, and you must always come to me if you are in any difficulty. In the meantime do as the other girls do, and you will get along quite easily. You are in the same room. Wash and get ready for tea at once. The gong will ring in half an hour, and after that your boxes will have arrived and you will be able to unpack."

They reached the door of the dormitory as she finished speaking, and the girls entered, trying not to feel as if they were being introduced to a prison cell, or to be unduly cast down because they were separated by half the length of the room.

"If we could have been next each other and just wobbled the curtain occasionally it would have been friendly!" sighed Rhoda, sinking down on the solitary chair and gazing forlornly round her new abode. A bed, a wash-stand, a chest of drawers with a glass on top, a small fixture wardrobe, and about three yards of space on which to disport her own fair self -- different quarters, indeed, from her room at home, with its spacious floor, its deep bay windows, its adjoining dressing-room and bathroom! When the curtains were drawn there was a feeling of cramped confinement which was most depressing to the spirits; yet, as her eye took in one detail after the other, Rhoda realised that there were redeeming points in the situation. Small as it was, the cubicle was decidedly pretty, and blue enough to satisfy the blondest of mistresses. Blue was the paint on the walls, blue the mat on the floor, blue and white the coverlet on the bed, blue the quaintly shaped china on the wash-stand. She remembered with a thrill of satisfaction that her own bags and cases were of the same hue, and took off her hat feeling that she had found an oasis in the desert of life.

Half-an-hour seemed a long time to prepare for tea, when no change of garment was possible, but it passed so quickly that the sound of the gong came as a surprise, and she emerged from her retreat to find her room-mates already filing towards the door. Thomasina led the way, staring at Rhoda's locks with an amusement which the girl found it hard to fathom. She had brushed out the curling mane with even greater care than usual, and was conscious that it was as tidy as nature had intended it should be. Then why stare and smile? She could not understand, but Thomasina only said enigmatically -- 

"Gather ye rosebuds while ye may! Come on, Fuzzy!" and led the way out into the corridor.

Lines of girls were appearing on every side -- along this corridor, along that, down narrow nights of stairs, around unexpected corners, all converging steadily on the central staircase. It was like a game of "Follow my leader," and Rhoda could not but admire the ease and skill with which "Tom" avoided collision, and marshalled her party to its own table in the great dining-hall. When every one was seated, and grace said, the clatter of cups and saucers began, and Rhoda had her first experience of a school meal.

Well! the tea was very welcome, and it certainly was hot, but somehow or other it did not taste like the tea at home. There was so much "cup" about it -- perhaps that was the explanation. It was quite an effort to get one's lips over the rim. Thickness seemed to be the order of the day when one looked from the china to the slices of bread and butter piled in the many plates. One such chunk would make a meal in itself, thought Rhoda, nibbling fastidiously at the first slice, but whether from the fatigue of the long journey or the stimulating effect of companionship, her appetite seemed to be unusually keen, and when it was finished she put out her hand to take a second slice.

Instantly Thomasina's voice rang out in warning. "Stop that, Fuzzy! That's forbidden!" Rhoda stared at her in dignified displeasure. "My name happens to be Rhoda Chester!"

"Congratulate you, I'm sure. Couldn't be sweeter; but you mustn't break rules, Rhoda Chester, all the same. The rule in this school is that no girl helps herself at meals, or asks for more, or pays any attention to her own plate."

"But if I am hungry? If I want more? How am I to get it?"

"You must rely on the thoughtfulness and attention of your neighbours. Each girl is supposed to look after those beside her, but if she forgets you must starve in silence, knowing that you suffer in a good cause. I find myself that a slight nudge applied to the elbow just as the cup is being carried to the mouth is a useful and judicious reminder... Let me press a piece of plum-cake upon you, Miss Chester!"

She held out the plate of bread with her squarest smile, and Rhoda smiled back with a curious sense of elation. She questioned herself curiously as to its cause, and made the surprising discovery that it was because Thomasina had spoken to her, and showed some faint signs of friendliness!

Tea over, there was another game of "Follow my leader," to the top story of the building this time, where all the length of a corridor was lined by baggage, with the mysterious addition of a flat wicker clothes-basket beside each trunk. The house-mistress, Miss Everett, was flitting to and fro, and explained to the bewildered new girls that as the cubicles afforded no room for the accommodation boxes they must unpack upstairs, and carry down their possessions to store in drawers and wardrobes.

For the next hour and a half, therefore, the curious scene was witnessed of sixty pupils staggering downstairs in turns under the weight of heavy baskets of clothes, and meeting with sundry adventures by the way. Lazy girls gave themselves the usual additional share of trouble by overweighting their load and toppling it over on the floor; hasty girls tripped on the stairs and collapsed in a heap, with a rain of boots falling on their head and pins showering broadcast through the banisters; careless girls took a rest to ease aching backs, then nipped up the wrong basket and bore it away, to reappear ten minutes later, puffing and injured, and receive indignant reproaches from the rightful owners.

Rhoda worked with a will, undisturbed by any such interruptions. It was with the unconsciousness of habit that she shook out her silk-lined skirts, on lifting them from the box, but the rustling sound could not be mistaken, and instantly she was aware that the girls on either side were mincing round in affected fashion, shaking out their own skirts, and simpering meaningly in her direction.

At the first glance from her eyes they became statues of propriety, but she felt their ridicule, and catching the giggles of laughter which followed her retreat blushed over cheek and neck in an agony of mortification.

After all, was it appropriate to bring fine clothes to school? Where the rules of the house were plain living and high thinking, was it not better to dress accordingly? Might not display savour of ignorance, of lack of perception, of -- oh, horrors! -- of snobbishness itself?

The new dresses hung neglected on their pegs, and Rhoda put on a silk blouse with her serge skirt, and walked down to supper in mental sackcloth and ashes.

But here was a pleasant surprise! The room was not grey any longer, but flooded with rosy light from the pink-hued shades which covered the electric burners. The girls, too, were no longer clad in dark blue as in a uniform, but shone forth in blouses of brilliant hues, pink, blue, red, and white alternating gaily, with an occasional green or yellow to add to the variety. There was in the atmosphere an indefinable air of relaxation, of rest after labour, which added tenfold to the brightness of the scene. What if on each plate there was only a morsel of fish, not half enough to satisfy clamourous appetites, there was unlimited bread and jam to follow, and if cocoa was not the drink of all others which one would have chosen, it was at least wholesome and satisfying. Rhoda ate and was thankful, and felt ready for bed even before the summons came. Several times during the day, when her feelings had threatened to become too keen for endurance, but pride had forbidden outward demonstration, she had cherished a determination to cry comfortably in bed; but when the time came she was so sleepy, so exhausted with excitement, the bed was so unexpectedly sympathetic, that she forgot her resolution, and, snoodling down on the pillow, fell swiftly and happily asleep.



Chapter Six.

Tom's Rule.

The next moment, as it seemed, there came the roll of a distant gong, and instantly there burst into life a score of jangling bells, clanging and tinkling over one's very head in a manner calculated to destroy the strongest nerves. Rhoda felt an agonised certainty that the Chase was on fire, and springing up was confronted by the blue walls of her little cubicle. Memory came back then, and with a pang of regret she lay back in bed, listening to the succession of groans, yawns, and sighs which arose from every corner of the room.

They were so eloquent that one could almost see the sleepers stretching themselves in turn, blinking heavy lids, and rubbing dishevelled locks like so many sleek, lazy kittens. For a moment no one spoke, then began a chorus of lamentations.

"Seven o'clock! It can't be true. I haven't slept a wink all night!"

"I've been getting up at half-past eight all the holidays, and having a cup of tea in bed before that. It's killing going back to this!"

"Wait till the mornings are dark, and the water is frozen in the jugs; that's the time it is really fun. This is a mere trifle."

"It's not a trifle at all. I'm a growing girl, and need sleep. If Miss Bruce had any heart she would see it, and give me an excuse."

"She'll give you a mark instead, if you are not quick. Hurry up now! No laggards!" cried Thomasina's voice, in answer to which there came still louder groans, and the creaking of bedsteads as one girl after another rose to her feet.

Rhoda rose with the rest, and for ten minutes there was silence, broken only by the splashing of water. Then suddenly the air was filled with a deep, melodious roll, at which, as at a signal, Thomasina appeared from her lair -- beautiful in a magenta dressing-jacket, and hair coiled in a tight little knot at the top of her head -- and opened wide the door of the dormitory. Rhoda, peering from between her curtains could see other doors opening all the way down the corridor, and bare arms hastily withdrawn from view, while all the time the music swelled into fuller force, and pealed over the great, silent house like some majestic wakening voice.

"What is it?" she queried breathlessly, and Thomasina answered from behind her curtain:

"The organ, of course. The organ in the hall. One of the music mistresses plays a voluntary every morning ten minutes after we get up, and the choir sings a hymn. You will hear them presently. Each house takes it in turn to do choir duty. It's the Greens this week."

As she spoke the first note of the hymn sounded, and the words rose clearly on the air: -- 

"Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty, Early in the morning our song shall rise to Thee. Holy, holy, holy, Merciful and Mighty, God in Three Persons, Blessed Trinity!"

The clear voices were softened by distance into almost angelic sweetness, the treble rang true and sweet against the harmonious background of alto; the organ sank to a flute-like softness. It was an unexpected and beautiful beginning to the day's work, and the tears started to Rhoda's eyes as she listened, for she was of an emotional nature, quick to respond to any outside influence. She followed each line of the hymn with devout attention, and when it was finished knelt down beside her bed to offer a prayer, which was much longer and more fervent than it would have been ten minutes before. She prayed for strength, for guidance, and -- with a remembrance of yesterday's trials --  for patience too, that she might be able to take a joke in good part, and not value too highly her own dignity, and finally rose from her knees in a glow of virtuous resolution.

No sooner was she out of her cubicle than the blow descended. With the glow of good resolution still upon her, she was tried -- and fell!

Thomasina regarded her critically, and said, with a cool assurance more maddening than downright rudeness:

"That coiffure is very becoming, Fuzzy, but it won't do here. Go back to your den, and plait it in a pigtail like mine!"

The glare of indignation, of scorn, of outraged dignity in Rhoda's eyes was beyond description. She straightened her back into a poker of obstinacy, and replied -- 

"I shall do no such thing! I shall wear my hair as I choose, and as I have always worn it."

"No you won't, my dear. Pigtails are the rule in this establishment, and pigtails you must wear so long as you are within its walls."

"If a teacher tells me to wear one, I shall obey. If it is a rule, some one in authority will tell me. I won't be ordered by you."

There was a gasp of astonishment throughout the room, and one head after another peered out to stare at the rebellious spirit who dared to defy that important personage, the Head Girl.

Thomasina closed her eyes and smiled in maddening fashion.

"That's where you make your mistake, sweet love, for it's just exactly what you've got to do! I'm Head Girl, and don't you forget it. The Queen on her throne is not more absolute than I am in this room. If you don't do what I tell you, it will be my painful duty to report you for insubordination, and it is a sad thing for a girl to get a mark on her first day. I must trouble you for that pigtail, if you please."

She was speaking the truth, that was evident! Confirmation was written on every watching face, in every warning frown. Rhoda's pride battled with a sense of helplessness so acute that she had much ado not to burst into tears on the spot. The two girls stood confronting each other, the new-comer flushed and quivering, like a beautiful young fury, with her flaxen hair streaming over her shoulders, and her blue eyes sending out sparks of fire; Thomasina composed and square, with her lips pursed up in a good-humoured, tolerant smile.

"Hurry up!" she said, and Rhoda whisked round and dashed behind her curtain, which flew out behind in an aggrieved fashion, as if unused to be treated with such scant courtesy. The next few moments seemed to have concentrated in them a lifetime of bitterness. The comb tugged remorselessly through the curling locks, but the physical pain passed unnoticed; it was the blow to pride which hurt -- the sharp, sharp stab of finding herself worsted, and obliged to give in to the will of another. It was nothing at that moment that the pigtail was ugly and unbecoming; Rhoda would have shaved her head and gone bald for ever if by this means she could have escaped that verdict; but to appear again before all the girls with that hateful, hateful wisp hanging down her back -- she felt as if she would die rather than do it; yet would it not be even more degrading to wait for a summons? She stalked forth, straight and defiant, and was received with a bland smile.

"Pretty fair for a first attempt. Plait it down further next time. I must have my girls neat and tidy. Now then, forward please -- Right, left! right, left!"

The order was accompanied by a tap on the shoulder, which put the finishing touch to Rhoda's exasperation. She stepped into her place in the queue, trembling from head to foot, and with a painful throbbing in her head which was something new in her healthy experience. Immediately in front marched a tall, straight form, whom at first she failed to recognise, but at the head of the staircase there came a temporary wait, and then the head was turned towards her, and, behold, it was Dorothy herself, pigtailed like the rest, and looking curiously reduced without the background of hair.

"Morning!" she cried cheerily, and Rhoda gasped a breathless question.

"You too! Did she tell you? I never heard -- "

"Didn't give her a chance! Heard her ordering you, and nipped mine up in a trice. Treat it as a matter of course, and don't seem to mind --  that's the tip! Only get yourself disliked by making a fuss."

"I know, but I can't help it," sighed Rhoda dismally.

"I'm not used to bullying, and it makes me wild. My head's splitting. I feel all churned up."

"Worse troubles at sea!" said Dorothy shortly, and after that there was no more chance of conversation, for the queue moved on again, and they were separated at breakfast as at dinner the night before. Thomasina sat opposite to Rhoda, and pressed the various dishes upon her good - temperedly, ignoring all causes of discord, an attitude which, if she had only known it, but added to the score against her, for pride forced a haughty "No, thanks," whilst appetite prompted "Yes, please." To sit with empty plate, and see others feast on bread and marmalade is no slight trial when one is fifteen and a-hungred, but no one urged Rhoda to change her mind, or thought it possible to succeed where the Head Girl failed.

There were no regular lessons during the morning, but a great deal of confusing moving to and fro from one class-room to another, to go over preliminary arrangements, and receive instructions from the mistresses. Sometimes the new girls were ignored altogether, and then they felt worms, and ready to sink through the earth; sometimes they were questioned as to their attainments, and then the very walls seemed to have ears, and their replies echoed through a deadly silence. Dorothy attained a fair level throughout, and reaped neither praise nor blame, but Rhoda knew alternate rapture and despair, as Mademoiselle and Fraulein beamed approval, and the "class-mistress" put up her eye - glasses and regarded her as one might regard a wild animal at the Zoo, upon hearing that she had "done" no Latin or mathematics.

"You will not do much good at this school without them," she said, severely. "They are the most important subjects. I advise you to give all the time you can spare to working them up, and to get, if possible, some coaching during the holidays. That is, of course, if you wish to excel."

If she wished to excel! If, indeed! Did any one suppose for a moment that Rhoda Chester would be content to remain among the rank and file? Did they think that she could continue to be ignored, and live! Ten thousand times no! "A day would come!" as Disraeli had said. They thought just now that she was nobody, but in time to come the school would know her name, would be proud of it, would boast of it to other schools. Rhoda reared her head and smiled complacently, and the class - mistress noted the action, and made a mental note that the new pupil must be "kept down."

The morning seemed very long, but it came to an end at last with a blessed ten minutes "off" before preparing for dinner. The other girls hurried to their cubicles, but Rhoda waylaid Miss Everett in the corridor, and appealed to her in breathless eagerness.

"You said I was to come to you in any difficulty... I want to know if it is necessary for me to wear my hair like this? I never do it at home, and I'm sure my mother wouldn't like it. Is it really the rule?"

"I'm afraid it is," said Miss Everett kindly. "You don't like it, eh? Well, I don't wonder! I shouldn't myself, in your place; but you see, dear, bending over desks, and running about at games, loose hair gets in the way, and cannot possibly be kept tidy. It seems an arbitrary rule, but there's reason in it, as there is in all the rules if you think them out, and it doesn't apply to every day. On Thursday evening we have 'Frolics,' and then you can wear it loose, and put on your prettiest things. There is always something going on -- concerts, dances, or theatricals -- and Miss Bruce likes the girls to look bonnie and festive. On Sundays, too, you can go back to your mop if you choose. I hope you will, for I like to see it. I have a little sister with hair just like yours."

She laid her hand affectionately on the curly head, and the touch of kindliness acted as balm to Rhoda's sore heart. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, and she said huskily:

"I'll do anything you tell me. I won't mind; but that Thomasina --  she's hateful! I can't stand being ordered about by a girl of my own age."

"Ah-h!" cried Miss Everett, and sighed as at the recurrence of a well - known trouble. "Well, you know, Rhoda, you must get over that feeling, and conform to the rules of the school. Thomasina is a great help to me, and makes a capital 'head girl.' You see, dear, I have no time to look after these details. The girls think that they are busy, but long after they are asleep at night I am slaving away correcting exercises. Oh such piles of books! it makes me tired even to see them. I'll do what I can for you, but you mustn't expect too much; and after all, in a week or ten days you will have mastered the rules, and the difficulty will be over. You wouldn't make a fuss for one week, would you? Stay! There is one thing I can tell you now, and that is that you won't be allowed to wear those slippers any longer. I'll give you an order, and you can go downstairs to the bureau and get a pair of school shoes like the other girls wear."

Rhoda gasped with dismay.

"What! Those frightful things with square toes and no heels! Those awful tubs that Thomasina waddles about in!"

Miss Everett laughed gaily. She was only a girl herself, and she cast a quick glance up and down the corridor to see if any one were coming before she drew aside her skirt to exhibit her own flat feet.

"They are awful! I love pretty shoes, too; and the first time I wore these I -- I cried! I was very home-sick, you see, and nervous and anxious about my work, and it seemed the last straw. Never mind! it's only a little thing, and on Thursday you shall wear your very best pair and I'll wear mine, and we'll compare notes and see which is the prettier."

To say that Rhoda adored her is to state the matter feebly. She could have knelt down in the passage and kissed the ugly little feet; she could have done homage before this young mistress as before a saint; when the light streamed out of a window and rested on her head, it seemed to take the form of a halo!

She went meekly downstairs, procured the shoes, and carried them into Dorothy's cubicle, to display before the eyes of that horrified young woman.

"There! We've got to wear those, too! It's the rule. Miss Everett told me, and gave me an order to get them. You had better ask her for one before Thomasina gets a chance."

Dorothy looked at her solemnly, and measured the slipper against her own neat shoe; then she took off the latter and held the two side by side. One was arched and slim, the other flat and square; one had French heels and little sparkling buckles, the other was of dull leather, unrelieved by any trace of ornament.

"Here's deggeradation!" she sighed hopelessly. "Here's deggeradation!"



Chapter Seven.

The Record Wall.

There was no end to the surprises of that wonderful school! When Rhoda returned to her cubicle to get "tidy" for dinner, she washed, brushed her hair, put an extra pin in her tie to make sure that it was straight, wriggled round before the glass to see that belt and bodice were immaculately connected, put a clean handkerchief in her pocket, nicked the clothes-brush over her skirt, and, what could one do more? It seemed on the face of it that one could do nothing, but the other girls had accomplished a great deal more than this. Rhoda never forgot the shock of dismay which she experienced on first stepping forth, and beholding them. It was surely a room full of boys, not girls, for skirts had disappeared, and knickerbockers reigned in their stead. The girls wore gym. costumes, composed of the aforesaid knickers, and a short tunic, girt round the waist with a blue sash, to represent the inevitable house colour. Thomasina's aspect was astounding, as she strode to and fro awaiting the gathering of her forces, and the new girls stared at her with distended eyeballs. Rhoda had registered a vow never to volunteer a remark to the hateful creature; but Dorothy stammered out a breathless -- 

"You never said -- We never knew -- Is it a rule?"

"Not compulsory, or I would have told you; you may do as you please. They wear gyms, at Wycombe in the afternoon, and we have adopted the idea to a certain extent. Most of the girls prefer it for the sake of the games, for it is so much easier to run about like this. For myself, I affect it for the sake of appearances. It is so becoming to my youthful charms."

She simpered as she spoke, with an affectation of coyness that was irresistibly amusing. Dorothy laughed merrily, and Rhoda resisted doing the same only by an enormous effort of self-will. She succeeded, however, in looking sulky and bad-tempered, and went downstairs feeling quite pleased with herself for resisting an unworthy impulse.

All the old girls were in gym. costume, and a quaint sight it was to watch them descending the great central staircase. Lanky girls, looking lankier than ever; fat girls, looking fatter than ever; tall girls magnified into giantesses; poor little stumpies looking as if viewed through a bad piece of window glass. Plump legs, scraggy legs, and legs of one width all the way down, and at the end of each the sad, inevitable shoe, and down each back the sad, inevitable pigtail! Now and again would come a figure, light and graceful as a fawn, the embodiment of charming youth; but as a rule the effect was far from becoming.

Rhoda's criticisms, however, were less scathing than usual, for she herself was suffering from an unusual attack of humility! If any reader of this veracious history has to do with the management of a self - confident, high-spirited girl, who needs humbling and bringing to her senses, let the author confidently recommend the pigtail and flat-heeled system! To fasten back a mane of hair is at once to deprive the culprit of one of her most formidable means of defence.

She has no shelter behind which to retire, as an ambush from the enemy; she has nothing to toss and whisk from side to side, expressing defiance without a word being uttered. The very weight of the pigtail is a sobering influence; its solemn, pendulum movement is incompatible with revolt. As for the slippers -- well, try heel-less shoes yourself, and test their effect! They bring one to earth, indeed, in the deepest sense of the word. All very well to mince about in French shoes, and think "What a fine girl am I," but once try mincing in flat, square soles, and you will realise that the days are over for that kind of thing, and that nothing remains but humility and assent!

Dinner over, the girls adjourned into the grounds; but as games, like lessons, could not be begun without some preliminary arrangement, most of the pupils contented themselves with strolling about, in twos and threes, exchanging confidences about the holidays and hatching plans for the weeks to come. Rhoda and Dorothy were standing disconsolately together, when Miss Everett flitted past, and stopped for a moment to take pity on their loneliness.

"What are you two going to do? You mustn't stand here looking like pelicans in the wilderness. You must walk about and get some exercise. I'm too busy to go with you myself, but -- er -- Kathleen!" She held up her hand in summons to the second-term girl who had volunteered information about the Lords and Commons -- "Here, Kathleen, you remember what it is to be a new girl; take Rhoda and Dorothy round the grounds, and show them everything that is interesting. Have a brisk walk, all of you, and come back with some colour in your cheeks!"

She was off again, smiling and waving her hand, and the three girls stood gazing at each other in shy, uncertain fashion.

"Well," said Kathleen, "where shall we go first? The Beech Walk, I suppose; it's half-a-mile long, so if we go to the end and back we shall have a constitutional before looking at the sights. The grounds are very fine here, and there is lots of room for all we want to do. You can find a sunny bit, or a shady bit, according to the weather, but it's only on really scorching days that we are allowed to lounge. Then there's a scramble for hammocks, and the lucky girls tie them on to the branches of trees, and swing about, while the others sit on the grass. Once or twice we had tea under the trees, and that was fine, but as a rule they keep you moving. Games are nearly as hard work as lessons!"

"But you needn't play unless you like?"

"Oh, yes, you must; unless you are ill or tired. You can get off any day if you don't feel well, but not altogether. And you would not wish to either. It would be so horribly flat! Once you are into a team, you are all anxiety to get into another, and I can tell you when you see your remove posted up on the board, it is b-liss! -- perfect bliss!"

The recruits laughed, and looked at their new friend with approving glances. She was, so far, the only one of the girls who had treated them on an equality, and gave herself no air of patronage, and they were correspondingly appreciative. They asked eagerly in which games she had won her remove, and Rhoda, at least, was disappointed at the answer.

"Cricket! That's the great summer game. I've three brothers at home, and used to practise with them sometimes to make an extra one. They snubbed me, of course: but I'm not a bad bat, though I say it myself."

"And what about tennis?"

"Um-m!" Kathleen pursed up her lips. "We have courts, of course, but its rather -- Missy, don't you think? The sports captains look down on it, and so, of course, it's unpopular. The little girls play occasionally. It keeps them happy."

This was a nice way to speak of a game which had been for years the popular amusement of young England! Rhoda was so shocked and disappointed that she hardly dared mention croquet, and it seemed, indeed, as if it would have been better if she had refrained, for Kathleen fairly shouted at the name.

"My dear, how can you! Nobody plays croquet except old tab --  I mean ladies who are too old to do anything else. Miss Bruce plays sometimes when she has the vicar's wife to tea. We hide behind the bushes and watch them and shake with laughter. Croquet, indeed! I should like to see Tom's face if you mentioned croquet to her!"

"It's a matter of perfect indifference to me what Miss Bolderston thinks," said Rhoda, loftily; but she veered away from the subject of games all the same and tackled lessons instead.

"Are you working for any special examination, or just taking it easily?"

"I'm going in for the Oxford Senior in summer. My birthday is so horribly arranged that it comes just one week before the limit. A few days later would give me a year to the good, but as it is it's my last chance. If I can only scrape through in preliminaries I am not afraid of the rest, but I am hopelessly bad in arithmetic. I add up with all my fingers, and even then the result comes wrong; and when so much depends upon it I know I shall get flurried and be worse than ever."

"The great thing is to keep cool. If you don't lose your head, I shouldn't wonder if the excitement helped you. Say to yourself, 'Don't be a fool!' and make yourself keep quiet," quoth Miss Rhoda, with an air of wisdom which evidently impressed her hearers. They glanced first at her and then at each other, and the glance said plainly as words could speak that here was a girl who had strength of mind -- a girl who would make her mark in the school!

"I'll try!" said Kathleen, meekly. "I am terribly anxious about this exam., for if I do well and pass better than any one else in the school I shall get a scholarship of £40 towards next year's fees. That would be a great help to my parents, for they are poor, and have only sent me here that I may have a chance of getting on and being able to teach some day. I should be so thankful if I could help, for it's horrid to know the people at home are stinting themselves for your sake. I lie awake at nights imagining that the report is in, and I am first, and then I write a long letter home and tell them about it. Each time I invent a fresh letter, and they are so touching, you can't think! I cried over one, one night, and Tom came round to see what was the matter. At other times I imagine I'm plucked, and I go cold all over; I think I should die! Never mind, nine months yet! I'll work like a slave, and if I do fail no one can say it's my own fault."

"You won't fail. Don't imagine anything so horrible! You will get over your nervousness and do splendidly, and write your letter in real earnest," cried Dorothy cheerily. "I am going in for the Oxford too, but you need fear no rival in me. I am one of those deadly, uninteresting creatures, who never reach anything but a fair medium. There isn't a 'distinction' in me, and one could never be first at that rate. A scrape-through pass is all I'm good for!"

"I could get two distinctions at once! I know more German and French than ninety girls out of a hundred. Two distinctions! It's a big start. I wonder -- I wonder if I could possibly be first!" said Rhoda to herself, and her breath came fast, and her cheeks grew suddenly hot. "Nine months! Nine months!" If she studied hard, and worked up the subjects on which she was behind, might she not have a chance with the rest? The first girl! Oh, if only it could be possible, what joy, what rapture! What a demonstration of power before the school. She went off into a blissful dream in which she stood apart, receiving the congratulations of Miss Bruce and her staff, and saw Thomasina's face regarding her with a new expression of awe. Then she came back to real life, to look remorsefully at her new friend, and notice for the first time her pinched and anxious air.

"But I would give Kathleen the money. I want nothing but the honour," she assured herself, shutting her mind obstinately against the conviction that such a division might not be altogether easy to arrange. "And Dorothy is going in, too; lots of girls are going in, so why should not I? And if I enter I must do my best; nobody could object to that!"

Nevertheless there was an unaccountable weight on her heart, which made it a relief when the subject dropped, and Kathleen began to point out the various out-buildings scattered over the grounds.

"That's the pavilion. We keep all the games there, and it's so nicely furnished. There is quite a pretty sitting-room, and a stove, and all the materials for making tea. On Saturday afternoons the winning teams may stay behind and have tea there by themselves, and buy cakes from the housekeeper. It's ripping! We look forward to it as the Saturday treat, and aren't you just mad if your side loses! That's the joiner's shop. You can have lessons if you like, and learn to make all sorts of things; but I've no ambition to be a carpenter, so I don't go... That's a summer-house, but it's so earwiggy that we leave it alone... That was meant to be a swimming-bath, but the water comes straight from a well, and it is so deadly cold that the girls got cramp, and Miss Bruce forbade them to use it any more. It looks wretchedly deserted now. If you want to be miserable all by yourself you couldn't have a better place. It's so still and dark, and the birds have built their nests in the corners, and come suddenly flying past, and frighten you out of your wits... Those little patches are the girls' own gardens. You can have lessons in gardening, and get a prize if you are clever. I don't go in for that either, for it's an extra expense."

"Oh, I must have a garden!" cried Rhoda quickly. "I adore flowers, and they could send me cuttings from home. I always had my own garden, but I didn't do the work, of course. I just said how it was to be arranged, and what plants I wanted, and every one admired it, and said how successful it was. I had big clumps of things, you know; not one straggling plant here and another there, but all banked up together. You should have seen my lily bed! I made the men collect all the odd bulbs and plant them together, and they were a perfect show. The scent met you half-way down the path; it was almost overpowering. And then I had a lot of the new cactus dahlias, and left only about two branches on each, so that they came up like one huge bush with all the lovely contrasting colours. Many people say they don't like dahlias, but that is only because they haven't seen them properly grown."

"Oh well, I loathe them myself, and I always shall do. You never get any satisfaction out of them, however pretty they may be, for as soon as people see them, they begin groaning and saying, 'Oh, dear, dear, autumn flowers already! How sad it is. Winter will soon be upon us.'" Dorothy sniffed derisively. It was evident that no support was to be expected from her on the dahlia question, and Rhoda felt that only time and experience could prove to her the folly of her position.

When all the out-buildings had been explained, Kathleen led the way down a winding path which seemed to lead to nowhere in particular, but rather to come to an abrupt cul-de-sac in the shape of a high grey wall. Her companions wondered at her choice, but she went forward with an air of determination, so that there was nothing left but to follow, and hope soon to return to more interesting scenes. When she came to the end of the path, however, she stood still and began to smile with a most baffling air of mystery. What did it mean? What were they expected to see? The girls wheeled to and fro, looked at the paths, the beds, the flowers, frowned in bewilderment, and then suddenly lifted their eyes to the wall, and uttered simultaneous exclamations of surprise.

The wall was dotted over with little tablets of stone, on each of which was a neatly engraved inscription, and each inscription bore the name of a girl at its head. Rhoda craned forward and read first one and then another:

"...Winifred Barton, joined Hurst Manor, September, 189 -- , left Christmas, 189 -- . The youngest pupil who ever obtained honours in Mathematics in the Oxford Local Examinations."

"Elizabeth Charrington, an old pupil of the school, obtained First Class in the Honours School of Modern History at Oxford."

"Eleanor Newman, joined Hurst Manor, September, 189 -- , left Mid., 189 -- . Beloved by her fellow-students as the kindest and most loyal of friends, the most unselfish of competitors. Held in grateful remembrance for the power of her influence and example."

"Fanny Elder. For two years Games President of the school. Winner of the Wimbledon Lawn Tennis Tournament, 189 -- . Holder of Edinburgh Golf Cup, 189 -- . A just and fearless sportswoman..."

The list of names went on indefinitely, but Rhoda had read enough to inflame curiosity, and wheeled eagerly round to confront Kathleen.

"What is it? What does it mean? Who puts them up? Is it just the cleverest girls? -- "

"It's the Record Wall!" said Kathleen. "We are very proud of our Record Wall at Hurst. The cost of these tablets is paid by the pupils themselves, and they are put up entirely at their discretion. The teachers have nothing to do with it. If a girl has distinguished herself at work, but is conceited and overbearing, and makes herself disliked, no one wants to put up a tablet to her; so it is really a testimony to character, as well as to cleverness. Eleanor Newman was quite stupid, they say. I never knew her. She never passed a single examination, nor took a prize nor anything, yet every one loved her. She was a little, fair thing, with curly hair too short to tie back, and soft, grey eyes. She wasn't a bit goody, but she always seemed waiting to do kind things, and make peace, and cheer the girls when they were home-sick. And no one ever heard her say a cross word, or make an uncharitable remark."

"And did she die?" croaked Rhoda solemnly. A long experience of girls' stories had taught her that when girls were sweet and fair, and never said an unkind word, they invariably caught a chill, and died of rapid consumption. She expected to hear the same report of Eleanor Newman, but Kathleen replied briskly:

"Die! Not a bit of it. She married, at nineteen, a doctor down in Hampshire, and brought him to see the school on their honeymoon. The Greens escorted her in a body to the Record Wall, and when she saw her own name she covered her face with her hands, and flew for her life. And her husband looked quite weepy. The girls said he could hardly speak!"

"Ah-h!" sighed Rhoda, and was silent. She felt "weepy" too, filled with a sudden yearning, a sudden realisation of want. Eleanor Newman had risen to heights to which she could never attain. "A little, fair thing, and almost stupid," yet her school-fellows loved her, and immortalised her name in words of grateful loyalty. She sighed again, and yet again, and heard Kathleen's voice cry sharply -- 

"Oh, I look at that empty space, and wonder if this time next year I shall read there that I have passed first, and won the Scholarship. I wonder if ever, ever there will be a tablet with my name upon it!"

"I expect there will be," said Dorothy. "It's a lovely idea, and I can imagine every girl longing to see her name on the scroll of honour; but for my own part I never shall. Not for this child! There is no hope for me, unless they put me up as 'a good little tortoise who never fell asleep.' The worst of it is that in real life the hare keeps awake too, and spoils one's chance. I must be content to bloom, in obscurity -- 'A violet by a mossy dell, half hidden from the eye' -- "

But Rhoda already saw a new tablet twinkling on the empty space, a tablet recording phenomenal success and distinction, and the name at the head of the inscription was not "Kathleen Murray," but one much more familiar in her ears!



Chapter Eight.

An Encounter.

Sunday afternoon was hopelessly wet; but the fact was less regretted than usual, as from three to four was the time put aside for writing home. So far a postcard to announce safe arrival had been the only word written, and each girl was eager to pour forth her feelings at length, to tell the latest news, and report changes of class. The two new - comers had a score of complaints and lamentations to record, and Rhoda, at least, entered unhesitatingly into the recital.

She had never been so miserable in her life. The girls were hateful, domineering, and unfriendly -- Miss Bruce had spoken to her three times only -- the food was good enough in its way, but so plain that she simply longed for something nice; the lessons were difficult, the hours unbearably long. -- It took three whole sheets to complete the list of grievances, by which time her hand was so tired that she read it over by way of a rest, with the result that she was quite astonished to discover how miserable she had been! Everything she had said was true, and yet somehow the impression given was of a depth of woe which she could not honestly say she had experienced. Perhaps it was that she had omitted to mention the alleviating circumstances -- Miss Everett's sweetness, Fraulein's praise, hours of relaxation in the grounds, signs of softening on the part of the girls, early hours and regular exercises, which sent her to the simple meals with an appetite she had never known at home. Five days at school, and on the whole there had been as much pleasure as suffering. Then, was it quite fair to send home such a misleading account?

Rhoda drew from her pocket the latest of the five loving letters penned by the maternal hand, and read it through for the dozenth time. Sunday was a lonely day for new-comers, and the period occupied by the sermon in church had been principally occupied by Rhoda in pressing back the tears which showed a presumptuous desire to roll down her cheeks and splash upon her gloves. It had been a sweet consolation to read over and over again the words which showed that though she might be one of a crowd at "Hurst," she was still the treasured darling of her home. There was nothing original in the letter; it simply repeated in different words the contents of its four predecessors -- sorrow for her absence, prayers for her welfare, anxiety for the first long letter.

"I can hardly wait until Monday morning. I am so longing to know how you are faring!" Rhoda read these words, and looked slowly down upon her own letter. Well! it would arrive, and the butler would place it on the breakfast-table, and her mother would come hurrying into the room, and seize it with a little cry of joy. She would read it over, and then -- then she would hand it to her husband, and take out her handkerchief and begin to cry. Mr Chester would pooh-pooh her distress, but she would cry quietly behind the urn, and despite his affectation of indifference he, also, would look worried and troubled; while Harold would declare that every one must go through the same stage before settling down, and that Rhoda might be expected to "make a fuss." She had been so spoiled at home!

Rhoda dug her pen into the blotting-paper, and frowned uneasily. Five days' experience at school had impressed her with the feebleness of "making a fuss."

"If you are hurt -- bear it! If you are teased -- look pleasant! If you are blamed -- do better next time! If you feel blue -- perk up, and don't be a baby!" Such were the Spartan rules of the new life, and an unaccustomed shame rose up in her mind at the realisation of the selfishness and weak betrayal of that first home letter. Was it not possible to represent the truth from the bright side as well as the dark, to dwell on the kindnesses she had received, and leave disagreeables untold? Yes, it was possible; she would do so, and save her dear ones the pain of grieving for her unhappiness. So the thick sheets were torn across with a wrench, which made Thomasina look up from her desk.

As a head girl, "Tom" possessed a study of her own, to which she had prepared to depart earlier in the afternoon, but had been persuaded to stay by the entreaties of her companions.

"Tom, don't go! Don't leave us! It's a wet day, and so dull -- do stay with us till tea-time. You might! You might!" urged the suppliant voices, and so Tom sat down to her desk in the house-parlour which was the property of the elder Blues, and indited letters on blue-lined, manly paper, with a manly quill pen.

As her eyes rested on the torn letter and on the clean sheet of paper drawn up for a fresh start, she smiled, a quiet understand-all-about-it smile, which Rhoda chose to consider an impertinent liberty. Then down went her head again, and the scrape, scrape of pens continued until four o'clock, by which time the girls were thankful to fold the sheets in their envelopes and make them ready for post. Rhoda read over her second effort in a glow of virtue, and found it a model of excellence. No complaints this time, no weak self-pity; but a plain statement of facts without any personal bias. Her father and mother would believe that she was entirely contented; but Harold, having been through the same experiences, would read between the lines and understand the reserve. He would say to himself that he had not expected it of Rhoda, and that she had behaved "like a brick," and Harold's praise was worth receiving.

Altogether it was in a happier frame of mind that Rhoda left her desk and took her place in one of the easy chairs with which the room was supplied. From four to five was a free hour on Sundays, and the girls were allowed to spend it as they liked, without the presence of a teacher.

This afternoon talk was the order of the day, each girl in turn relating the doings of the holidays, and having her adventures capped by the next speaker. Thomasina, however, showed a sleepy tendency, and kept dozing off for a short nap, and then nodding her head so violently that she awoke with a gasp of surprise. In one of these intervals she met Dorothy's eyes fixed upon her with a wondering scrutiny, which seemed to afford her acute satisfaction.

"Ah!" she cried, sitting up and looking in a trice quite spry and wide - awake. "I know what you are doing! You are admiring me, and wondering what work of nature I most resemble. I can see it in your face. And you came to the conclusion that it was a codfish! No quibbles, please! Tell me the truth. That was just exactly it, wasn't it?"

"No!" cried Dorothy emphatically, but the emphasis expressed rather contrition for a lost opportunity than for a wrongful suspicion. "No, I did not!" it seemed to say, "How stupid not to have thought of it. You -- really -- are -- extraordinarily like!"

"Humph!" said Thomasina. "Then you are the exception, that's all. All the new-comers say so, and therein they err. It's not a cod at all, it's a pike. I am the staring image of a pike!"

She screwed up her little eyes as she spoke, and pulled back her chin in a wonderful, fish-like grin which awoke a shriek of merriment from the beholders. Even Rhoda laughed with the rest, and reflected that if one were born ugly it was a capital plan to accept the fact, and make it a joke rather than a reproach. Thomasina was the plainest girl she had ever seen, yet she exercised a wonderful attraction, and was infinitely more popular among her companions than Irene Grey, with her big eyes and well-cut features.

"Next time you catch a pike just look at it and see if I'm not right," continued Tom easily. "But perhaps you don't fish. I'm a great angler myself. That's the way I spend most of my time during the holidays."

"I don't like fishing, its so wormy," said Irene, with a shudder. "I like lolling about and feeling that there's nothing to do, and no wretched bells jangling every half-hour to send you off to a fresh class. 'Nerve rest,' that's what I need in my holidays, and I take good care that I get it."

"I don't want rest. I want to fly round the whole day and do nice things," said a bright-eyed girl in a wonderful plaid dress ornamented with countless buttons -- "lunches, and teas, and dinners, and picnics, and dances, and plays. I like to live in a whirl, and stay in bed to breakfast, and be waited on hand and foot. I don't say I get it, but it's what I would have if I could."

"Well, I'm a nice, good little maid who likes to help her mother and be useful. When I go back I say to her, 'Now don't worry any more, dear; leave all to me,' and I run the house and make them all c-ringe before me. Even the cook is afraid of me. She says I have such 'masterful ways.'"

The speaker was a tall, fair girl, with a very large pair of spectacles perched on the bridge of an aquiline nose. She looked "masterful" enough to frighten a dozen cooks, and made a striking contrast to the next speaker, a mouse-like, pinched little creature, with an air of conscious, though unwilling, virtue.

"I spent the last half of these holidays with a clergyman uncle, and helped in the parish. I played the harmonium for the choir practice, and kept the books for the Guilds and Societies. His daughter was ill, and there was no one else to take her place, so, of course, I went at once. It is quite a tiny little country place -- Condleton, in Loamshire."

"What!" cried Rhoda, and sat erect in her seat sparkling with animation. "Condleton! I know it quite well. I often drive over there with my ponies. It is only six miles from our place, and such a pretty drive. I know the Vicarage quite well, and the Church, and the funny little cross in the High Street!"

She spoke perfectly simply, and without thought of ostentation, for her parents' riches had come when she herself was so young that she had no remembrance of the little house in the manufacturing town, but looked as a matter of course upon the luxuries with which she was surrounded. It never occurred to her mind that any of her remarks could be looked upon as boasting, but there was a universal glancing and smiling round the room, and Thomasina enquired gravely:

"Do you drive the same pair every day?"

"Of ponies? Oh, yes, generally," replied Rhoda innocently. "They are frisky little things, and need exercise. Of course if we go a very long way, I give them a rest next day and drive the cobs, but as a rule they go out regularly."

Thomasina shook her head in solemnest disapproval. "That's a mistake! You should change every day. The merciful man is merciful to his beast. I can't endure to see people thoughtless in these matters. My stud groom has special orders never to send out the postilions on the same mounts oftener than twice a week!"

There was a moment's pause, and then a shriek of laughter. Girls threw themselves back in their seats, and held their sides with their hands; girls stamped on the floor, and rolled about as though they could not contain their delight; girls mopped their eyes and gasped, "Oh, dear! oh, dear!" and grew red up to the roots of their hair. And Rhoda's face shone out, pale and fixed, in a white fury of anger.

"You are a very rude, ill-bred girl, Thomasina Bolderston! I made an innocent remark, and you twist it about so as to insult me before all the house! You will ask my pardon at once if you have any right feeling."

"I'm the Head Girl, my dear. The Head Girl doesn't ask pardon of a silly new-comer who can't take a joke!"

"I fail to see where the joke comes in. If you are Head Girl a dozen times over, it doesn't alter the fact that you don't know how to behave. You have bullied me and made me miserable ever since I came to this school, and I won't stand it any longer, and so I give you notice!"

"Much obliged, but it's no use. The rules of this school are that the pupils must obey the Head Girl in her own department, and there can be no exception in your favour, unpleasant as you find my yoke."

"When I am a Head Girl I shall try to be worthy of the position. I'll be kind to new girls, and set them a good example. I'll not jeer at them and make them so wretched that they wish they never had been born!"

Thomasina leant her head on her hand, and gazed fixedly into the angry face. She made no reply, but there was no lack of speakers to vindicate her honour. Sneering voices rose on every side in a clamour of indignant protest.

"When she is Head Girl indeed! It will be a good time before that happens, I should say."

"Not in our day, let us hope. We are not worthy to be under such a mistress."

"Oh my goodness, what a pattern she will be; what a shining example! You can see her wings even now beginning to sprout."

"Nonsense, child! It's not wings, it's only round shoulders. These growing girls will stoop. You had better be careful, or you will be set in order next."

Rhoda looked across the room with smarting, tear-filled eyes.

"Don't alarm yourselves; I wouldn't condescend to bandy words. You are like our leader -- not worthy of notice!"

"Look here, Rhoda Chester, say what you like about us, but leave Thomasina alone. We will not have our Head Girl insulted, if we know it. If you say another word we will turn you out into the passage."

"Thank you, Beatrice; no need to get excited; I can fight my own battles without your help. This little difference is between Rhoda and me, and we must settle it together. I think we could talk matters over more comfortably in my study, without interrupting your rest hour. May I trouble you, Miss Chester? Three doors along the passage. I won't take you far out of your way!"

Thomasina rose from her seat, and waved her hand towards the door. She was all smiles and blandness, but a gasp of dismay sounded through the room, as if a private interview in the Head Girl's study was no light thing to contemplate.

Rhoda's heart beat fast with apprehension. What was going to happen. What would take place next? It was like the invitation of the spider to the fly -- full of subtle terror. Nevertheless, her pride would not allow her to object, and, throwing back her head, she marched promptly, and without hesitation, along the corridor.



Chapter Nine.

Having It Out.

Thomasina led the way into her study, and shut the door behind her. It was a bare little room, singularly free from those photographs and nick - nacks with which most girls love to adorn a private sanctum. It looked what it was -- a workroom pure and simple, with a pile of writing materials on the table, and the walls ornamented with maps and sheets of paper, containing jottings of the hours of classes and games. On the mantelpiece reposed a ball of string, a dogskin glove, a matchbox, and a photograph of an elderly gentleman, whose pike-like aspect sufficiently proclaimed his relationship. There were three straight-back chairs, supplied by the school, and two easier ones of Thomasina's own providing, both in the last stages of invalidism.

The mistress of this luxurious domain turned towards her visitor with a hospitable smile.

"Sit down," she cried, "make yourself comfortable. Not that chair -- the spokes have given way, and it might land you on the floor. Try the blue, and keep your skirts to the front, so that it won't catch on the nails. I can't think how it is that my chairs go wrong. I'm always tinkering at them. Nice little study, isn't it? So cosy!"

"Ye-es!" assented Rhoda, who privately thought it the most forlorn - looking apartment she had ever seen, but was in no mood to discuss either its merits or demerits. It was in no friendly spirit that she had paid this visit; then why waste time on foolish preliminaries? She looked expectantly at Thomasina, and Thomasina stood in front of the chimney-piece with both hands thrust into the side pockets of her bicycling skirt, jingling their contents in an easy, gentlemanly fashion. From her leathern band depended a steel chain which lost itself in the depths of the right-hand pocket. Rhoda felt an unaccountable curiosity to discover what hung at the end of that chain and rattled in so uncanny a fashion.

"Well!" began Thomasina, tilting herself slowly forward on the points of her flat, wide shoes, "Well, and now about this little matter. I asked you to step in here because I think differences of opinion are more easily settled without an audience, and as it were, man to man." She buried her chin in her necktie, and gazed across the room with a calm, speculative glance. The likeness between her and the pike-like gentleman grew more startling every moment. "Now, we have known each other barely a week, and already I have offended you deeply, and you, without knowing it, have hit me on a tender spot. It is time that we came to an understanding. Before going any further, however, there are one or two questions I should like to ask. You have had time to notice a good many things since you arrived. You have seen me constantly with the girls. Do they dislike me? Do they speak of me hardly behind my back? Do they consider me a bully or a sneak? Should you say on the whole that I was popular or unpopular?"

"Popular!" said Rhoda firmly. Whatever happened she would speak the truth, and not quibble with obvious facts. "They like you very much."

"And you wonder how they can, eh? Nevertheless it's true. I'll tell you something more. I'm the most popular Head Girl at Hurst. You ask the other colours to-morrow, and they'll tell you to a man that you are lucky to have me. Very well then, Rhoda, who's to blame if you think the opposite? Yourself, and nobody but yourself, as I'll proceed to prove. You come to school with a flourish of trumpets, thinking you are doing us a mighty big favour by settling among us, and that you are to be allowed to amble along at your own sweet will, ignoring rules you don't like, graciously agreeing to those you do, and prepared to turn into a wild cat the first moment any one tries to keep you in order. Then, when you are unhappy, as you jolly well deserve to be, you turn and rend me, and say it is my fault. If all the new girls behaved as you have done, I should have been in my little tomb long ago, and you would have some one else to deal with. It seems to me, my dear, that you don't recognise my duties. I am placed in a position of authority, and am bound to enforce the rules. If the girls are obedient, well and good; if they kick, well and good also. I break 'em in! I'm going to break you in, Rhoda Chester, and the sooner you realise it the happier you'll be."

Rhoda looked at her fully, with a firmness of chin, a straightness of eye, which argued ill for the success of the project.

"You will never break me in, as you call it, by domineering, and treating me like a child."

"I know it, my dear. I haven't been studying girls all these years without learning something of character. Some fillies you can drive with a snaffle, others need the curb. You drive yourself, and understand what I mean. I can see quite well that you are a proud, sensitive girl, with a good heart hidden away behind a lot of nonsense. If it were not for that heart I shouldn't trouble myself about you, but simply give my orders, and see that they were obeyed. But there's nothing mean about me, and I'd scorn to take an unfair advantage. Now, I'll tell you straight that I have come to the conclusion that I judged you wrongly about that pony business, and that you didn't mean to brag. I saw by the way you flared out that you were really hurt, and I was sorry. I've no pity on brag, but when I judge a girl wrongly I feel sick. If it's any relief to your mind to know it, I believe that little episode upset me more than it did you. When you said I was not worthy of my position, and made new-comers wretched, you hit me very hard, Rhoda, very hard indeed!"

She stopped short and jingled furiously at her chains, then suddenly looked up, gave a roguish smile, and cried, insinuatingly -- 

"There, I've done my part. I've acknowledged I was wrong. You are no coward, so you will do as much! You will admit that you have been a difficult subject, won't you now?"

Rhoda looked at her and hesitated. She cleared her throat and determined to speak openly, and then suddenly, suddenly, something swelled at her throat, and she heard her own voice say chokingly:

"I suppose I've been stupid... I've never been accustomed to be --  ordered about! I'm sorry if I was disagreeable, but I never, never meant to -- give myself airs!"

"But you did though, all the same," cried Thomasina briskly. "Bless me, yes! The way you came into a room, the way you walked out, the way you looked at your food, and turned it over on your plate, the way you eyed the other girls up and down, down and up -- it all said as plainly as print 'I'm Her Royal Highness of Chester, and I won't have any dealings with the likes of You!' If you had been a Princess of the blood you couldn't have put on more side, and so, of course, we judged your words by your actions, and thought you were bragging when you meant nothing of the sort. Now, just make up your mind, like a sensible girl, to forget your own importance, and don't always be on the lookout for insults to your dignity. Your dignity will look after itself if it's any good, and you'll be a heap happier if you give up coddling and fussing over it all day long. There was that little matter of the pigtail the other morning! It wasn't my wish that you should tie back your hair. I don't mind telling you that it's much less becoming than it was, but I was simply acting as the mouthpiece of Miss Bruce, as you might have known if you had taken one minute to consider. Your friend, Dorothy What - ever-she-calls-herself, behaved like a sensible girl, and did as she was told without making a fuss, but you must needs work yourself into a fury. You'll have a fit one of these days if you are not careful. You are just one of those fair, reddy people who are subject to apoplexy, so don't say I didn't warn you. When we went down to breakfast I tried to be friendly, just to show there was no ill-feeling, and you went and starved yourself rather than accept a crumb from my hands. It reminded me awfully of my little cousin of three. When he is made to do what he doesn't like, he refuses to eat his bread and milk. He seems to think he is punishing us somehow; but, bless your heart, we don't mind! We know he is strong and hearty, and that it will do him no harm to starve once in a way. I wasn't in the least anxious about you, but I don't want you to go on feeling wretched in my house, so I'll do my best to consider your feelings. I warn you, however, I can't stop chaffing. If I think of a funny thing to say, I must say it or burst, and if you don't like it you can comfort yourself by thinking that it's for your good, and will teach you to control your temper. If you get offended after this, the more fool you, for I tell you straight there will be no ill-feeling in my mind, nothing but simple, pure buffoonery."

Rhoda smiled feebly. The cool, unemotional tones of the other had effectually dried her tears, but the softened expression remained, and her voice had almost an humble intonation.

"I'll try. I know I am touchy, but I shan't mind so much now that you --  that you have explained! I think you have been very generous."

"All right," interrupted Thomasina briskly. "Don't gush. I loathe gush. That's all right, then, and I'll tell the girls I was wrong just now. They will all treat you decently if I tell them to; so behave sensibly, and don't be a young jackass, and all will be well."

"I -- er, I beg your pardon!"

"Don't mention it!" Thomasina beamed amiably over her shoulder. "Jackass, I said -- don't be a jackass! The gong will ring in ten minutes, so you'd better be off to your room. Pleased to have seen you! Good afternoon. Come again another day!"



Chapter Ten.

Hard Work.

From that day forward matters moved more smoothly for Rhoda. Dorothy reported that Tom had returned to the house-parlour to explain her regret at having misjudged a new-comer, and her desire that her colleagues would second her effort to make Rhoda happy, and, as usual, Tom's word was law. That very evening several of the girls took an opportunity of exchanging friendly remarks with Rhoda, while at supper an amount of attention was bestowed upon her plate which was positively embarrassing. It was a delightful change, but through all the relief rang the sting of remembering that it had been accomplished by Thomasina, not herself; that the new friendliness was the result of Thomasina's orders rather than her own deserts. To her fellow-students she was still an insignificant new-comer, with no claim to distinction. If she excelled in one subject, she was behind in the next, while at games she was hopelessly ignorant. It was wormwood and gall to be obliged to join the "Bantlings" at hockey, and be coached by a girl of twelve; but Rhoda set her teeth and determined that if pluck and energy could help, it would be a short time indeed before she got her reward. Oh, those first few games, what unmitigated misery they were! The ankle pads got in her way, and made her waddle like a duck, and when at last she began to congratulate herself on overcoming the first difficulty, they tripped her up, and landed her unexpectedly on the ground. Although she was repeatedly warned to keep her stick down, it seemed to fly up of itself, and bring disgrace upon her; and then, alas! the ball followed its example, bounded up from the ground, and landed neatly on her cheek immediately beneath her left eye. A hideous swelling and discolouration was the result, but after the first rush to see that the damage was not serious, no one seemed in the least agitated about the mishap. Erley Chase would have been convulsed with panic from attic to cellar, but Thomasina only struck an attitude, and exclaimed, "Oh! my eye!" and even Miss Everett smiled, more in amusement than horror, as she cried, "In the wars already, Rhoda? You have begun early." Mrs Chester would hardly have recognised her darling in the knickerbockered girl, with her curly mane screwed into a pigtail, her dainty feet scuffling the ground, and her face disfigured by a lump, which changed to a different colour with each new dawn. If she could have had a glimpse of her during that tragic period it is certain that Rhoda's term at "Hurst" would have been short indeed: but she was not informed of the accident, while each letter showed an increasing interest in work and play. Rhoda had put her back into her studies, and worked with an almost feverish earnestness. The hours of preparation were all too short, but she found a dozen ways of adding to their length, so that from morning to night her brain was never allowed to rest. She grew white and tired, and so perceptibly thin that Miss Bruce questioned her class-mistress as to the change in her appearance.

"She is an ambitious girl," was the reply, "and does not like to feel behind. She is working hard, and making progress; but she never complains, or appears to feel ill."

"Oh, well, everything in moderation. See that she is not overworked. There will be no time gained in that way," said the principal, and forthwith banished the subject from her busy brain. There came a day, however, half way through the term, when Rhoda collapsed, and found it impossible to rise from her bed. Three times over she made the effort, and three times sank back upon her pillow faint and trembling, and then in despair she raised her voice, and wailed a feeble "Tom!"

Tom came promptly, buttoning her magenta jacket, and went through a most professional examination.

"To the best of my judgment," she announced finally, "you are sickening for scarlatina, tonsilitis, and housemaid's knee, but if you stay in bed and have an invalid's breakfast I should say you would be fairly convalescent by twelve o'clock. Snoddle down, and I'll see Nurse as soon as I'm dressed, and put her on the track."

"I want Miss Everett!" sighed Rhoda plaintively, and Tom gave a grunt of assent.

"I expect you do. All the girls want her when they are ill. She's no time to spare, but I'll tell her, and probably she'll squeeze in five minutes for you after breakfast. You are not going to die this time, my dear, so don't lose heart. We shall see your fairy form among us before many hours are past!"

Perhaps so. Nevertheless it was good to be coddled once more, to lie snugly in bed and have a tray brought up with a teapot for one's very own self, and egg, and fish, and toast -- actually toast! instead of thick slices of bread-and-scrape. The luxury of it took away one's breath. It was pleasant, also, to have Nurse fussing around in motherly fashion, and hear her reminiscences of other young ladies whom she had nursed, in days gone by, and brought back from the jaws of death. From her manner, it is true, she did not appear to suffer any keen anxiety about her present patient: but, as Rhoda looked at the empty dishes before her, she blushingly acknowledged that, after all, she could not have been so ill as she had imagined.

After breakfast came Miss Everett, sweet as ever, and looking refreshingly pretty in her pale blue blouse and natty collar and cuffs. If one did not know to the contrary, she would certainly have been mistaken for one of the elder girls, and her manner was delightfully unprofessional.

"Well, my poor dear, this is bad news! I was sorry when Tom told me. What is it? -- headache -- back-ache -- pain in your throat?"

Rhoda stretched herself lazily and considered the question.

"A kind of general all-overishness, if you know what that means. I feel played out. I tried to get up, but it was no use, I simply couldn't stand. I feel as if I had no back left -- as weak as a kitten."

Miss Everett looked at her quietly, then her eye roved round the room and rested meaningly on half-a-dozen pieces of paper fastened up in conspicuous positions. One sheet was tacked into the frame of the looking-glass, another into a picture, a third pinned against the curtain, and each was covered with Rhoda's large writing, easily legible across the few yards of space: Rules of Latin Grammar, List of Substantives, Tenses of Verbs -- they stared one in the face at every turn, and refused to be avoided. Miss Everett laid her hand upon the bed, and something rustled beneath her touch. Yet another sheet had been concealed beneath her pillow.

"Oh, Rhoda!" she cried, reproachfully; "oh, Rhoda!"

The girl put on an air of protest.

"What? There's no harm in it, is there? I can't catch the others up unless I work hard. I have not enough time in preparation, so I put these up and learn them while I dress and undress, and every time I come in to prepare for a meal. You have no idea what a lot I get through. And I keep a list in my pocket too, and take it out at odd moments. Miss Murray is surprised at the way I am getting on."

"I have been surprised too, to see you look so ill, with such white cheeks and heavy eyes. I understand it now."

"But, Miss Everett, I must work. I must get on! If I am behind I must catch up. Even if I am tired I must get on in my class."

"Why?"

Why? Why must she get on? It was such an extraordinary question to come from a teacher, that Rhoda could only gasp in bewilderment -- "Why? You ask why?"

"Yes, I do. One has always some object in work. I wondered what yours might be. Why are you so terribly anxious to come to the front?"

A dozen answers rose to Rhoda's lips. To impress Thomasina; to show her that if I do think a good deal of myself, it's not without a cause... To take the conceit out of the girls who patronise me. To be able to patronise in my turn, and not remain always insignificant and powerless... To show Harold how clever I am, and to have my name put on the Record Wall when I leave! ... They were one and all excellent reasons, yet somehow she did not care to confide them to Miss Everett. Instead, she hesitated, and answered by another question.

"I suppose you think there is a wrong and a right motive? I suppose you think mine is the wrong one. What is the right, then? I'm ill, and reduced in my mind, so it's a good time to preach; I'll listen meekly!"

"And disagree with every word I say," cried Miss Everett laughing. "No, no, Rhoda, I never preach. I know girls well enough to understand that that doesn't pay. There are some secrets that we have to find out for ourselves, and it is waste of time telling the answers before the hearer is ready to receive them; only, when one has oneself suffered from ignorance, and sees another poor dear running her head against the wall, one is sorry, that's all, and one longs to point out the danger signals. Find out, dear, what your motive is, and be satisfied that it's a good one. Meantime, I'm going to take away these papers. Do you see? Every -- single -- one!" She walked round the room, confiscating the lists, and putting them in her pocket with an air of good-natured determination. "Let that tired head rest, and believe me, my dear, that your elders understand almost as much about girls as you do yourself. We are never blamed for under-working at Hurst, and you may take for granted that the hours for work are as long as you can stand. The short time spent in your cubicle is not intended for work, but for rest -- of all kinds!"

Rhoda blushed guiltily. During the first days at school the morning hymn had been both a delight and stimulus. She had listened to the words with a beating heart, and whispered them to herself in devout echo; they had seemed to strike a keynote for the day, and send her to work full of courage; but, alas! for weeks past the strains had fallen on deaf ears, and the lips had been too busy conning Latin substantives to have leisure for other repetition. Her sense of guilt made her meek under the confiscation of her lists, and pathetically grateful for the kiss of farewell.

"Thank you for coming. I know you are busy, but I wanted you so! It's nice to see you; you look so sweet and pretty!"

"Oh, you flatterer! I'm surprised at you. As if it matters what a staid old teacher looked like; I'm above such silly vanities, my dear."

She looked, however, extremely pleased, quite brisked up in fact, and so delightfully like a girl that Rhoda took heart of grace, and enquired: -- 

"I wish you would tell me your object! That wouldn't be preaching, and you are so young to be working so hard! I have often wondered -- "

"Ah!" cried Miss Everett, and a curious look passed over her face -- half glad, half sad, wholly proud. "I'll tell you my object, Rhoda -- it's my brother, Lionel! I have an only brother, and he is a genius. You remember his name, and when you are an old lady in a cap and mittens you can amuse other old ladies by telling how you once knew his sister, and she prophesied his greatness. At school he carried all before him, and he is as good as he is clever, and as merry as he is good. He won a scholarship at Oxford, but that was not enough. My father is the vicar of Stourley, in D -- shire, and has such a small stipend that he could not afford to help him as much as was needed. Then I wrote to Miss Bruce, and asked her if she could give me an opening. She is an old family friend, and knew that I had done well in examinations and was good at games (the younger teachers here must be able to play with the girls --  it's one of the rules), so she gave me my present position, and I am able to help the boy. He went up last year and did famously, but I have had sad news this week. He had been obliged to go home and convalesce after an attack of influenza, and is so weak still that the doctor says he will want any amount of rest and feeding up before he can go back. So you see I am more thankful than ever to be able to help!"

"I don't see it at all," said Rhoda bluntly. "I should be mad. What's the good of your slaving here if, after all, he can't get on with his work? You might as well be comfortably at home."

"Rhoda! Rhoda! be quiet this moment. It's bad enough to fight against my own rebellious feelings without hearing them put into words. I won't stay another moment to listen to you!"

She gave a playful shake to the girl's shoulder, and ran out of the room, while Rhoda "snoddled" down to think over the conversation.

"Well, then, I suppose her motive is love -- love for her brother, and --  er -- thinking of him before herself. She comes here and slaves so that he may have his chance. She is an angel, of course, an unselfish angel, and I'm a wretch." She lay still for a few moments, frowning fiercely, then suddenly the bedclothes went up with a wrench -- "I don't care -- she's ambitious too! She thinks he is clever, and wants him to be great! Well, so do I want to be great! If it isn't wrong for one person, it can't be for another. My motive is success, and I'll work for it till I drop!"



Chapter Eleven.

Tom's Examination.

A day in bed renewed Rhoda's energy, and she took up her work with unabated fervour. The "lists" were, perhaps, less conspicuously displayed than before, but were none the less in readiness when needed, and if Miss Everett disapproved, the Latin mistress was all praise and congratulation.

"I certainly have a gift for languages, and with lessons during the holidays I shall soon be steaming ahead," Rhoda told herself proudly. "I'll ask mother to let Mr Mason coach me. He is a splendid teacher, and if I have an hour a day I shall learn a lot. Won't the girls stare when I come back, and go soaring up the class! I shouldn't wonder if I got a remove. It will be impossible to work up to Thomasina and her set, but at any rate I'll be past the baby stages, and not disgrace myself in the examinations."

All the world seemed bounded by examinations at present. Thomasina and the elder girls working steadily towards the goal of the "Matric"; Kathleen and her friends dreaming night and day of the "Oxford"; while nearer at hand loomed the school examinations, which ended the term. Rhoda was in a fever of anxiety to acquit herself well in the eyes of her companions on this occasion, and could think, speak, and dream of nothing else. Even her joy of getting her remove from the "Bantlings" into a higher team was swallowed up in the overwhelming interest, while Dorothy was filled at once with admiration and disgust at the monotony of her conversation.

"I don't know, and I don't care!" she replied callously, when anxiously consulted about a point in mathematics. "I've come out to play, and I'm not going to rack my brains for you or anyone else. You are getting a regular bore, Rhoda! It's like walking about with 'Magnall's Questions.' Let's talk about frolics, or holidays, or something nice, and not worry about stupid old lessons."

Well! Rhoda told herself, it was no wonder if Dorothy were medium, if this was the way she regarded her studies. If she took no more interest than this in the coming contest, what could she expect from the result? She would be sorry, poor dear, when she saw her name at the bottom of the list! There was no help to be expected from Dorothy; but Rhoda stored up a few knotty questions, and took the first opportunity of asking Tom for a solution. She had discovered that Tom liked nothing better than to be consulted by the younger girls, and had a tactful way of asking help in return, which took away the sense of obligation.

"Oh, by-the-by," she would call to Rhoda, in her elegant fashion, "you are a bit of a German sausage, aren't you? Just read over that passage for me. I've been puzzling over it for the whole of the evening," and then would follow some blissful moments, when Rhoda would skim lightly over the difficulty, and feel the eyes of the girls fixed admiringly upon her.

In the present instance a wet Saturday afternoon afforded a good opportunity for the desired questioning. The Hurst girls did not stay indoors for an ordinary drizzle, but this was a downpour of so hopeless a character that even the most enthusiastic athletes felt that the house-parlour was preferable to the soaking, wind-swept grounds. They gathered together, stoked up the fire, and prepared to spend the two hours' leisure as fancy should dictate, some girls reading, some sewing, and some making themselves as comfortable as circumstances would permit, and doing nothing at all with every appearance of enjoyment.

"If we had only some chestnuts," said one of the lazy ones, "how happy we might be! I have a wild craving for chestnuts. It came over me suddenly just now, sitting looking at that fire."

"I think," said Irene Grey solemnly, "it's very sad, but I do think a school like this makes one horribly greedy. You get so tired of the food, and have such a longing for something that isn't wholesome. I assure you, my dears, there have been occasions when the centre table has had beef, while we have had mutton, when I could have wept -- simply wept! I should like to order a meal regardless of everything but what I like -- lobster mayonnaise, and salmon, and veal cutlets, and ice pudding, and strawberries and cream, and fizzy lemonade. That would be something like a dinner -- better than old joints and milk puddings!"

The girls groaned in sympathy, and Rhoda took advantage of their absorption to cross to Tom's desk and consult her quietly on the knotty points. The solutions were remarkably simple -- when you knew them! -- and Tom delivered herself solemnly on the subject.

"You don't think, my dear; you don't reflect. Your brain would help you out, but you don't give it a chance. It's what I am always saying to this room -- it's not cram you need, it's intelligence! Use your reason! Cultivate your faculties! Now, then, I'll tell you what I'll do!" -- she raised her voice suddenly, and swung round in her seat. "I'll give you girls an examination myself. You need some practice before the real business begins, and it will be just the thing for this wet afternoon. Get out your books and pencils and I'll dictate the questions. It's to be a 'General Intelligence' paper, and the examiner's instructions are --  use your wits! They will not be the ordinary blunt, straightforward questions manufactured by the masculine mind, and intended mainly for the coarse, masculine ability, but full of depth and subtlety, so that they will require careful consideration. If you go scribbling down your answers before you have read the questions, you'll be sorry, that's all; but don't say you were not warned. Now, then, are you ready? ... We will begin our studies to-day, young ladies, with a problem in calculation!" She deepened her voice into such an accurate imitation of the Arithmetical Mistress as filled her listeners with delight. "Attention to the board! -- If a room were 20 feet long, 13 feet broad, 11 feet high, and 17 feet square, how much Liberty wall-paper 27 inches wide would be required to paper it, allowing 5 feet square for the fireplace and seven by three for the door?"

The girls wrote down the question, not, however, without some murmurs of protest.

"If there is one kind of sum I hate more than another, it's these horrid old wall-papers!" declared Bertha Stacey. "I shall never be a paper - hanger, so I don't see why I should worry my head. I don't call this General Intelligence."

"I expect we shall have a taste of most subjects; but really, Tom, really now -- the room could not be 17 feet square if your other measurements were right!" argued Irene, who knew arithmetic to be her strong point, and was not sorry to impress the fact on her companions. "You have made a mistake."

She expected the examiner to be discomfited, but Tom fixed her with a glittering eye, and demanded if perchance she had seen the room in question, since she was so positive.

"No, of course not, but then --  You know quite well -- "

"Well, I have, so perhaps you will allow me to know better. Go on, young ladies, and the next one who dares to raise any objections gets ten bad marks to begin her list. I must have perfect submission. Five minutes allowed for working!"

The time proved all too short for some of the workers, for the less expert they were the more elaborate became their calculations, until page after page was filled with straggling figures. Thomasina made a round of inspection, frowning over each book in turn, protesting, scolding, marking the result with a big black cross. According to her verdict everyone was wrong, although five girls had arrived at the same result; and Irene obstinately disputed the decision.

"I know it is right! Work it for yourself, and see. It's a simple enough sum, and any one could tell -- "

"That's apparently just what they can't do! I don't deny that you may be correct in the broad, vulgar sense, but that is not enough for me. I expect you to grasp the inner meaning. Now the real answer to this question is that there can be no answer! To a perceptive mind it would be impossible to reply without further information. It entirely depends on how the paper is cut out, and the amount of waste incurred in matching the pattern!"

The girls shrieked aloud in mingled protest and delight. It was too bad; it was ripping, it was mean; it was killing; they all spoke together and at the pitch of their voices, and alternately abused and applauded until they were tired. The denouement had taken them by surprise, though in truth they knew their Head too well to have taken the examination seriously. When Tom played schoolmistress there was bound to be a joke in ambush, and they settled down to question number two with minds alert for a trap.

"We will now, young ladies, take an excursion into the realms of Literature, and test your insight into human nature. I will ask you, if you please, to compare the respective characters of Alfred the Great and Miss Charlotte Yonge -- 'Jo March' and Joseph Chamberlain -- four great, and, it will be obvious to all, strongly-defined personalities. I shall be interested to hear your distinctions!"

It appeared, however, as if there would be little to interest, for most of the girls stared blankly into space, as if powerless to tackle such a subject. Rhoda was one of the few exceptions, and scribbled unceasingly with a complacent sense of being on her own ground until the limit of time was reached. Tom had evidently noticed her diligence, for she called out a peremptory, "Rhoda, read aloud your answer!" which was flattering, if at the same time slightly alarming.

"Ahem -- er -- er -- in the historical character of Alfred the Great we find combined the characteristics of courage and simplicity. He waged a long and unequal fight, and was equally inspired by failures or success.

"In the person of Miss Charlotte Yonge we discover the same virtues, but in a softer and more feminine mould. Her heroes are for the most part refined and cultivated young men, actuated by the highest motives -- "

"Stop! Stop!" screamed Thomasina desperately. "For pity sake spare us the rest. Such deadly propriety I never encountered! It reminds me of the Fairchild family at their very worst. If that's the sort of thing you are going to write, Rhoda, I pity the poor examiners. And what do you mean by Alfred fighting? He was a most peaceful creature, so far as I have heard!"

"Thomasina! the war with the Danes -- all those years! You must remember!"

"I don't remember a thing about it. How could a man fight the Danes living in a peaceful retreat in the Isle of Wight, as Tennyson did for -- ?"

Tennyson! Tennyson! Who spoke of Tennyson? Oh! it was too bad; too mean! How on earth could anyone be expected to guess that Tom had meant Tennyson, when she had expressly said Alfred the Great? Rhoda protested loudly, and the other girls backed her up; but Tom was obdurate.

"And isn't Tennyson known as 'Alfred the Great' as well as the other crittur? It is just another example of want of intelligence! You read the words, and never trouble about the connection. Who in their sane senses would ask you to compare a warrior king with old Miss Yonge? A little reflection would have saved you from the pitfall into which you have all fallen headlong. Five bad marks each! Now, then, for the next two. What have you got to say about the two Joes?"

Very little apparently. No one had tackled the comparison in Rhoda's grandiose fashion, but a few pithy sentences were to be found scribbled on the sides of exercise books. "Jo March was very clever, and my father says Mr Chamberlain is, too!" from one dutiful pupil. "Jo March was a darling, and Chamberlain is not," from another of Radical principles. "Both wore eye-glasses, and wrote things for magazines," and other such exhaustive criticisms.

"You are all plucked in Literature," announced Thomasina, solemnly, "and I am deeply pained by the exhibition! I will give you one more chance in Arithmetic before going on to the higher branches, because, as you are aware, this is a most vital and important subject. Write down, please: A and B each inherited thirty thousand pounds. A invested his capital in gold-mine shares to bring in eighteen per cent, interest. B put his money into the Post Office Savings Bank, and received two and a half per cent. State to three places in decimals the respective wealth of each at the expiration of twenty-seven years!"

"Er -- with what deduction for current expenses?" queried Irene, with an air. She had been snubbed once, but was not in the least subdued. "What were their current expenses?"

"There were none!"

"Thomasina, what bosh! There must have been. They couldn't live on nothing."

"Well, they did, then. Since you are so particular, I may tell you that they were in prison! They had their wants supplied by their native land."

"I'm not going to do sums about convicts! My mother wouldn't like it," said Dorothy, shutting up her book with a bang. She leaned forward, and whispered in Rhoda's ear, "Don't bother; it's only another joke. What's the use of worrying for nothing?"

"It's practice," said Rhoda, and away went her pencil, scribbling, calculating, piling up row upon row of figures. To her joy the answer came out the same as Irene's, which surely must prove it right; yet, as Dorothy had prophesied, Tom was once more sweeping in denunciation, "Wrong! Wrong! All wrong! The gold-mine failed, and left A a pauper, while B lived happily ever after. You are old enough to know that gold - mines that pay eighteen per cent, invariably do fail and ruin their shareholders; or if you don't, you may be thankful to me for telling you. I must say, young ladies, you are coming exceedingly poorly through my test. I cannot congratulate you on your insight. I doubt whether it is any use examining you any further."

"Oh, yes, let us have the higher branches, Tom! Do let us have the higher branches! Who knows? Perhaps we may distinguish ourselves at last. Give us another chance!" pleaded the girls, mockingly; and, thus challenged, Tom could not but consent. She tackled Zoology, and giving the three divisions of Plantigrada, Pinnigrada, and Digitigrada, added a list of animals to be classified accordingly. When it is said that the list included such widely diverging creatures as "A camel-leopard, a duck-billed platypus, Thomasina Bolderston, and Spring-heeled Jack," it can be imagined with what zest the pupils began their replies.

Tom professed to be mortified beyond endurance to find her fairy tread unanimously classed under the first heading, and begged the Blues to take notice that if any girl pined to call her "splay-footed" to her face she might do so, and take the consequences! No one accepted the challenge, however; so she proceeded to Latin, and, with much jingling of keys, gave out a sentence for translation: -- 

"Aequam memento rebus in arduis servare mentem." The girls smiled at this, confident of their powers. The students at Hurst prided themselves on their Latin, and could have stood a much severer test without wavering. The seniors did not trouble to write their answers, but waited complacently until the time came when they should have an opportunity of airing their proficiency. It never came, however, for Tom chose to disappoint expectations by reading aloud her own translation from her position in front of the fire.

"Memento -- remember; mentem -- and mind; servare -- to hold up; aequam -- your mare; in rebus arduis -- going up hill. That translation, young ladies, was given by an undergraduate in the University of Oxford. He afterwards rowed stroke in the 'Varsity boat, and was the best billiard player of his year, so it would ill become us to dispute his conclusions. You will observe the valuable moral lessons inculcated in the words, and, I trust, take them to heart -- 'Remember and mind -- '"

A laugh sounded from the direction of the door, and there stood Miss Everett, looking round with mischievous eyes. Rhoda noted with relief that she looked brighter than for days past, as if some good news had arrived from the home about which she was so anxious.

"This sounds improving," she cried, merrily. "Thomasina holding a Latin class! I am glad you have found such an exemplary way of passing the afternoon. I am afraid you must stop, however, as the gong will ring in five minutes, and meantime I must break up the class. I want," -- her eye roved enquiringly round the room -- "I want Rhoda!"

"Certainly, Miss Everett. Anything to oblige you. Rhoda, my love, you have my permission to retire," drawled Thomasina, wagging her head in languid assent, and Rhoda left the room in no little wonder as to the reason of the summons.

Arrived in the corridor, Miss Everett laid both hands on the girl's shoulders, and asked a quick, laughing question: -- 

"What about that hamper?"

"Hamper?" echoed Rhoda. "Hamper?" Her air of bewilderment was so unaffectedly genuine that the other's expression became in turn doubtful and uncertain.

"Yes, yes, the hamper! The hamper of good things that has just arrived for my brother. I thought you -- "

"I know nothing about it; truly I don't! I wish I did, but -- "

"But, my dear girl, it came from your home. There was a game label upon it, with your father's name in print -- 'From Henry Chester, Erley Chase.' There cannot be two Henry Chesters living at houses of the same name."

"Ah!" exclaimed Rhoda, and her face lit up with pleasure. "It's mother! Of course it's mother! It's just the sort of thing mother would do. I told her that your brother had been ill, and that you were anxious about him, and so she set to work to see how she could help. That's just like mother, she's the kindest dear! I believe she sits down in her armchair after breakfast every single morning, and plans out how many kind things she can do during the day."

"Bless her heart!" cried Miss Everett devoutly. "Well, Rhoda, she succeeded this time. My mother has written me all about it. It was a dull, wet day, and Lionel seemed depressed, and there was nothing nice in the house, and nothing nice to be bought in the little village shops, and she was just wondering, wondering how in the world she could cheer him, and manufacture a tempting lunch out of hopeless materials, when tap-tap-tap came the carrier's man at the door. Then in came the hamper, and Lionel insisted upon opening it himself, and was so interested and excited! There were all sorts of good things in it --  game, and grapes, and lovely, lovely hot-house flowers filling up the chinks. They were all so happy! It was such a piece of cheer arriving in that unexpected fashion, and mother says the house is fragrant with the scent of the flowers. Lionel arranged them himself. It kept him quite happy and occupied. How can I thank you, dear?"

"Don't thank me. It was not my doing. It's mother."

"But how did your mother know where we lived? How did she know who we were?"

"Well!" Rhoda smiled and flushed. "Naturally I tell her the news. I suppose I must have mentioned that your father was Vicar of Stourley. I don't remember; but then I've so often written about you, and she would naturally be glad to do anything she could, for she knows you have been kind to me, and that I'm very -- fond of you!"

Miss Everett bent down quickly, and kissed her on the cheek.

"And my people knew who Mr Chester was because I've written of you, and they know that you have been kind to me, and that I'm fond of you, too. Oh Rhoda, you don't know how lonely it feels to be a teacher sometimes, or how grateful we are to anyone who treats us as human beings, and not as machines. You don't know how you have cheered me many a time."

"But -- but -- I've been tiresome, and stupid, and rebellious. I've given you lots of trouble -- "

"Perhaps, but you have been affectionate too, and seemed to like me a little bit, in spite of my lectures; and if it had not been for your kind words the hamper would never have come, so I insist upon thanking you as well as your mother. Many, many thanks, dear! I shall always re -- " She stopped short suddenly, her attention arrested by the scraping of chairs within the parlour, and concluded in a very different tone, "The girls are coming! For pity's sake don't let Tom find us sentimentalising here! Fly, Rhoda, fly!" and off she ran along the corridor, flop, flop, flop, on her flat-soled shoes, as much in fear of the scrutiny of the head girl as the youngest Blue in the house!



Chapter Twelve.

Home Again.

The week of examination passed slowly by, and the morning dawned when the all-important lists were to be read aloud. The girls were tired after the strain, the teachers exhausted by the work of reading over hundreds of papers, and it was consequently a somewhat pale and dejected-looking audience which assembled in the Hall to hear the report.

Rhoda sat tense on her seat, and puzzled for some moments over the meaning of a certain dull, throbbing noise, before discovering that it was the beating of her own heart. It seemed to her morbid sensitiveness that every eye was upon her, that everyone was waiting to hear what place the new girl had taken. When Miss Bruce began to read she could hardly command herself sufficiently to listen, but the first mention of her own name brought her to her bearings with a shock of dismay. After all her work, her care, her preparation, to be so low as this, to take so poor a place! The mortification was so bitter that she would fain have hidden herself out of reach of consolation, but to her surprise, so far from condoling, teachers and pupils alike seemed surprised that she had done so well.

"You have worked admirably, Rhoda. I am pleased with you," said Miss Murray.

"Well done, Fuzzy!" cried Tom, and even Miss Bruce said graciously:

"Very good progress for a first term, Rhoda!"

It was evident from their manner that they meant what they said, and another girl might have gleaned comfort from the realisation that she had expected too much of her own abilities. Not so Rhoda! It was but an added sting to discover that she had been ranked so low, that an even poorer result would have created no astonishment. She was congratulated, forsooth, on what seemed to her the bitterest humiliation! If anything was needed to strengthen the determination to excel at any and every cost, this attitude of the school was sufficient. In the solitude of the cubicle she vowed to herself that the day should come, and that speedily, when she would be estimated at her right value. She stood in the damp and cold gazing up at the Record Wall, and renewed the vow with fast-beating heart. The sun struggled from behind the clouds and lit up the surface of the tablets, and the Honours girl, and the B.A. girl, and the girls who had won the scholarships, seemed to smile upon her and wish her success, but Eleanor Newman's name was in the shade. The sun had not troubled to light it up. She was "stupid," and had never won a prize.

The last two days were broken and unsatisfactory, and Rhoda longed for the time of departure to arrive; yet it was not without a pang of regret that she opened her eyes on the last morning, and gazed round the little blue cubicle. It was delightful to be going home, yet school had its strong points, and there were one or two partings ahead which could not be faced without depression. How nice it would be if she could take all her special friends home -- Dorothy and Kathleen, and Miss Everett, and --  yes! Tom herself; for, wonderful to state, she was unaffectedly sorry to part from Tom. What fun they would have had running riot in Erley Chase, and summoning the whole household to wait on their caprices!

The gong rang, and all the little bells followed suit in their usual objectionable fashion, but the girls yawned and lay still for another five minutes, aware that leniency was the order of the day. The roll of the organ and the first two lines of the hymn found them still in bed, and the words were clearly distinguishable: -- 

Awake my soul, and with the sun, Thy daily course of duty run -- 

"How stupid!" commented Rhoda to herself. "'Course of duty' on the very day we are leaving school. What a ridiculous choice!" and then she tumbled out of bed and listened no more.

The rest of the morning seemed a comical Alice-in-Wonderland repetition of the day of arrival. The same long queues were formed to march down, instead of upstairs; the teachers stood on the landings to say good-bye, instead of welcome; the "Black Marias" bore the pupils to, instead of from, the station, where the saloon carriages stood waiting as before. The Blues crowded into one carriage, and Tom seated herself by Rhoda, and with twinkling eyes called attention to the undulating beauty of the landscape. It was all exactly the same, yet delightfully different, for now there was no shyness nor restraint, but the agreeable consciousness of liberty to chaff in return, and be as cheeky as one chose.

There was unceasing talk on the journey, yet each girl realised as the train steamed into Euston that she had forgotten to say the most important things, and was divided between regret and anxiety to look out for friends waiting on the platform. Rhoda had heard that Harold was to meet her, and presently there he was -- handsomer than ever, or looking so after the three months' separation, and as immaculate as if he had stepped out of the traditional bandbox.

"There he is! That's Harold! That's my brother!" she cried, with a thrill of pride in the tall, frock-coated figure; and Thomasina looked, and rolled her little eyes to the ceiling.

"What a bee-ootiful young man! A perfect picter! Give him my fond love, Fuzzy, and say that I am desolated not to be able to stay to make his acquaintance, but I must make a bolt for my train."

She seized her bag as she spoke and hurried to the door, prepared to jump on to the platform at the first possible moment, while her companions impatiently followed in her wake. Rhoda had a vague recollection of promising to write regularly to half a dozen girls, and then she was shaking hands with Harold, and laughing in pure joy at seeing the familiar face.

"Here I am! Here I am! I have come back at last!"

"So I see!" He swept a glance over her, half smiling, half startled. "Awfully glad to see you. Got your luggage in the van, eh? Don't know how on earth we shall get hold of it in this crowd. What an -- excuse me! -- an appalling set of girls!"

"I thought so too, at first, but they look different when you know them. Some of them are sweet, and awfully pretty."

"Humph!" said Harold, sceptically. "They are not conspicuous. I don't see a decent-looking girl anywhere, except -- who's the girl in the grey hat?"

"That's Miss Everett, our house-mistress, the one I'm so fond of -- the one who has the invalid brother, you know, to whom mother sent the game!"

"Teacher, is she? I thought she was a pupil. Sorry for her, poor little thing, if she has to manage a lot of girls like you. Ha! 'R.C.' That's your box at last. I'll get a porter to put it on a four - wheeler. Watch where I go, and keep close behind."

He strolled forward, and such was the effect of his imposing appearance and lordly ways, that the porters flew to do his bidding, and piled the luggage on the cab, while others who had been first on the scene were still clamouring for attention. Rhoda glanced proudly at him as they drove away together, but the admiration evidently was on one side, for he frowned, and said critically -- 

"You -- er -- look pale! You have lost your colour!"

"I've been working hard."

"You have grown thinner!"

"Games, I suppose. We are always running about."

"Er -- what has become of your hair?"

Rhoda first stared, and then laughed.

"Oh, my pigtail! I forgot that you hadn't seen it. I hated it too, at first, but I've grown accustomed to it, and find it very comfortable. It worries me now to have my hair blowing about and tickling my face."

"All the same, my dear, you had better untie it before we get home. We will lunch at the Station Hotel, and you can comb it out there. It will give the mater a shock if she sees you looking so changed. She would hardly know you, I think."

The tone of disapproval hit hard, and to hide her chagrin Rhoda adopted an air of indifference.

"Oh, we don't trouble ourselves about appearances at Hurst. So long as we are comfortable we are satisfied. If a girl worries to dress up, we chaff her unmercifully."

"The more foolish you! I hope and pray, Rhoda, that you are not going to develop into one of the strong-minded young women one meets nowadays, who seem to spend their lives in trying to be as much like men as possible. It will be a mistake if you do. Be as learned as you like, and as sensible as you like, and as hardy as you like -- that is all to the good -- but, for pity's sake, be pretty too, and dainty, and feminine! We don't want to have all our womenkind swallowed up in athletes, warranted to be 'hard kicks,' or 'useful forwards!' We want them to play the ornamental part in life, and be pretty, and sweet, and attractive."

"Ha, ha, yes! That's the man's point of view!" quoth Rhoda loftily, and her brother smiled good-naturedly as the cab stopped before the hotel.

"It is, my dear, that's very certain; and as you will probably meet a good many men as you go through life, you might as well study their opinion. It may be regrettable, but it is certainly true, that you will have more influence if you are agreeable to look at. You would have more influence over me at this moment if you would kindly walk upstairs and make yourself look -- er -- a little more like your old self!"

"Oh, I don't mind. Anything to please you!" said Rhoda carelessly, and strode upstairs after the chambermaid, smiling to herself in lofty superiority at Harold's "dandy ways." She did not smile, however, when, on coming suddenly in front of the mirror, she caught a full-length reflection of herself, for her brother's presence had unconsciously altered her point of view, so that she saw herself no longer from the standpoint of Hurst Manor, but that of Erley Chase. Yes, Harold was right! It was not only the pigtail; there was an indefinable difference in her whole appearance. The clothes were the same, the girl was the same, but there was no longer the immaculate neatness, the dainty care, the well-groomed look which had once characterised her. In her usual impetuous fashion, she had rushed from one extreme to the other; in discarding vanity, had run perilously near neglect.

"I look a nasty, horrid, hidjus fright!" she cried aloud, staring in disgust at the unwelcome vision. "I couldn't have believed it -- really I couldn't! It's the fault of those horrid little cubicles with the glass stuck in the darkest corner. Harold was right. Mother would have been shocked."

She slipped off coat and hat, and with the aid of the well-stocked dressing-bag went through such a process of dusting, brushing, and combing-out as she had not known for weeks past. Finally the old Rhoda seemed to smile upon her in response, in her own eyes at least, but when Erley Chase was reached some hours later Mrs Chester was far from satisfied with her darling's appearance. Her anxious eyes took in at a glance every change in the beloved features, and nothing could shake her conviction that the child had been starved and overworked. An elaborate system of coddling was inaugurated, to which Rhoda submitted with wonderful meekness.

Oh, the delight at being home again, of being loved and fussed over, and indulged in one's pet little weaknesses! How beautiful everything looked; the richly-furnished rooms, the hall with its Turkey carpet and pictured walls; the dinner table with its glittering glass and silver! How luxurious to awake in her own pretty room, to hear the fire crackling in the grate, and to sit up in bed to drink the early cup of tea!

"I never realised before how nice home was!" sighed Rhoda to herself, and for four whole days she succeeded in forgetting all about school, and in abandoning herself to the enjoyment of the festivities of the season.

Christmas Day once over, however, recollections came back with a pang, and she was all eagerness to begin the proposed lessons with the Vicar. To her surprise, father and mother looked coldly upon the project, and so far from admiring her industry thought it a pity to introduce work into the holidays. It needed a hard struggle to induce them to consent to three lessons a week instead of six, and she had to face the certainty that private study would be made as difficult as possible. Even Harold elevated his eyebrows and enquired, "Why this tremendous hurry?" as if he had never been to a public school himself and known the necessity for advance.

Rhoda betook herself to the faithful Ella in no very gentle mood, and stormed about the small Vicarage garden like a young whirlwind.

"Well, I must say grown-ups are the most tiresome, aggravating, unreasonable creatures that were ever invented! First they want you to work, and urge you to work, and goad you to work, and 'Oh, my dear, it would do you all the good in the world to compete with other girls,' and then, the moment you take them at their word and get interested and eager, round they turn, and it's, 'Oh the folly of cram! Oh the importance of health!' 'Oh what does it matter, my dear good child, if you are a dunce, so long as you keep your complexion!' No, I'm not angry, I'm perfectly calm, but it makes me ill! I can't stand being thwarted in my best and noblest ambitions. If I had a daughter, and she wanted to cram in her holidays, I'd be proud of her, and try to help, instead of throwing hindrances in the way. It's very hard, I must say, to get no sympathy from one's nearest and dearest. Even your father looked at me over his spectacles as if I were a wild animal. I thought he would have been pleased with my industry."

"He is; I know he is; but he thinks you may overdo it. You know, Rhoda, you are impetuous! When you take up an idea you ride it to death, and in lessons that doesn't pay. Slow and sure wins the -- "

"Rubbish! Humbug! It will never win my race, for I have a definite time to run it in, and not a day more. It has to be a gallop, and a pretty stiff one at that. For goodness' sake, Ella, don't you begin to preach. You might be grown-up yourself, sitting there prosing in that horribly well-regulated fashion."

"I'm not well-regulated!" cried Ella, incensed by the insinuation. "I was only trying to calm you down because you were in such a temper. What is the use of worrying? You have got your own way; why can't you be happy? Leave the wretched old Latin alone, and tell me about school. There are a hundred things I am longing to hear, and we have not had a proper talk yet. Tell me about the girls, and the teachers, and the rules, and the amusements, and what you like best, and what you hate worst."

It was a "large order," as Harold would have said, but Rhoda responded with enjoyment, for what can be pleasanter than to expatiate on one's own doings to a hearer with sufficient knowledge to appreciate the points, and sufficient ignorance to prevent criticism or undue sensitiveness as to consistency of detail!

Rhoda told of the chill, early breakfasts, of the seven o'clock supper when everything looked so different in the rosy light, especially on Thursdays, when frolics and best clothes were the order of the day; of Miss Mott, with her everlasting "Attention to the board"; the Latin mistress, with her eye-glasses; Fraulein, with a voice described by Tom as sounding "like a gutter on a rainy day"; and of Miss Everett, sweetest and best-loved of all. Lastly she told of the Record Wall, and Ella was fired, as every girl hearer invariably was fired, with interest and emulation.

When Rhoda went off to her lesson in the study the poor little stay-at - home recalled the words of Eleanor Newman's inscription, and capped them by one even more touching:

"Ella Mason, a student of exceptional promise, voluntarily relinquished a career of fame and glory to be a cheerful and uncomplaining helper at home." Alas, poor Ella! at the word "cheerful" her lips twitched, and at "uncomplaining" the big tears arose and trickled down her cheeks!

For the rest of the holidays Rhoda worked more persistently than anyone suspected, with the exception of her tutor, who invariably found the allotted task not only perfectly accomplished, but exceeded in length. Even making allowances for the girl's undoubted gift for languages, he was amazed at her progress, and complimented her warmly at the close of the lessons, watching with half-amused, half-pitying eyes the flush of pleasure on the girl's cheeks.

"You are very ambitious, Rhoda. Very anxious to distinguish yourself?"

"Yes."

"Well, well! you are young. It is natural. Remember only that there are different kinds of success, and aim for the best. When I was your age I had dreams of a deanery or a bishopric, but I have remained all my life in this sleepy village. My college companions have soared over my head, yet I can never feel myself an unsuccessful man. I have had great compensations, and have discovered that obscurity has many lessons which I needed badly to learn. Don't be too anxious for honour and glory; there are other things better worth having!"

"The worst of old people is -- they will preach!" said Rhoda to herself as she walked home across the Park. "He is a good old thing, the Vicar, but a terrible bore. Unsuccessful! I should think he is unsuccessful, with half-a-dozen children, and that wretched little bit of a house, and a poor stipend. No wonder he gets prosy. Young people understand young people best, and Miss Everett was quite right when she said it was no use trying to stuff lessons down your throat until you were ready to swallow them. If all the fathers, and mothers, and brothers, and vicars in the world were to lecture me now, and tell me to take it easy, and not to worry about the examination, it would have no effect. In another two days I go back to school, and then -- then -- " She stood still in the midst of the bare, wintry scene, and clasped her hands together passionately.

"Rhoda Chester, you must work, you must win! If you don't do well in that examination, it will break your heart!"



Chapter Thirteen.

"If I Pass -- "

The Christmas holidays were over, the Easter holidays were over, and spring was back once more. On the slope over which the new students had gaily tobogganed two months before the primroses were showing their dainty, yellow faces, and the girl gardeners were eagerly watching the progress of their bulbs. Hearing that other plots boasted nothing rarer than pheasant eye and Lent lilies, Rhoda had promptly written home for a supply of Horsfieldi and Emperor, which were expected to put everything else in the shade, but, alas! they were coming up in feeble fashion, and showed little sign of flowering. "Another year," the gardener said, "they would do better another year! Bulbs were never so strong the first season." Whereat Rhoda chafed with impatience. Always another time, and not now!

Always postponement, delay, uncertainty! Try as she might, checks seemed to be waiting on every side, and she could never succeed in distinguishing herself above her fellows. In moments of depression it seemed that she was as insignificant now as on the day when she first joined the school; but at other times she was happily conscious of a change in the mental attitude towards herself. Though still far from the front, she was recognised as a girl of power and determination; an ambitious girl, who would spare no work to attain her end, and who might, in the future, become a dangerous rival. Dorothy had long ago thrown up the unequal fight, and even Kathleen had moments of doubt, when she said fearfully to herself, "She is cleverer than I am. She gets on so well. Suppose -- just suppose..."

With milder weather, cricket had come into fashion, and on the occasion of the first pavilion tea the Blues turned up in force. Thomasina sat perched in manly attitude on the corner of the table, where, as it seemed to the onlooker, every possible hindrance was put in the way of her enjoyment of the meal. Irene Grey presided at the urn, Bertha handed round the cups, and a bevy of girls hung over the cake basket, making critical and appreciative remarks.

"Bags me that brown one, with the cream in the middle! I've tried those macaroons before -- they are as hard as bricks!"

"I wish they would get cocoa-nut cakes for a change; I adore cocoa-nuts, when they are soft and mushy. We make them at home, and they are ever so much nicer than the ones you buy!"

"That's what they call plum-cake, my love! Case of 'Brother, where art thou?' like the Friday pudding. Those little white fellows look frightfully insipid. What Rhoda would call a 'kid-glove flavour,' I should say."

Every one laughed at this, for it was still a matter of recent congratulation in the house that Rhoda Chester had invented an appropriate title for a certain mould or blancmange, which appeared at regular intervals, and possessed a peculiar flavour which hitherto had refused to be classified.

In a moment of inspiration, Rhoda had christened it "Kid-Glove Jelly," and the invention had been received with acclamation. Did she say she had never distinguished herself, had never attracted attention? No, surely this was wrong; for in that moment she had soared to the very pinnacle of fame. So long as the school endured, the name which she had created would be handed down from generation to generation. Alas, alas! our ambitions are not always realised in the way we would choose! When one has pined to be in a first team, or to come out head in an examination, it is a trifle saddening to be obliged to base our reputation on -- the nickname of a pudding!

Rhoda smiled brightly enough, however, at the present tribute to her powers, and passed her cup for a third supply with undiminished appetite. She had been playing with her usual frantic energy, and was tired and aching. Her shoulders bent forward as she sat on her chair; she shut her eyes with a little contraction of the brows; the dimple no longer showed in her cheek; and when Bertha upset the tray upon the floor, she started with painful violence. Her nerves were beginning to give way beneath the strain put upon them; but, instead of being warned, and easing off in time, she repeated obstinately to herself: -- "Three months more -- two and a half -- only two! -- I can surely keep up for eight weeks, and then there will be all the holidays for rest!"

It seemed, indeed, looking forward, as if the world were bounded by the coming examination, and that nothing existed beyond. If she succeeded --  very well, it was finished! Her mind could take in no further thought. If she failed -- clouds and darkness! chaos and destruction! The world would have come to an end so far as she was concerned.

It filled her with surprise to hear the girls discuss future doings in their calm, unemotional fashion; but though she could not participate, the subject never failed to interest. The discussion began again now, for it was impossible to keep away from the all-engrossing subject, and the supposition, "If I pass," led naturally to what would come afterwards.

"If I do well I shall go up to Newnham, and try for the Gilchrist Scholarship -- fifty pounds a year for three years. It's vacant next year, and I don't see why I shouldn't have it as well as anyone else," said Bertha, modestly, and Tom pounded the table with her heels.

"Go in, my beauty, go in and win! I only wish you could wait a few years until I am there to look after you. I am going to be Principal of Newnham one of these fine days, and run it on my own lines. No work, and every comfort -- breakfast in bed, and tea in the grounds -- nothing to do but wait upon me and pander to my wishes!"

"I daresay! So like you, Tom! You would be a terror, and work the girls to death. You are never tired yourself, so you would keep them going till they dropped. I pity the poor creatures who came under your rule, but most likely you will never be tried. You may be first mistress, or second, or third, but it's not likely you'll ever be a Principal!"

"It's not likely at all, it's positive sure," retorted Tom calmly. "Principals, like poets, are born not made, and the cause can't afford to lose me. I don't say for a certainty it will be Newnham; it may possibly be Girton, or Somerville, or Lady Margaret Hall, but one of the two or three big places it's bound to be. No one shall call me conceited, but I know my own powers, and I intend that other people shall know them too. Education is my sphere, and I intend to devote my life to the advancement of my sex. Pass the cake, someone! I haven't had half enough. Yes, my vocation is among women. You will hardly believe me, my dears, but men don't seem to appreciate me, somehow! There is a 'Je-ne-sais-quoi' in my beauty which doesn't appeal to them a mite. But girls adore me. I've a fatal fascination for them which they can't withstand. There's Rhoda there -- she intended to hate me when she first came, and now she adores the ground I tread on. Don't you, Fuzzy? You watch her smile, and see if it's not true! Very well, then; I see plainly what Providence intends, and I'm going straight towards that goal."

"And it is what you would like? You would choose it if you had the choice?"

"Rather, just! It's the dream of my life. There is nothing in all the world that I should like so much."

Pretty Dorothy sighed, and elevated her eyebrows.

"Well -- I wouldn't. I enjoy school very much, and want to do well while I am here, but when I leave, I never want to do another hour's study. If I thought I had to teach, I should go crazy. I should like to have a good time at home for a few years, and then -- yes, I should! -- I should like to marry a nice man who loved me, and live in the country -- and have a dear little home of my own. Now, I suppose you despise me for a poor - spirited wretch; but it's true, and I can't help it."

But Tom did not look at all scornful. She beamed at the speaker over her slice of plum-cake, and cried blandly -- 

"Bless you, no! It's quite natural. You are that sort, my dear, and I should not have believed you if you had said anything else. You'll marry, of course, and I'll come and visit you in the holidays, and you'll say to 'Him,' 'What a terrible old maid Thomasina has grown!' and I'll say to myself, 'Poor, dear old Dorothy, she is painfully domestic!' and we will both pity each other, and congratulate ourselves on our own escape. We have different vocations, you and I, and it would be folly to try to go the same way."

"You are happy creatures it you are allowed to go your own way," said Bertha sadly. "I'm not, and that's just the trouble. I'm not a star, like Tom, but I love work, and want to do some good with my education. I should be simply miserable settling down at home with no occupation but to pay calls, or do poker work and sewing; yet that's what my parents expect me to do. They are rich, and can't understand why I should want to work when there is no necessity. I may persuade them to send me abroad for a year or so for languages and music, but even then I should be only twenty, and I can't settle down to vegetate at twenty. It's unreasonable to send a girl to a school where she is kept on the alert, body and mind, every hour of the day, and then expect her to be content to browse for the rest of her life! Now, what ought one to do in my position? I want one thing; they want another. Whose duty is it to give way?"

She looked at Tom as she spoke, but Tom swung her feet to and fro, and went on munching plum-cake and staring into space with imperturbable unconsciousness. Bertha called her sharply to attention.

"Tom! answer, can't you? I was speaking to you."

"Rather not, my dear. Ask someone else; some wise old Solomon who has had experience."

"No, thank you. I know beforehand what he would say. 'Submission, my child, submission! Parents always know best. Young people are always obstinate and hot-headed. Be ruled! Be guided! In time to come you will see' -- Yah!" cried Bertha, with a sudden outburst of irritation. "I'm sick of it! I've had it dinned into my ears all my life, and I want to hear someone appreciate the other side for a change. I'm young; I've got all my life to live. If I were a boy I should be allowed to choose. Surely! surely, I ought to have some say in my own affairs! Don't shirk now, Tom, but speak out and say what you think. If you are going to be a Principal you ought to be able to give advice, and I really do need it!"

"Ye-es!" said Tom slowly. "But you needn't have given me such a poser to start with. It's a problem my dear, that has puzzled many a girl before you, and many a parent, too. The worst of it is that there is so much to be said on both sides. I could make out an excellent brief for each; and, while I think of it, it wouldn't be half a bad subject to discuss some day at our Debating Society: 'To what extent is a girl justified in deciding on her own career, in opposition to the wishes of her parents?' Make a note of that someone, will you? It will come in usefully. I'm thankful to say my old dad and I see eye to eye about my future, but if he didn't -- it would be trying! I hate to see girls disloyal to their parents, and if the 'revolt of the daughters' were the only outcome of higher education I should say the sooner we got back to deportment and the use of the globes the better for all concerned. But it wasn't all peace and concord even in the old days. Don't tell me that half a dozen daughters sat at home making bead mats in the front parlour, and never had ructions with their parents or themselves! They quarrelled like cats, my dears, take my word for it, and were ever so much less happy and devoted than girls are now, going away to do their work, and coming home with all sorts of interesting little bits of news to add to the general store. It's impossible to lay down the law on such a question, for every case is different from another, but I think a great deal depends on the work waiting at home. If a girl is an only daughter, or the only strong or unmarried one, there is no getting away from it that her place is with her parents. We don't want to be like the girl in Punch, who said, 'My father has gout, and my mother is crippled, and it is so dull at home that I am going to be a nurse in a hospital!' That won't do! If you have a duty staring you in the face you are a coward it you run away from it. An only daughter ought to stay at home; but when there are two or three, it's different. It doesn't take three girls to arrange flowers, and write notes, and pay calls, and sew for bazaars; and where there is a restless one among them, who longs to do something serious with her time, I -- I think the parents should give way! As you say, we have to live our own lives, and, as boys are allowed to choose, I think we should have the same liberty. I don't know how large your family is, Bertha, or -- "

"Three sisters at home. One engaged, but the other two not likely to be, so far as I can see, and Mother quite well, and brisk, and active!"

"Well, don't worry! Don't force things, or get cross, and they'll give in yet, you'll see. Put your view of the case before them, and see if you cannot meet each other somehow. If they find that you are quiet and reasonable they will be far more inclined to take you seriously, and believe that you know your own mind. That's all the advice I can give you, my dear, and I'm afraid it's not what you wanted. Perhaps someone else can speak a word in season!"

"Well, I side with the parents, for if the rich are going to work, what is to become of the poor ones like me, who are obliged to earn their living?" cried Kathleen, eagerly. "Now, if Bertha and I competed for an appointment, she could afford to take less salary, and so, of course -- "

"No, no! That's mean! I do beg and pray all you Blues that, whatever you do, you never move a finger to reduce the salaries of other women!" cried Tom fervently. "If you don't need the money, give it away to Governesses' Institutions -- Convalescent Homes -- whatever you like; but, for pity's sake, don't take less than your due. For my own part, I must candidly say that when I am Principal I shall select my staff from those who are like Kathleen, and find work a necessity rather than a distraction. It seems to me, if I were rich and idle, I could find lots of ways of making myself of use in the world without jostling the poor Marthas. I could coach poor governesses who were behind the times, but couldn't afford to take lessons; I'd translate books into Braille for the blind; I'd teach working boys at their clubs, and half a dozen other interesting, useful things. There's no need to be idle, even if one does live at home with a couple of dear old conservative parents. Where there's a will there's a way!"

"But I want it to be my way!" sighed Bertha, dolefully. Like the majority of people who ask for advice, she was far from satisfied now that she had got it.



Chapter Fourteen.

The "Revels."

One of the Hurst Manor institutions was a whole holiday on the first Saturday in June, which was technically known as "Revels." The holiday had been inaugurated partly to celebrate the coming of summer, and partly as a kindly distraction for the students, who at this season of the year were apt to be too absorbingly engrossed in the coming examinations. Old pupils declared that at no other time was the Principal so indulgent and anxious to second the girls' fancies, while the particular form of entertainment was left entirely to their discretion. When the programme was drawn up it was submitted to Miss Bruce for approval, but, as she had never been known to object, the consultation was more a matter of form than necessity.

To Rhoda's surprise, she found her name among those of the General Committee posted on the notice board, and the delight and pride consequent thereon diverted her thoughts into a new channel, and were as good as a tonic to her nervous system. It was a compliment to have been chosen, for the dozen girls had been drawn from all five houses, and Irene Grey and herself were the only representatives of the Blues.

"It's a beauty competition, evidently. Can't think why they haven't asked me!" was Tom's comment; but Rhoda felt convinced that she had been selected because of the dramatic abilities which she had exhibited on more than one of the Thursday "Frolics," and was not far wrong in her surmise. She had, in truth, a keen eye for effect, a power of manufacturing properties, and of learning and even inventing suitable rhymes, which were invaluable in organising an entertainment.

"And besides," said the Games Captain to her Secretary, "there's her back hair! She has really admirable back hair!"

The Committee held their meetings in the study of the Head Green, and anxiously discussed their programme. On previous years they had held Gymkhanas and various kinds of picnics, but the ambition was ever to hit on something so original and startling as to eclipse all that had previously been attempted. They racked their brains and gazed helplessly at the ceiling, while the Chairwoman begged for remarks, after the manner of all Committees since the world began. Then, at last, someone hazarded a suggestion, someone else took it up and added a fresh idea; and the ball, once set rolling, grew bigger and bigger, until, at last, there it was, complete and formed before them! It was a charming programme -- quite charming! They were full of admiration for their own cleverness in inventing it, and away they flew, smiling and confident, to consult Miss Bruce in her sanctum.

The Principal read the sheet handed to her, and the corners of her lips twitched in humorous fashion. She looked across at the twelve eager young faces, and smiled a slow, kindly smile.

"It sounds very charming!" she said; "I am sure it would be most entertaining, but -- would it not involve a great deal of preparation? Do you think you have realised how much work you will have?"

"Oh yes, Miss Bruce, but we can manage it easily!" cried the Chairwoman. "We can get as many helpers as we like in game hours, and you always allow us an afternoon off to make preparations."

"Certainly, certainly! You can do nothing without time. Very well, then, if you think you can manage, I have no objection. You have my permission to ask the carpenter and gardeners to help you, and if anything is needed, one of the governesses shall go into town to make your purchases."

Nothing could have been more gracious. The Committee gave a unanimous murmur of acknowledgment, and were immediately smitten with embarrassment. So long as one has something to say it is easy to retain self-confidence, but, when the business is finished, the necessity of saying good-bye and beating a retreat becomes fraught with terror to the timid guest. The girls felt that it would be discourteous to retire without speaking another word, but what to say they could not think, so they huddled together beside the door, and waited to be dismissed, which they presently were in the kindest of manners.

"I shall look forward with great pleasure to the performance. Success to your efforts! You will have plenty to do, so I won't detain you any longer. Good afternoon!"

The Committee retired in haste, gasped relief in the corridor, and promptly set about collecting forces for the furtherance of its aim. They enlisted the sympathies of the workmen engaged in the grounds, selected parties of amateur gardeners to supplement their efforts, and chose the forty prettiest girls in the school to be on the "acting staff." Each new worker was pledged to secrecy, as surprise was to be the order of the day, and a certain portion of the grounds was marked off by placards bearing the announcement that "Trespassers would be persecuted!" A casual observer might have imagined a slip of the pen in this last word, but the girls knew better. It would be persecution, indeed, and of no light nature, which would be visited upon a willing violator of that order.

For the next ten days preparations went on busily, both outdoors and in the various studies. Lessons, of course, could not be interrupted, but the hours usually devoted to games, added to odd five minutes of leisure, made up a not inconsiderable total. The onlookers reported eagerly among themselves that the dancing mistress had been pressed into the service, and that sundry mysterious boxes had been sent to the leading members of the Committee from their various homes. Everyone was agreed that "It" was to be very grand, and they prepared to enjoy the entertainment in a hearty, but duly critical fashion; for when we ourselves have not been asked to take part in an enterprise, pride has no better consolation than to think how much more successful it would have been in happier circumstances!

The Committee announced that, should the weather prove unpropitious, a modified form of the proposed entertainment would be given in Great Hall, but no one seriously contemplated such a catastrophe. Providence was so invariably kind to "Revels" that the oldest student could not recall a day that had been less than perfect, and this year was no exception to the rule. The air was soft, the sky was blue, the grass, unscorched as yet by the heat of summer, of a rich emerald green, the sunshine sent flickering shadows over the paths; it was one of those perfect days when our native land is seen at its best; and when England is at her best, go east or west, or where you will, you can find no place to equal it! Every single inmate of school came down to breakfast with a smile on her face, for this was a day of all play and no work, and as the formal entertainment did not take place until three o'clock, the whole morning remained in which to laze after one's heart's desire. Even the Committee were so well on with their preparations that by eleven o'clock they were free to join their friends, and Rhoda looked eagerly round for Miss Everett. No one had seen her, however, and a vague report that she was "headachy" sent the searcher indoors to further her inquiries. She found the study door closed, but a faint voice bade her enter, and there on the sofa lay Miss Everett with a handkerchief bound round her head. She looked up and smiled at Rhoda's entrance, and said immediately:

"Do you want me, dear? Can I do anything to help you?"

"So likely that I would let you, isn't it?" returned Rhoda scornfully. "What is the matter? Is your head bad?"

"Yes! No! It isn't really so very bad, but one seems to give way when there is nothing to do. If it had been an ordinary day I should have gone on with my work, and even played games. I have managed to get through many a time when I've been worse than this; but it's a luxury to lie still and rest. I -- I'm enjoying it very much!"

"You look like it!" said Rhoda shortly, noting with sharp eyes the flushed cheeks, the drops of tell-tale moisture on the eyelashes. "This room is like an oven, and it will get worse and worse as the day goes on. Now, it's my turn to order you about, and you've got to obey. Get up and put on your hat, and come out with me!"

"Rhoda, I can't! It's cruel! I can't walk about. Do -- do let me rest when I get a chance. I'm so tired!"

"You are not going to walk about; you are going to rest better than you could ever do here, so don't worry and make objections. Here's your hat, and here's my arm, and please come along without any more arguing. You'll be thankful to me when I get you nicely settled!"

"When!" echoed Miss Everett ungratefully; but she was too languid to oppose the girl's strong will, so she sat up, put on her hat, and allowed herself to be led downstairs and into the grounds. The girls were scattered about under the trees, but Rhoda skirted round the paths so as to avoid them as much as possible, and presently came to a sheltered spot, where Dorothy lay swinging to and fro in a most superior Canadian hammock which had been sent from Erley Chase at the beginning of the summer weather. She peered over the edge as footsteps approached and Rhoda cried briskly:

"Tumble out, Dorothy! I said you could have it until I needed it myself, and I want it now for Miss Everett. She has a headache, and is going to rest here until lunch. Now then, I'll shake up the pillows, and if you don't say it is the most delicious hammock you ever lay in, I shan't think much of your taste. I'll put up the parasol and tuck it into the ropes -- so! -- that you may feel nice and private if anyone passes. Now then, how's that? Isn't that comfy? Isn't that an improvement on the stuffy little study?"

Miss Everett rested her head on the cushion, and drew a long breath of enjoyment.

"It's -- beautiful! It's perfect. I'm so happy! I never want to move again."

"You are not to move until I tell you. Go fast asleep, and I'll promise faithfully to wake you in time for lunch. We must have you well for the afternoon, you know. I'd be heart-broken if you didn't see me in my grand -- . Never mind, that's a secret, but you will rest, won't you? You will be good, and do as you are told?"

"Kiss me!" replied Miss Everett simply, lifting her dark eyes to the girl's face with an appeal so sweet that it would have touched a heart of stone. No sooner was the kiss given, than down fell the eyelids, and Rhoda crept away realising that sleep, the best of medicines, was indeed near at hand. She herself spent a happy morning lying flat on her back on the grass in company with half a dozen other girls, discussing the affairs of the world in general, the blatant follies of grown-ups, and the wonderful improvements which would take place when they in their turn came into power. Rhoda was specially fervid in denunciation, and her remarks were received with such approval that it was in high good temper that she went to awaken the sleeper from her two hours' nap. Miss Everett declared that she felt like a "giant refreshed," had not a scrap of pain left, and had enjoyed herself so much that if "Revels" ended there and then, she would still consider it an historic occasion, which was satisfactory indeed.

But there was more to follow! There was a great dressing up in the cubicles after lunch, the girls making their appearance in pique skirts and crisp new blouses, and rustling into the grounds, all starch and importance. The "persecuting placards" had been withdrawn, and replaced by others directing the visitors' steps in the right direction. They followed meekly, "This way to the Opening Ceremony!" and found themselves on the south side of the lake, where a semicircle of chairs had been set for the teachers, and gaily-hued rugs spread on the grass to protect the freshness of the pique skirts. Here, no doubt, was the place appointed, but where was the Ceremony? The girls took their places, and began to clap in impatient fashion, speculating vaguely among themselves.

"What's going to happen now? Why do we face this way where we can't see anything except the lake? There's the landing place opposite -- perhaps they are going to play water-polo? It wouldn't be bad fun in this weather."

"I think some one should have been here to receive us. It's rude to let your guests arrive without a welcome. If I had been on the Committee --  What's that -- ?"

"What? Oh, music! But where -- where? It is growing nearer. It's a violin, and a 'cello -- and someone singing. This grows mysterious! Oh, I say -- Look! look to the right! To the right! Oh, isn't it romantic and lovely?"

The girls craned forward, and cried aloud in delight, for round the corner of the lake was slowly coming into view a wonderful, rose - wreathed barque, with Youth at the prow and Pleasure at the helm, clad in the most fanciful and quaint of garments. It would have been idle to assert that this wonderful craft was the old school tub, guaranteed to be as safe as a house, and as clumsy as hands would make it; for no one could have been found to listen to such a statement. Garlands of roses fluttered overhead; roses wreathed the sides, pink linings concealed the dark boards, and, as for the occupants, they looked more like denizens of another world than practical, modern-day schoolgirls. The oarswomen stood at their post, wearing pale green caps over their flowing locks, and loose robes of the same colour. The musicians were robed in pink, with fillets of gauze tied round their heads, and underneath the central awning sat a gorgeous figure who was plainly the Queen of the Ceremony.

Amidst deafening applause the boat drew up before the landing-stage, and, while the oarswomen stood to attention, the central figure alighted, and moved slowly forward until she stood in front of the semicircle of watchers.

"It's Rhoda Chester!" gasped the girls incredulously, pinching their neighbours' arms in mingled excitement and admiration; and Rhoda Chester in truth it was, transformed into a glorified vision, far removed from the ordinary knickerbockered, pigtailed figure associated with the name. A white robe swept to the ground, the upper skirts necked over with rose-leaves of palest pink; in the right hand she bore a sceptre of roses, and a wreath of the same flowers crowned her head. Her cheeks were flushed with excitement, and she bore herself with an erect, fearless mien which justified her companions' choice.

When it had become necessary to apportion the role of "Mistress June" the Committee had unanimously agreed that it would be safest in Rhoda's hands. She would not quail at the critical moment, mumble her words, nor forget her duties; but, on the contrary, would rise to the occasion, and find the audience a stimulus to her powers.

It was her genius also which had invented the verses for recitation, so that there seemed a double reason for giving her the place of honour. So Rhoda had sent home an imperious dressmaking order, and here she was, dainty as loving care could make her, her flaxen mane streaming over her shoulders, the sceptre extended in welcome -- as fair a personation of "Mistress June" as one need wish to see -- 

"Friends and companions, and our teachers dear We give you welcome to our kingdom here. Once more has kindly summer come to stay, And Mistress June resumes her wonted sway. We are your hosts, and to our leafy bowers We welcome you to spend the sunny hours; In happy revels we will all unite, In song, and dance, and ancient pastimes bright; All cares forgotten, labours laid aside, Hearts turned to joy, and glad eyes open wide To watch, as when bright fay and sportive faun Wove their gay dances on the woodland lawn. Alas! the stress of higher education Has vanished these, the poet's fond creation. But nature -- not to be denied -- has sent Yet fairer forms for gladsome merriment, Who wait my nod. The beauty of the nation Are gathered here to win your approbation. But you grow weary -- Hither, maidens all, Forth from your bowers, responsive to my call, With roses crowned, let each and all advance, And let the Revels start with song and dance!"

It was astonishing how well it sounded, recited with an air, and to an accompaniment of smiles and waving hands. Little Hilary Jervis, the youngest girl in the school, remarked rhapsodically that it was "Just like a pantomime!" and the finale to the address was so essentially dramatic that her elders were ready to agree with her decision.

Rhoda backed gracefully to the spot where her flower-decked chair had been placed by her attendants, and having taken her seat, clapped her hands as a signal to her handmaidens. Instantly from behind the shelter of the trees there tripped forward a band of pink and green-robed figures, bearing in their hands garlands of many-coloured roses. The roses were but paper, it is true, and of the flimsiest manufacture, but at a little distance the effect could not have been improved, and when the dance began to the accompaniment of music "on the waters" the effect was charming enough to disarm the most exacting of critics. It was an adaptation of the "scarf dance" practised by the pupils, but the dresses, the circumstances, the surroundings added charm to the accustomed movements, and there were, of course, deviations from the original figures, noticeably at the end, when, with a simultaneous whirling movement, the dancers grouped themselves round their Queen, holding up their skirts so as to entirely conceal their figures. The greens were on the outside, the pinks arranged in gradually deepening lines, and Rhoda's smiling face came peeping out on top; it was evident to the meanest intellect that the final tableau was intended to represent a rose, and -- granted a little stretch of imagination -- it was really as much like it as anything else!

This first item of the programme over, the dancers grouped themselves in attitudes of studied grace, while little green-robed heralds led the way to what, for want of a more high-flown name, was termed "The Rose Bower," where various sports and competitions had been organised. Roses were, indeed, conspicuous by their absence; but there was an archery ground, an amateur Aunt Sally (clad, one regrets to state, in the garb of a University Examiner!) and many original and amusing "trials of skill." Tom came off victorious in an obstacle race, in the course of which the competitors had to pick up and set in order a prostrate deck chair, correctly add up a column of figures, unravel a knotted rope, and skip with it for fifteen or twenty yards, thread a needle, and hop over the remaining portion of the course; while Dorothy, who held a stick poised in her hand, called out in threatening tones, "You would pluck me in arithmetic, would you? Take that!" and let fly with such energy that the "Examiner" fell in fragments to the ground.

It was a scene of wild hilarity, for even the teachers threw off their wonted airs of decorum, and entered into the spirit of the occasion, and to see severe Miss Mott throwing for cocoa-nuts, and fat little Fraulein hopping across the lawn, were by no means the least entertaining items in the programme.

Rhoda sat enthroned on her rose-wreathed chair, looking on at the revels, well content with idleness since it was the badge of superiority. The pleasantest part of her duties was still to come, and the girls realised for what purpose the sixpence-a-head contribution had been levied by the Games Captains, as they saw the prizes which were awarded the successful competitors. No one-and-eleven-penny frames this time; no trashy little sixpence-three-farthing ornaments; nor shilling boxes supplied with splinty pencils and spluttering pens; but handsome, valuable prizes, which any girl might be proud to possess. Dorothy was presented with an umbrella with a silver handle; another lucky winner received the most elegant of green leather purses, with what she rapturously described as "scriggles of gold" in the corners; Tom won a handsome writing-case, and a successful "Red" the daintiest little gold bangle, with six seed pearls encircling a green stone, concerning the proper name of which it was possible to indulge in endless disputations.

Rhoda was in her element distributing these gifts, and afterwards in leading the way towards the pavilion, which had been transformed into a veritable bower by the hands of willing workers, and in which were displayed a supply of the most luxurious refreshments. Miss Bruce had contributed generously towards the afternoon's entertainment, and as the girls sat about upon the grass, and were waited upon by the "Rose Maidens," no one had need to sigh in vain for "something nice." The choice of good things was quite bewildering, and little Hilary Jervis was reported to have reverted twice over from coffee to lemonade, and to have eaten an ice-cream and a ham sandwich in alternate bites. She was blissfully happy, however, and so was everyone else, and when at last Mistress June returned to her Barque, and the singers started the first notes of "Good Night," two hundred voices took up the strain with a strength and precision which made the unrehearsed effect one of the most striking in the programme.

And so ended "Revels" -- the happiest day which many of the students were to know for long weeks to come.



Chapter Fifteen.

Drawing Near.

A week after "Revels" had taken place the very remembrance seemed to have floated away to an immeasurable distance, and only wonder remained that any interest could have been felt on so trivial a subject. From morning to night, and from night till morning, the same incessant grind went on, for of what rest was sleep when it opened the door for fresh torture, as, for instance, when a Cambridge Examiner condescended to the unfair expedient of kidnapping a candidate's wardrobe, leaving her to decide between the alternative of staying at home or attending the examination room attired in a robe de nuit? On other occasions it appeared that by some unaccountable freak of memory one had forgotten about the examinations until the very hour had arrived, and was running, running -- trying to overtake a train that would not stop, not though one leapt rivers and scaled mountain heights in the vain attempt to attract attention! It was really more restful to lie awake and study textbooks by the morning light, which came so early in these summer days; or so thought Rhoda, as she sat up in bed and bent her aching head over her task. Her head was always aching nowadays, while occasionally there came a sharp, stabbing pain in the eyes, which seemed to say that they, too, were inclined to rebel. It was tiresome, but she had no time to attend to them now. It was not likely that she was going to draw back because of a little pain and physical weakness.

She never complained, but amidst all the bustle of preparation the teachers kept a keen eye on their pupils, and Rhoda found more than one task mysteriously lightened. No remark was made, but Miss Mott reduced the amount of preparation; Miss Bruce sent an invitation to tea, which involved an idle hour, and shortcomings were passed over with wonderful forbearance. Only Miss Everett "croaked," and, dearly as she loved her, Rhoda was glad to keep out of Miss Everett's way just now. It was unpleasant to be stared at by "eyes like gimlets," to be asked if one's head ached, and warned gravely of the dangers of overwork.

"When I went up for the Cambridge Senior," began Miss Everett, and the girl straightened herself defiantly, on the outlook for "sermons."

"When I went up for the Cambridge Senior I was not at school like you, but studying at home with a tutor. My sister was delicate, so an old college friend of my father's came to us for three hours a day. He was delightful -- a very prince of teachers -- and we had such happy times, for he entered into all our interests, and treated our opinions with as much respect as if we had been men like himself. I remember disputing the axioms of political economy, and arguing that a demand for commodities must be a demand for labour, and the delight with which he threw back his head and laughed whenever I seemed to score a point. Instead of snubbing me, and thinking it ridiculous that I should presume to dispute accepted truths, he welcomed every sign of independent thought; and there we would sit, arguing away, two girls of fifteen and sixteen and the grey-headed man, as seriously as if history depended on our decision. Later on, when I was going in for the examination, I joined some of his afternoon classes at a school near by, so that I could work up the subjects with other candidates. There was one girl in the class called Mary Macgregor, a plain, unassuming little creature, who seemed most ordinary in every way. When I first saw her I remember pitying her because she looked so dull and commonplace. My dear, she had a brain like an encyclopaedia! -- simply crammed with knowledge, and what went in at one ear stayed there for good, and never by any chance got mislaid. You may think how clever she was when I tell you that she passed first in all England, with distinction in every single subject that she took. She won scholarships and honours and went up to Girton, and had posts offered to her right and left, and practically established herself for life. Well, to go back a long way, to the week before the Cambridge. We had preliminary examinations at school, and had worked so hard that we were perfectly dazed and muddled. Then one day 'Magister,' as we called him, marched into the room to read the result of the arithmetic paper. I can see him now, standing up with the list in his hands, and all the girls' faces turned towards him. Then he began to read: 'Total number of marks, one hundred. Kate Evans, eighty-nine; Sybil Bruce, eighty-two; Hilda Green, seventy-one;' so on and so on -- down, and down and down until it came to thirties and twenties, and still no mention of Mary or of me! The girls' faces were a study to behold. As for the 'Magister' he put on the most exaggerated expression of horror, and just hissed out the last few words -- 'Laura Everett, twelve! Ma-ry Mac-gre - gor, ten!' We sat dumb, petrified, frozen with dismay, and then suddenly he banged his book on the table and called out, 'No more lessons! No more work! I forbid any girl to open a book again before Monday morning. Off you go, and give your brains a rest, if you don't wish to disgrace yourselves and me. Give my compliments to your mothers, and say I wish you all to be taken to the Circus this evening.' He nodded at us quite cheerfully, and marched out of the room there and then, leaving us to pack up our books and go home, Mary and I cried a little, I remember, in a feeble, helpless sort of way; but we were too tired to care very much. I slept like a log all the afternoon, and went to the Circus at night, and the next day I skated, and on Saturday spent the day in town, buying Christmas presents, and by Monday I was quite brisk again, and my mind as clear as ever. I have often thought how differently that examination might have turned out for Mary and for me if we had had a less wise teacher, who had worked himself into a panic of alarm, and made us work harder than ever, instead of stopping altogether! I am convinced that it was only those few days of rest which saved me."

"There!" cried Rhoda, irritably; "I knew it! I knew there was a moral. I knew perfectly well the moment you began, that it was a roundabout way of preaching to me. If I am to have a sermon, I would rather have it straight out, not wrapped up in jam like a powder. I suppose you think my brain is getting muddled, but it would go altogether if I tried to do nothing but laze about. I should go stark, staring mad. I must say, Evie, you talk in a very strange way for a teacher, and are not at all encouraging. I don't think you care a bit whether I get the scholarship or not."

"Yes, I do! I hope very much that you will not! Wait a moment now; I am very fond of you, Rhoda; and I hope with all my heart that you will pass, and pass well -- I shall be bitterly disappointed if you don't; but I want Kathleen to get the scholarship. She needs it, and you don't; it means far, far more to her than you can even understand."

"In one way, perhaps -- not another! She wants the money, which she could have in any case; but she is not half so keen as I am for the honour itself -- and, after all, that's the first thing. I can't do anything in a half-and-half way, and now that I have taken up examinations I am just burning to distinguish myself. It would be a perfect bliss, the height of my ambition, to come out first here, and go up to Oxford, and take honours, and have letters after one's name, and be a distinguished scholar, written about in the papers and magazines like -- like -- "

"Yes! Like Miss Mott, for instance. What then?" Rhoda stood still in the middle of her tirade, and stared at the speaker with startled eyes. Miss Mott! No, indeed, she had meant nobody in the least like Miss Mott. The very mention of the name was like a cold douche on her enthusiasm. The creature of her dream was gowned and capped, and moved radiant through an atmosphere of applause. Miss Mott was a commonplace, hard-working teacher, with an air of chronic exhaustion. When one looked across the dining-room, and saw her face among those of the girls, it looked bleached and grey, the face of a tired, worn woman. "The idea of working and slaving all one's youth to be like -- Miss Mott!" Rhoda exclaimed contemptuously, but Miss Everett insisted on her position.

"Miss Mott is a capital example. You could not have a better. She was the first student of her year, and carried everything before her. Her position here is one of the best of its kind, for she is practically headmistress. She would tell you herself that she never expected to do so well."

"I think it's very mean of you, Evie, to squash me so! It's most discouraging. I don't want to be the least like Miss Mott, and you know it perfectly well. It's no use talking, for we can't agree; and really and truly you are the most unsympathetic to me just now."

Miss Everett looked at her steadily, with a long, tender gaze.

"I seem so, Rhoda, I know I do, but it is only seeming. In reality I'm just longing to help you, but, as you say, you think one thing and I think another, so we are at cross purposes. Come and spend Sunday afternoon with me in my den, dear, and I'll promise not to preach. I'll make you so comfy, and show you all my photographs and pretty things, and lay in a stock of fruit and cakes. Do; it will do you good!"

But Rhoda hesitated, longing, yet fearing.

"I'd love it; it would be splendid, but -- there's my Scripture! I want to cram it up a little more, and Sunday afternoon is the only chance. I'm afraid I can't until after the exam., Evie, dear. I need the time."

"A wilful lass must have her way!" quoted Miss Everett with a sigh, and that was the last attempt which she made to rescue Rhoda from the result of her own rash folly. Henceforth to the end the girl worked unmolested, drawing the invariable "list" from her pocket at every odd moment, and gabbling in ceaseless repetition, nerved to more feverish energy by the discovery that her brain moved so slowly that it took twice as long as of yore to master the simplest details. She felt irritable and peevish, disposed to tears on the slightest provocation, and tired all over, back and limbs, aching head, smarting eyes, weary, dissatisfied heart. Did every ambition of life end like this? Did it always happen that when the loins were girded to run a race, depression fell like a fetter, and the question tortured: "Is it worth while? Is it worth while?" What was the "right motive" of which Evie had spoken? What was the Vicar's meaning of "success"? They, at least, seemed to have found contentment as a result of their struggles. Rhoda groped in the dark, but found no light, for the door was barred by the giant of Self-Will.



Chapter Sixteen.

The Examination.

Four o'clock on the morning of Examination Monday. The clock on the wall chimed the hour, and Rhoda awoke with a start, and sat up wearily in bed. The pale, grey light already filled the room, and the birds clamoured tumultuously in the trees outside. Three hours before the gong rang -- the last, the very last chance of preparing for the fray!

She slipped noiselessly out of bed, sponged her face with cold water, seized the eau-de-Cologne in one hand and a pile of books in the other, and settled herself against a background of cushions. There was silence in the room, broken only by fitful cries from Dorothy, who was given to discoursing in her sleep, and more than once in the course of the first half-hour Rhoda's own eyes glazed over, and the lids fell. Nature was pleading for her rights, but each lapse was sternly overcome, and presently nerves and brain were fully awake, and battling with their task. She learned by heart passages marked as likely to be useful, searched to and fro for answers still unknown, and worked out imaginary calculations. One thing was no sooner begun than she recalled another which needed attention, and so on it went from arithmetic to Shakespeare, from Shakespeare to history, from history to Latin, back and forward, back and forward, until her head was in a whirl.

The clock struck six, the girl in the next cubicle murmured sleepily, "Such a noise! Something rustling!" and Rhoda held her breath in dismay. Her haste in turning over the leaves had nearly brought about discovery, but henceforth she moved with caution, turning from place to place with wary fingers. Her back ached despite the supporting cushions, and her head swam, but she struggled on until at last the roll of the gong sounded through the house, and the girls awoke with yawns and groans of remembrance.

"Black Monday! Oh! Oh! I wish I'd never been born!"

"Misery me, and I was having such a lovely dream, all about holidays and picnics, and walks on the sands -- "

"I've had the most awful night, doing sums all the time, with the Examiner looking over my shoulder. My head is like a jelly!"

Then Tom's voice arose in derisive accents. Happy Tom! who was well through her June Matric, and could afford to chaff the poor victims.

"Would any young lady like to explain to me how to find the resultant of a system of parallel forces?"

"Tom, you are brutal! Be quiet this moment, or we'll come and make you -- "

"Ha! Ha! Ha! Rhoda, love, just give me the Substance of King Richard's speech to Northumberland, when the latter announced that he was to be removed to Pomfret!"

Rhoda began to reply, but stopped abruptly, for on rising from bed she was attacked by a strange giddiness, and lay back against the pillows trembling with cold and nausea. Her hands shook as she uncorked the eau-de-Cologne, and the scent, so far from being reviving, made her shudder afresh. She dressed with difficulty, sitting down at frequent intervals, and growing colder and colder with each exertion, so that when she emerged from her cubicle her pallid face roused Tom's instant attention.

"Rhoda, you are ill!" she cried, her chaffing manner changing at once, as she realised the seriousness of the occasion. "What's the matter? Didn't you sleep? Let me feel your hand -- . Goodness, what a frog! You had better lie down, and let me send for nurse."

"No, thank you, Tom, please! It's only excitement. I shall be better after breakfast. Please, please, don't make a fuss!"

"Humph!" said Tom shortly, "just as you like. If you feel yourself going, stoop down and pretend to fasten your shoe, and give a scrub to your cheeks before passing Miss Bruce. She'll spot you in a moment if you go in with a face like that."

Thus adjured, Rhoda "scrubbed her cheeks" all the way downstairs, and looked so rosy as she passed the Principal that the good lady felt much relieved. She had had some anxious thoughts about Rhoda Chester of late, and was only too glad to feel that her anxiety had been needless; but, alas! three times over during breakfast did Rhoda stoop down to button her shoe, and in vain did her companions press food upon her. A sumptuous breakfast had been served in honour of the occasion, but ham and eggs seemed just the last things in the world that she wanted to eat, while the sight of fried fish took away the last remnant of appetite. She drank her tea, trying to laugh with the rest, and to take no notice of the swaying movement with which the walls whirled round from time to time, or of the extraordinary distance from which the girls' voices sounded in her ears.

"She's game! She's real game!" said Tom to herself, watching the set face with her sharp little eyes, "but she's uncommon bad all the same. I'll put Evie on her track!" So Miss Everett's attention was duly called to the condition of her pupil, and Rhoda was dosed with sal - volatile, and provided with smelling salts to keep in her pocket. Not a word of reproach was spoken, and Evie indeed appeared to treat the indisposition as quite an orthodox thing under the circumstances. So affectionate was she, so kind and cheery, and so thoughtful were the girls in giving up the best seats in omnibus and train, and in offering supporting arms along platforms, that Rhoda felt inclined to cry with mingled gratitude and remorse.

When the hall was reached in which the examination was to be held, she had yet another dose of sal-volatile as a preparation for the ordeal of the arithmetical paper, and then, gathering up pens and pencils, marched slowly into the dreaded room. It was shaped like an amphitheatre, with a railed-in platform at one side, and sloping seats descending all round.

"It's like the operating theatre at a hospital! Oh my! and don't I feel as if I were going to be cut up too!" groaned Dorothy, as she filed along in front of a seat, looking for her place. At a distance of every two or three yards the desks were marked with a number, in front of which was a supply of blotting and writing paper. Some of the candidates made out their own number at once, others went roaming helplessly about, and Rhoda found herself perched in the furthest corner, far from her companions. She looked across and received Dorothy's smiling nod, but Kathleen's face was set in stern anxiety, and the others were too busy arranging papers to remember her existence. The Examiner, in cap and gown, stood on the platform, talking to the lady secretary of the Centre. She made a remark, and he smiled, and said something in reply at which they both laughed audibly. It shocked Rhoda in much the same way as it would have done to hear a chief mourner laugh at a funeral. Such levity was most unseemly, yet on the other hand the pictures on the walls were surely unnecessarily depressing! They were oil-coloured portraits of departed worthies, at that gloomy stage of decay when frame, figure, and background have acquired the same dirty hue, and the paint has cracked in a hundred broken lines. One old gentleman -- the ugliest of all -- faced Rhoda as she sat, and stared at her with a mocking gaze, which seemed to say:

"You think you are going to pass in arithmetic, do you? Wait until you see the paper! You'll be surprised -- !"

It was a relief to turn to the paper itself and know the worst, which seemed very bad indeed. She glanced from question to question, feeling despair deepen at the sight of such phrases as -- "Simplify the expression"; "debenture stock at 140 1/8"; "at what rate per cent.?" etcetera, etcetera. In the present condition of mind and body it was an effort to recall the multiplication table, not to speak of difficult and elaborate calculations. Poor Rhoda! She dipped her pen into the ink, and wrote the headline to her paper, hesitated for a moment, added "Question A," and then it seemed as if she could do no more. The figures danced before her eyes, her knees shook, her hands were so petrified with cold that she clasped them together to restore some feeling of warmth, and the faintness of an hour ago seemed creeping on once more. She leant her elbows on the desk, bowed her hands in her head, and remained motionless for ten minutes on end. The other girls would think that she was studying the paper, and deciding what question she could best answer; but in reality she was fighting the hardest battle of her life, a battle between the Flesh, which said, "Give in; say you are too ill! Think what bliss it would be to lie down and have nothing to do!" and the Will, which declared, "No, never! I must and shall go on. Brain! Hands! Eyes! you are my servants. I will not let you fail!" In the end Will conquered, and Rhoda raised her face, pale to the lips, but with determination written on every feature.

The girl next to herself had covered half the sheet with figures, and was ruling two neat little lines, which showed that Question A was satisfactorily settled. All over the room the girls were scribbling away, alert and busy; there was plainly no time to be wasted, and Rhoda began slowly to puzzle out the easiest problem. The answer seemed inappropriate; she tried again, with a different result; a third time, with a third result; then the firm lips set, and she began doggedly the fourth time over. To her relief this answer was the same as number two, so it was copied out without delay, and the next puzzle begun, and the next, and the next.

Oh, the weariness of those two hours, the struggle against weakness, the moments of despair when memory refused to work, and simplest facts evaded her grasp! Nobody ever knew all that it meant, and as she had the presence of mind to tear up her blotting-paper, no examining eyes were shocked by the sight of the expedients to which a senior candidate had been reduced in order to discover the total of six multiplied by six, or eight plus eleven. There were other moments, however, when the brain cleared and allowed a space for intelligent work. More faintness came on again, and at the end she could announce to her companions that she had answered nine out of the twelve questions.

"What did you get for the square root?" enquired Kathleen anxiously. "Irene's answer was different from mine; but I did think I was right. I went over it twice!"

The girls were all surging together in the ante-room, comparing answers, and referring eagerly to Irene, who read aloud her own list with a self - satisfied air. Those whose numbers agreed with hers announced the fact with whoops of joy, those who had differed knitted their brows and were silent. Kathleen looked worried and anxious, and could not think what she had been about to get "that decimal wrong."

"But it was horrible, wasn't it? The worst we have had."

"The wall-paper was vile," cried another voice indignantly. "Toujours wall-paper! They might have a little originality, and think of something else. I longed to give Tom's answer!"

"It wasn't really difficult, but tricky! Decidedly tricky!" said Irene, with an air. She could afford to be superior, for there was no doubt that she had passed! and passed well. "The square root was absurdly easy." Then her eye fell on Rhoda, and she asked, kindly enough, "What did you make it, Rhoda? I hope you got on all right, and feel better."

"Thanks, yes; but I didn't put down my answers. I really can't remember what they were."

"And a good thing too! You have done your best, so don't worry over it any more, but come along to lunch!" cried Miss Everett, cheerily; and the girls obeyed with willing haste, for it was one of the "treats" of examination time to lunch in a restaurant, and be allowed to order what one chose.

Rhoda was so much revived by the walk and the joy of knowing the ordeal over that she was able to eat a morsel of chicken, but the fascinations of jam puffs had departed for the time being, and she could even look unmoved at the spectacle of a dozen strawberry ices in a row.

"If every candidate indulges in an ice a day, state accurately the number of bushels of fruit -- " began Dorothy, with her mouth full of Vanilla biscuit, but she was promptly elbowed into silence; no one being in the mood for further calculations just then.

For the next four days the examination dragged its weary course, and Rhoda was carefully nursed and coddled so as to be able to stand the strain. She was sent to bed immediately on her return from the train; was not allowed to rise until eight o'clock; was dosed with nurse's pet tonic, and with Bovril and sandwiches between the papers, and for once she was sufficiently conscious of past errors to acknowledge that Nature could not be defied, and to attempt no more four o'clock preparation classes. On the whole she got through fairly well, growing stronger each day, and even feeling occasional bursts of exultation at the conclusion of a paper which might have been written especially for her benefit. What rapture to be questioned about those very rules in French grammar which one had rubbed up the week before; to have pet passages selected from Shakespeare, and find the Latin prose for translation become gradually intelligible, as one telling substantive gave the clue to the whole! Once assured of the meaning, it was easy to pick out the words, skimming lightly over difficult phrases, but making a great show of accuracy when opportunity arose. As to the elegance of the translation from English into Latin the less said the better, but even with a realisation of its shortcomings, Rhoda was hopeful of the result.

"They will say, 'She doesn't know much, poor thing, but she has worked hard, and deserves to pass. Her grammar is good, and she has mastered the books. Oh, yes; certainly she has enough marks to pass.'"

"I think I have done fairly well in Latin," she told Miss Mott on her return, and that severe lady actually smiled, and said graciously:

"I hope you have. You have certainly worked with a will."

Miss Bruce, however, was not nearly so encouraging, and her last interview with her pupil was somewhat in the nature of a cold douche.

"Now that the week is over, Rhoda," she said, "I must tell you that I have felt a good deal of anxiety on your account, which I would not willingly have repeated. There is a strain about examinations which some girls feel more than others. The head of your house, for instance, Thomasina Bolderston, is a capital subject, and seems able to hit the happy medium between working hard and over-working; but you appear to suffer physically from the strain. I thought you seemed ill even before the breakdown on Monday, and I fear your parents will be far from satisfied with your looks. In the case of a girl who is preparing to earn her livelihood, and to whom certificates are all-important, one must take all reasonable precautions and then face the risk; but with you it is different. You are the only daughter of wealthy parents, and as, in all probability, you will never need to work for yourself, it would be wiser to content yourself with taking the ordinary school course and leaving examinations alone. I shall feel it my duty to acquaint your mother with my opinions, and to advise -- "

Rhoda gave a gasp of dismay, and stared at her with horrified eyes.

"You will forbid me to go in for any more exams.! You won't allow me to try again?"

The Principal smiled slightly.

"That is, perhaps, over-stating the case. The final decision must, of course, rest with your parents. If, in opposition to my advice, they should still desire -- "

But Rhoda heard no more. The idea that her father and mother should wish her to go in for any work which interfered with health was so impossible to conceive that it might as well be dismissed at once. With one fell crash her castle in the air had fallen to the ground and lay in ruins at her feet. If she had not done well this time, farewell for ever to her dreams of distinction, for no other opportunity would be granted!

For the first half of the holidays the thought weighed upon her with depressing force, but gradually, as health improved, the outlook lightened also, and she began to pose to herself in a new light. If she passed well -- and, despite her illness, she looked back on most of the papers with a feeling of complacency -- if she won the scholarship, or even gained distinction, her reputation among her class-mates would be to a certain extent established, and the fact that the delicate nature of her nervous system debarred her from further efforts would entitle her to a tribute of peculiar sympathy. When other girls succeeded, their companions would shake their heads, and whisper among themselves, "If Rhoda could only -- "

"A good thing for her that Rhoda," etcetera, etcetera. In imagination she could hear the remarks, and her face unconsciously assumed the expression of meek endurance with which she would listen. And so more and more did the result of that week's work fill the horizon of her life; she thought of it day by day, and dreamt of it by night; she talked of it to Ella, until even that patient listener wearied of the theme; she counted the weeks, the days, the hours, until the report should arrive. And then one morning, half-way through breakfast, Mr Chester looked up from his eggs and bacon and remarked casually -- as if it were an ordinary, commonplace subject, and not an affair of life and death:

"By the way, Rhoda, there is something about your examination in the paper to-day. I noticed the heading. You may like to see it!"

Rhoda leant back in her chair, and held out her hand in dumb entreaty. The newspaper was open at the right page, and her eye fell at once on the familiar heading, and, underneath, a long list of numbers.



Chapter Seventeen.

Failed!

First Class, Second Class, and still no sign of the familiar number. Third Class -- it was not there! Rhoda gave a little gulp, and began again from the very beginning. She had been too quick, too eager. It was so easy to miss a number. One by one she conned them over, but it was not there. The long Pass List lay below, and she looked at it with dreary indifference. To scramble through with the rabble was a sorry attainment, or it seemed so for one moment, but at the next it became, suddenly, a wild, impossible dream, for -- the number was not there! No fear of overlooking this time, for the figures stood out as if printed in fire, and burned themselves into her brain. The number was not in the First Class, nor the Second, nor the Third; it was not in the Pass List, it was not mentioned at all.

If she had ever permitted herself to anticipate such a situation, which she had not, Rhoda would have pictured herself flying into a paroxysm of despair; but in reality she felt icy cold, and it was in a tone almost of indifference that she announced:

"I am plucked! I have not passed at all."

"Never mind, dear; you did your best, and the work matters more than the result. Very uncertain tests, these examinations -- I never cared about them," said her father kindly, and Mrs Chester smiled in her usual placid fashion, and murmured, "Oh, I expect it's a mistake. It's so easy to make a mistake in printing figures. You will find it is all right, darling, later on. Have some jam!"

They were absolutely placid; absolutely calm; absolutely unconscious of the storm of emotion raging beneath that quiet exterior; but Harold glanced at his sister with the handsome eyes which looked so sleepy, but which were in reality so remarkably wide-awake, and said slowly:

"I think Rhoda has finished, mother. You don't want any jam, do you, Ro? Come into the garden with me instead. I want a stroll."

He walked out through the French window, and Rhoda followed with much the same feeling of relief as that with which a captive escapes from the prison which seems to be on the point of suffocating him, mentally and physically. Brother and sister paced in silence down the path leading to the rose garden. Harold was full of sympathy, but, man-like, found it difficult to put his thoughts into words, and Rhoda, after all, was the first to speak. She stopped suddenly in the middle of the path, and confronted him with shining eyes. Her voice sounded strange in her own ears.

"Harold, I -- have -- failed! I am plucked. I have not passed at all -- not even a common pass."

"No? I'm uncommonly sorry, but -- "

"But do you realise it; do you understand what it means? I think I do, but I don't. If I did, I should not be here talking quietly to you. I should go mad! I should want to kill myself. I should be desperate!"

"Don't be silly now, Ro. It's a big disappointment, and I'm sorry for you, but it's not a bit of use working yourself into hysterics. Face the thing quietly, and see -- "

"All that it means -- . It means a good deal, Harold; more than you can understand. I think I'd rather be alone, please. You are very kind, but I can't stand consolation just yet. I'll sit in the arbour."

"Just as you please. I don't want to force myself, but I'd like to help you, old girl. Is there nothing else I can do?"

"Yes; keep mother away! Don't let her come near me until lunch. I am best left alone, and she doesn't understand -- no one understands except those who have been at school, and know how -- how hard -- "

The girl's voice trembled, and broke off suddenly, and she walked away in the direction of the summer-house, while Harold thrust his hands into his pockets and kicked the pebbles on the gravel path. He was very fond of his impetuous young sister, and the quivering sob which had strangled her last word echoed painfully in his ears. He realised as neither father nor mother could do what such a failure meant to a proud, ambitious girl, and how far-reaching would be its consequences. It was not to-day nor to-morrow that would exhaust this trouble; the bitterest part was yet to come when she returned to school, and received the condolences of her more successful companions; when she sat apart and saw them receive their reward. Harold longed to be able to help, but there was nothing to do but persuade his parents to leave the girl alone, and to return at intervals to satisfy himself that she was still in her retreat, and not attempting to drown her sorrows in the lake. Three times over he paced the path, and saw the white-robed figure sitting immovable, with elbows planted on the table, and falling locks hiding the face from view. So still she sat that he retired silently, hoping that she had fallen asleep, but on the fourth visit he was no longer alone, but accompanied by a graceful, girlish figure, and they did not halt until they stood on the very threshold of the arbour itself.

"Rhoda!" he cried, then, "look up! I have brought someone to you. Someone you will be glad to see."

The flaxen mane was tossed back, and a flushed face raised in protest. "I don't -- " began Rhoda, and then suddenly sprang to her feet and stretched out her arms. "Oh, Evie -- Evie! You have come. Oh, I wanted you -- I wanted you so badly!"

Miss Everett stepped forward and drew the girl to her side, and Harold waited just long enough to see the fair head and the dark nestle together, and then took himself off to the house, satisfied that comfort had come at last.

"I have failed, Evie!" cried Rhoda, clasping her friend's hands, and staring at her with the same expression of incredulous horror with which she had confronted her brother a couple of hours earlier. "Yes, darling. I know."

"And what are you going to say to me, then?"

"Nothing, I think, for the moment, but that I love you dearly, and felt that I must come to be with you. Aren't you surprised to see me, Rhoda?"

"No, I don't think so. I don't feel anything. I wanted you, and then --  there you were! It seemed quite natural."

"But it was rather peculiar all the same. I have been staying with Tom, and we were both asked down to D --  for a four days' visit. That is only half an hour's rail from here, as you know; so this morning when I saw the list in the paper I thought at once -- 'I must see Rhoda! I will go down and chance finding her at home!'"

"Yes!"

"So I came, and am so glad to be with you, dear. I have seen your mother, and have promised to stay to lunch. I need not go back until four o'clock."

"Oh, that's nice. I like to have you. Evie, I believe it was the arithmetic. I was so ill, I could hardly think. You might as well know all now. It was my own doing. I had been working every morning before getting up, and that day I began at four. I tired myself out before the gong rang."

"I guessed as much. Dorothy told me that she heard someone turning over leaves!"

"Why don't you say, 'I told you so!' then, and tell me that it's my own fault?"

"I -- don't -- know! Perhaps because I do so many foolish things myself; perhaps because I haven't the heart to scold you just now, you poor dear."

Rhoda's face quivered, but she pressed her lips together, and said with a gulp:

"I suppose -- it's a childish trouble! I suppose -- when I am old -- and sensible -- I shall look back on to-day, and laugh to think how I worried myself over such an unimportant trial."

"I am sure you will do nothing of the kind. You will be very, very sorry for yourself, and very pitiful, and very proud, too, if you can remember that you bore it bravely and uncomplainingly."

"But I can't! I can't bear it at all. It gets worse every moment. I keep remembering things that I had forgotten. Miss Bruce preaching, and Miss Mott staring through her spectacles -- the girls all saying they are sorry, and the -- the Record Wall, where I wanted to see my name! I can't bear it, it's no use."

"But you will have to bear it, Rhoda. It is a fact, and nothing that you can do will alter it now. You will have to bear it; but you can bear it in two ways, as you make up your mind to-day. You can cry and fret, and make yourself ill, and everyone else miserable, or you can brace yourself up to bear it bravely, and make everyone love and admire you more than they have ever done before. Which are you going to do?"

"I am going to be cross and horrid. I couldn't be good if I tried. I'm soured for life!" said Rhoda stoutly, but even as she spoke a smile struggled with her tears, and Evie laughed aloud -- her sweet, ringing laugh.

"Poor, dear old thing! She looks so like it! I know better, and am not a bit afraid of you. You will be good and plucky, and rejoice unaffectedly in Kathleen's success."

"Has Kathleen -- Oh! Is Kathleen first?"

"She has won the Scholarship. Yes, it will be such a joy. She needed it so badly, and has worked so hard."

"I hate her!"

"She was always kind to you. I remember the very first day she took you round the grounds. You were very good friends."

"I hate her, I tell you! I detest her name."

"I am sure you will write and congratulate her. Imagine if your parents were poor, and you saw them harassed and anxious, how thankful you would feel to be able to help! Kathleen had a harder time than any of you, for she could take none of the nice, interesting 'Extras.' I think all her friends will be glad that she has won."

"I shall be glad, too, in about ten years. If I said I was glad now I should be a hypocrite, for I wanted it myself. I suppose Irene is all right, and Bertha, and all the Head girls? Has -- has Dorothy -- "

"Yes, Dorothy has passed too."

Rhoda cried aloud in bitter distress.

"Oh, Evie -- oh! Dorothy passed, and I have failed! Oh it is cruel --  unjust. I am cleverer than she! You can't deny it. I worked harder. I was before her always, in every class, in every exam. Oh, it's mean, it's mean that they should have put her before me!"

The tears streamed down her face, for this was perhaps the bitterest moment she had known. To be beaten by Kathleen, and Irene, was bearable, but -- Dorothy! Easy-going, mediocre Dorothy, who had so little ambition that she could laugh at her own shortcomings, and contentedly call herself a "tortoise." Well, the tortoise had come off victor once more, and the poor, beaten hare sat quivering with mortified grief. Miss Everett looked at her with perplexed, anxious eyes.

"You will probably find when the full report comes out that you have done better in most respects, but that it is the preliminaries which have caused your failure. But Rhoda, Rhoda, how would it help you to know that another poor girl had failed, and was as miserable as yourself? Would you be glad to hear that Dorothy was sitting crying at home, and Kathleen bearing her parents' grief as well as her own? You could not possibly be so selfish. I know you too well. You are far too kind and generous."

"I'm a pig!" said Rhoda contritely, and the tears trickled dismally off the end of her nose, and splashed on to the wooden table. "I should like to be a saint, and resigned, and rejoice in the good fortunes of my companions like the girls in books, but I can't. I just feel sore, and mad, and aching, and as if they were all in conspiracy against me to make my failure more bitter. You had better give it up, Evie, and leave me to fight it out alone. I'll come to my senses in time, and write pretty, gushing letters to say how charmed I am -- and make funny little jokes at the end about my own collapse. This is Monday -- perhaps by Wednesday or Thursday -- "

"I expect it will be Tuesday, and not an hour later. You are letting off such an amount of steam that you will calm down more quickly than you think. And now, hadn't we better go indoors, and bathe those poor red eyes before lunch? Your mother will think I have been scolding you, and I don't want to be looked upon as a dragon when I'm out of harness, and posing as an innocent, unprofessional visitor. Come, dear, and we'll talk no more of the horrid old exam., but try to forget it and enjoy ourselves!"

Rhoda's sigh was sepulchral in its intensity, for, of course, happiness must henceforth be a thing of the past, so far as she was concerned; but as she did not appreciate the idea of appearing at lunch with a tear - stained face, she followed meekly to the house, and entering by a side door, led the way upstairs to her own luxurious bedroom.

Half an hour of chastened enjoyment followed as she sat sponging her eyes, while Evie strolled round the room, exclaiming with admiration at the sight of each fresh treasure, and showing the keenest interest in the jugs and their histories. She admired Rhoda's possessions, and Rhoda admired her, watching the graceful figure reflected in the mirrors; the pretty dress, so simple, yet so becoming; the dark hair waving so softly round the winsome face. Evie was certainly one of the prettiest of creatures, and Rhoda felt a sort of reflected glory in taking her downstairs and exhibiting her to her family.

If the tear marks had not altogether disappeared, no one appeared to notice them, and despite her own silence, lunch was a cheery meal. Evie chattered away in her gayest manner; Mrs Chester agreed with every word she said, and called her "dear" as if she were a friend of years' standing. Mr Chester beamed upon her with undisguised, fatherly admiration, and Harold looked more animated than Rhoda had seen him for many a long day. The brisk, bright way in which Evie took up his drawling sentences, and put him right when he was mistaken in a statement, would have made him withdraw into his shell if attempted by a member of the household, but he did not seem in the least annoyed with Evie. He only smiled to himself in amused fashion, and watched her narrowly out of the corners of his eyes.

When dessert was put upon the table, Mrs Chester looked wistfully at Rhoda's white face, lighted into a feeble smile by one of her friend's sallies, and was seized with a longing to keep this comforter at hand.

"I suppose you must go back to D --  this afternoon, dear," she said, "but couldn't we persuade you to come back and pay us a visit before you leave this part of the world? It would be a great pleasure to Rhoda, and to us all, and any time would suit us. Just fix your own day, and -- "

"Oh, Evie, do!" cried Rhoda eagerly, and both the men joined in with murmurs of entreaty; but Miss Everett shook her head, and said regretfully:

"I'm so sorry, but it's impossible. I have already been away longer than I intended, and cannot spend another day away from home. My mother is busier than usual, for a sister who used to teach has had a bad illness and is staying with us for six months, to rest and be nursed up. It would not be fair to stay away any longer."

"I should think you might be allowed to rest in your holidays. You work hard enough for the rest of the year, and I need you more than the old aunt, I'm sure I do. You must come, if only for a week!"

"I wish I could, Rhoda, but it is not possible. I'll tell you, however, who I believe could come, and who would do you more good than I, and that is Tom Bolderston! She is in no hurry to return home, and as it is decided that she is not to come back to Hurst Manor, but go on straight to Newnham, it will be your last opportunity of seeing her for some time. You would enjoy having Tom, wouldn't you, Rhoda?"

Rhoda lifted her eyebrows with a comical expression. Tom here; Tom in Erley Chase! Tom sitting opposite to Harold and blinking at him with her little fish eyes -- the thought was so comical that she laughed in spite of herself.

"I think I should. It would be very funny. If I may ask her, mother -- "

"Of course, of course, darling! Ask whom you will, for as long as you like," cried the fond mother instantly. From what she had heard of Tom she had come to the conclusion that she was a very strange, and not entirely sane, young woman; but Rhoda wished it, Rhoda had laughed at the suggestion, and said it would be "funny," and that settled the question.

A letter of invitation was duly written and given into Miss Everett's hand when the time came for departure, and brother and sister escorted her to the station. Rhoda was insistent in her regrets at parting, and, wonderful to relate, Harold condescended to make still another plea. If it were impossible to arrange a visit, could not Miss Everett spare a few hours at least, come down by an early train, and spend a day on the river with himself and his sister? He urged the project so warmly that Evie flushed with mingled pleasure and embarrassment.

"Don't tempt me! I should love it, but we are here only for four days, and I have been away for one already. It would not be courteous."

"She is so horribly conscientious, that's the worst of her!" said Rhoda, as she and Harold retraced their steps across the Park. "She is always thinking about other people. A day on the river would have been lovely."

"Yes, it's a pity. I thought we would ask Ella, and take up lunch and tea."

"Yes, of course, a very good idea. Then we should have been four, and I could have had Evie to myself -- "

"Y-es!" drawled Harold slowly. Two minutes later Rhoda happened to look at his face, and wondered why in the world he was smiling to himself in that funny, amused fashion!



Chapter Eighteen.

Tom Arrives.

Tom wrote by return to state that she considered Rhoda "a brick" for sending her such a "ripping" invitation; that it would be "great sport" to see her at home, and that she would arrive by the twelve o'clock train on the next Monday.

"She isn't pretty," Rhoda explained anxiously to Harold, the fastidious; "in fact, she's plain, very plain indeed. I'm afraid you won't like her, but she likes you. She saw you on the platform at Euston, and said you were a 'bee-ootiful young man,' and that she was broken-hearted that she couldn't stay to make your acquaintance."

"Good taste, evidently, though unattractive!" said Harold, smiling. "I'm sorry she's not good-looking, but it can't be helped. No doubt she makes up for it in moral worth."

"Well, she does, that's perfectly true. I loathed and detested her at first, but I'm devoted to her now. She's just, and kind, and awfully clever, and so funny that you simply can't be in low spirits when she's about. All the girls adore her, but you won't. She says herself that men can't appreciate her, so she's going to devote her life to women, out of revenge. Men never care for women unless they are pretty and taking," cried Rhoda, with an air, and Harold protested sententiously.

"I'm the exception to the rule! I look beyond the mere exterior, to the nobility of character which lies behind. Dear Tom's lack of beauty is nothing to me. I am prepared for it, and shall suffer no disillusion."

He changed his mind, however, when at the appointed time "dear Tom" arrived, and stepped from the carriage on to the platform of the little station. When his eye first fell upon her, in response to Rhoda's excited, "There she is!" he felt a momentary dizzy conviction that there must be a mistake. This extraordinary apparition could never be his sister's friend, but yes! it was even so, for already the girls were greeting each other, and glancing expectantly in his direction. He went through the introduction with immovable countenance, saw the two friends comfortably seated in the pony carriage, and called to mind a message in the village which would prevent him from joining them as he had intended. He required a few minutes' breathing time to recover his self-possession, and the girls drove off alone, not at all sorry, if the truth were told, to be deprived of his company.

"Well, Fuzzy!" cried Tom.

"Well, Tom!" cried Rhoda, and stared with wondering eyes at the unaccustomed grandeur of her friend's attire. Thomasina had done honour to the occasion by putting on her very best coat and skirt, of a shade of fawn accurately matching her complexion, while on her head was perched that garment unknown at Hurst, "a trimmed hat." Fawn straw, fawn wings sticking out at right angles, bows of fawn-coloured ribbon wired into ferocious stiffness -- such was the work of art; and complacent, indeed, was the smile of its owner as she met her companion's scrutiny.

"Got 'em all on, haven't I?" she enquired genially. "Must do honour to the occasion, you know, and here's yourself all a-blowing, all a - growing, looking as fresh as a daisy, in your grand white clothes!"

"Indeed, then, I feel nothing of the kind, or it must be a very dejected daisy. You have heard the news, of course, and know that I am -- "

"Plucked!" concluded Tom, pronouncing the awful word without a quiver. "Yes. Thought you would be; you were so cheap that arithmetic morning. You can't do sums when you are on the point of fainting every second minute... Very good results on the whole."

"Yes, but -- isn't it awful for me? Don't you pity me? I never in my life had such a blow."

"Bit of a jar, certainly, but it's over now, and can't be helped. No use whining!" said Tom calmly, and Rhoda gave a little jump in her seat. After all, can anyone minister to a youthful sufferer like a friend of her own age? Tom's remarks would hardly have been considered comforting by an outsider, yet by one short word she had helped Rhoda more than any elderly comforter had been able to do. It was interesting and praiseworthy to grieve over such a disappointment as she had experienced, to be sorrowful, even heart-broken, but to whine! That put an entirely different aspect on her grief! To whine was feeble, childish, and undignified, a thing to which no self-respecting girl could stoop. As Rhoda recalled her tears and repinings, a flush of shame came to her cheeks, and she resolved that, whatever she might have to suffer in the future, she would, at least, keep it to herself, and not proclaim her trouble on the house-tops.

When the Chase was reached, Tom was taken into the drawing-room and introduced to Mrs Chester, who poured out tea in unusual silence, glancing askance at the fawn-coloured visitor who sat bolt upright on her chair, nibbling at her cake with a propriety which was as disconcerting to the kindly hostess as it was apparently diverting to her daughter. Rhoda had been accustomed to see Tom play a hundred sly tricks over this sociable meal, a favourite one being to balance a large morsel on the back of her right hand, and with an adroit little tap from the left send it flying into the mouth stretched wide to receive it, and it tickled her immensely to witness this sudden fit of decorum. She sat and chuckled, and Mrs Chester sat and wondered, until Tom politely declined a third cup of tea, and was dragged into the garden, with entreaties to behave properly, and be a little like herself, "I thought I was charming," she declared. "I tried to copy Evie, and look exactly as she does when she is doing the agreeable. Didn't you notice the smile? And I didn't stare a bit, though I was longing to all the time. You do live in marble halls, Fuzzy, and no mistake! We could get the whole of our little crib into that one room, and we don't go in for any ornaments or fal-lals. A comfortable bed to sleep in, and lots of books -- that's all my old dad and I trouble about."

Rhoda thought of the dismal little study at Hurst Manor, with the broken chairs, and the gloves on the chimney-piece, and could quite imagine the kind of home from which the owner came; but she murmured little incredulities, as in politeness bound, as she led the way in the direction best calculated to impress a stranger. Tom did not pay much attention to the grounds themselves, but she raved over the horses, and made friends with all the dogs, even old Lion, the calf-like mastiff, who was kept chained up in the stable-yard because of his violent antipathy to strangers. When he beheld this daring young woman walking up to his very side, and making affectionate overtures for his favour, he showed his teeth in an alarming scowl, but next moment he changed his mind, and presently Tom was pinching and punching, and stroking his ears, with the ease of an old acquaintance.

"I've never met the dog yet that I couldn't master!" she announced proudly. "That old fellow would follow me all round the grounds as meekly as a lamb, if he had the chance!"

"We won't try him, thank you; he might meet a messenger-boy en route, and we should have to pay the damages. Come along now, and I will show you -- " but at this opportune moment Harold came in view, sauntering round the corner of the stable, and Rhoda called to him eagerly, glad to be able to impress him with a sense of Tom's powers.

"Harold, look here! See what friends Tom has made with Lion already. He lets her do anything that she likes. Isn't it wonderful?"

"By Jove!" exclaimed Harold, and looked unaffectedly surprised to see his gruff old friend submitting meekly to the stranger's advances. "Tastes differ!" was the mental comment, but aloud he said suavely, "Lion is a good judge of character. He knows when he has found a friend."

"Yes, they all recognise me. I was a bulldog in my last incarnation," said Tom calmly, and by some extraordinary power which she possessed of drawing her mobile features into any shape which she chose, certain it is that she looked marvellously like a bulldog at that moment: twinkling eyes set far apart, heavy mouth, small, impertinent nose, all complete! Harold was so taken aback that he did not know what to say, but Rhoda dragged laughingly at her friend's arm and cried, -- 

"Come along! Come along! It will soon be time to go indoors and dress for dinner, and we haven't done half our round. I was going to take Tom to the links, Harold. She is a great golfer, and will be interested in seeing them. You'll come too, won't you?"

"With pleasure. They are just our own tame little links, Miss Bolderston, which we have faked up in the park. You won't think much of them if you are a player, but they give an opportunity for private practice, and we have some good sport there occasionally."

"Ah, yes! How many holes?" enquired Tom, sticking one thumb between the buttonholes of her coat, and tilting her head at him with such a businesslike air that he felt embarrassed to be obliged to reply.

"Nine, with a little crossing about; some of the distances are very short, I'm afraid. Still, it has its points, and I've played on larger links with less enjoyment. We will take a short cut across here to the first hole. We start here, as you see, and a good full cleek shot should land you on the green. There are only two holes which really give a chance for a driver. Now you can see the second green, but it's not so easy a hole as it looks from here, for the grass is tussocky, and one almost always gets a bad lie for the approach."

"Yes, but why not drive for the green?"

"Well, you see, it's rather too far for a cleek, and too short for a driver. Sometimes I try it with a brassey, but on the whole I think the cleek is best. If you over-drive you get into awful trouble, as you will see." So the course was gone over and explained, and Tom's eye was quick to see the possibilities, and note the dangers, nor did she hesitate sometimes to differ from Harold's tactics.

"Well," said he, in conclusion, "what do you think of 'em? Rather sporting, aren't they?"

"Humph -- yes!" said Tom. "That fifth hole is a little tricky, but I think they ought to be done in -- er -- What's your record?"

"M-well, it varies -- of course. I'm no pro., but I can get round in forty, with luck."

"Forty! Humph!" Tom wheeled round on her heel, and gazed from right to left with calculating eyes. Her lips moved noiselessly, then she nodded her head, and cried confidently:

"I'll take you! I'll play you to-morrow for the better man!"

"Done!" agreed Harold at once, but he straightened his shoulders as he spoke with a gesture which meant that he had no intention, if he knew it, of being beaten by a school-girl, and his sister looked forward to the contest with very mingled feelings. If Tom lost, it would be a distinct blow; yet if Tom won, how Harold would dislike her! How hopeless it would be to look for any friendship between them after that! She was glad that the game would have to be deferred for a day at least, for an evening spent in Tom's company must surely instal her in public favour. When, however, she went to her friend's room to convey her downstairs to dinner, Rhoda's confidence was shaken, and she nearly exclaimed aloud in dismay at the apparition which she beheld.

Tom in full evening dress was a vision which had been denied to Hurst Manor, but on the present occasion she had evidently determined to pay every honour to her hosts, and bony arms and neck emerged festively from a shot-silk gown, which Rhoda felt convinced must have been a possession of the long-deceased mother.

"What do you think of that?" Tom cried proudly, rustling round to confront the new-comer, arms akimbo, and eyes twinkling with complacency. "There's a natty get-up! Quite a fashion plate, ain't I? The very latest from Par-ee. You didn't expect to see anything like that, did you?"

"I didn't!" cried Rhoda, truthfully enough; but Tom suspected no satire in her words, and taking up the hand-glass, began twisting and turning before the mirror so as to get a view of her hair, which was no longer plaited into a pigtail, but screwed into a knot the size of a walnut, planted accurately in the middle of her head.

"I say, what do you think of my coiffure?"

Rhoda looked, and burst into a shriek of laughter. "Oh, Tom! that's it! I noticed there was something different, but couldn't think what it was. Oh, no, no, Tom, you can't leave it like that! You must make it bigger, and wear it either high or low. It's too ridiculous -- that little button just in the very wrong place. Sit down for one moment, and I'll arrange it for you!"

But Tom beat her off resolutely with the hair-brush.

"I won't! It's my own hair, and I like it this way. It's distingue --  not like every other woman you meet. Now that I've left school and am grown-up, I must study les convenances, and it's fatal to be commonplace. I may be prejudiced, but it seems to me that in this get - up I'm a striking figure!"

The beaming good-humour of her smile, the utter absence of anything approaching envy or discontent, struck home to Rhoda's heart, and silenced further protestations. She put her arm round Tom's waist, gave her an affectionate grip, wishing, for perhaps the first time in her life, that she herself had put on an older frock, so that the contrast between herself and her guest should be less marked in the eyes of the household.

Alas! socially speaking, Tom was not a success. Mrs Chester was plainly alarmed by her eccentricities; Mr Chester did not know whether to take her in fun or in earnest; and Harold's languor grew more and more pronounced. The very servants stared with astonishment at the peculiar guest, and when dinner was over Rhoda, in despair, took Tom up to her own den to avoid the ordeal of an evening in the drawing-room.

Once alone, with closed doors and no critical grown-ups to listen to their conversation, the hours sped away with lightning speed, while Tom told of her own plans, sympathised with Rhoda's ambition, and let fall words of wisdom, none the less valuable for being uttered in the most casual fashion. Every now and again the remembrance of her recent disappointment would send a stabbing pain through Rhoda's heart, but, as she had said, it was impossible to remain in low spirits in Tom's company, and if no one else enjoyed that young lady's society it was precious beyond words to her girl companion.

The game of golf was played as arranged, but though Harold came off victor it was too close a contest to be agreeable to his vanity, or to increase his liking for his opponent, while Mr Chester confided to his wife that he could not understand Rhoda's infatuation for such a remarkably unattractive companion.

"If it had been that sweet little Miss Everett, now, she might have stayed for a year, and been welcome, but I confess I shall be glad when this girl takes her departure. She makes me quite nervous, sitting blinking at me with those little eyes. I have a sort of feeling that she is laughing to herself when she seems most serious."

"Oh, she could never laugh at you, dear. She couldn't be so audacious!" declared Mrs Chester fondly; "but I can't bring myself to like her, and where her cleverness lies is a mystery to me. I never met a more ignorant girl. She can neither sew nor knit nor crochet, and the remarks she made in the market yesterday would have disgraced a child of ten. I pity the man who gets her for his wife!"

But, as we have seen, Thomasina had other ideas than matrimony for her own future. As she drove to the station by Rhoda's side she fell into an unusual fit of silence, and emerging from it said slowly:

"I'm glad I've seen your home, Fuzzy. It's very beautiful, and very happy. You are all so fond of one another, and so nice and kind, that it's a regular ideal family. I think you are a lucky girl. I like all your people very much, though they don't like me!"

Rhoda exclaimed sharply, but Tom's smile was without a shadow of offence as she insisted -- 

"My dear, I know it! Don't perjure yourself for the sake of politeness. I'm sorry, but -- I'm accustomed to it. Strangers don't like me, and it's not a mite of use trying to ingratiate myself. I did all I knew when I came here. I wore my best clothes, I tried to behave prettily, and you see, dead failure, as usual! You needn't look doleful, for no doubt it's all for the best. If I were beauteous and fascinating I might be distracted from my work, whereas now I shall devote myself to it with every scrap of my strength. Girls love me, and I love them, so I'll give up my life for their service. We have all our vocation, and it would be a happier world if everyone were as well satisfied as I am. 'In work, in work, in work always, let my young days be spent.' Bother it! Here's the station already, and I haven't said half I wanted to!"

"Nor I to you. It's horrid to say good-bye, and think of school without you, but you'll write to me, won't you, Tom? You will promise to write regularly?"

"Indeed, I won't! Fifty odd girls implored me to write to them, and it's too big an order. No, my dear Fuzz, I shall have no time to tell you how busy I am. Here we part, and we must leave it to fate or good fortune when we meet again. Bless you, my infant! Perk up, and be a credit to me."

"But -- but -- how am I to know, how am I to hear what happens to you? I can't say good-bye and let you fade away completely, as if we had never met. It's horrible. You must let me know!"

"Look in the newspapers. You will see my doings recorded in the Public Press," replied Tom, as she skipped into the carriage. Rhoda looked on blankly, her heart sinking with a conviction that Tom did not care; that it was nothing for her to say good-bye and part without a prospect of reunion. She was too proud to protest, but, waving her hand, turned abruptly away and walked out of the station. The train lingered, however, and the temptation to take one more peep became too strong to be resisted, so she ran along the path for twenty or thirty yards, and peered cautiously through a gate from which a sight of the carriage in which her friend sat could be commanded. Tom had leant back in her seat, and flung her hat on one side; her little eyes were red with tears, and she was mopping them assiduously with a ball-like pocket handkerchief!



Chapter Nineteen.

School Again.

School again, and no Tom! The house-parlour with no manly figure to lean with its back against the mantelpiece, and jingle chains in its pocket; the dining-hall with no one to make faces at the critical moment when a girl was swallowing her soup, or to nudge her elbow as she lifted a cup to her lips; the cubicle with no magenta dressing-jacket whisking to and fro -- it was ghastly! The girls could not reconcile themselves to their loss, and the first fortnight of the term was one of unalloyed depression. No one dared to joke, for if she did her companions instantly accused her of "apeing Tom" and snubbed her for the feebleness of the attempt; no one dared to be cheerful, lest she should be charged with fickleness, and want of heart. And Irene, the beautiful, reigned in Tom's stead! It would have been a difficult post for any girl to have succeeded Thomasina Bolderston, but, curious though it may appear, Irene's flaxen locks and regular features were for the time being so many offences in the eyes of her companions. They were accustomed to Tom; Tom had been the Head Girl of their heart, and they resented the "finicking" ways of her successor as an insult to the dear departed.

Irene strove by a gentle mildness of demeanour to soften the prejudice against her, and the girls but abused her the more.

"Catch Tom saying 'It didn't matter'! Imagine Tom pretending she didn't hear! A nice Head Girl she is! We might as well have Hilary Jervis!" Irene assumed a pretence of firmness; the girls rolled their eyes at each other and tittered audibly. The idea of Irene Grey ordering others about! Plainly, it was time, and time only, which could give any authority to Tom Bolderston's supplanter!

How keenly Rhoda felt her friend's absence no one guessed but herself. Tom's attitude towards the result of the late examinations would have given the keynote to that of her companions, and have shielded the poor, smarting victim from much which she now had to endure. The girls were unaffectedly sorry for her, but pity is an offering which a proud spirit finds it hard to accept. It seemed strange to realise that girls cast in such graceful moulds as Dorothy and Irene should be so deficient in tact as to gush over the humiliation of another, and check the rhapsodies of successful candidates by such significant coughings and frownings as must have been obvious to the dullest faculties. Oh, for Tom's downright acceptance of a situation -- her calm taking-for-granted that the sufferer was neither selfish nor cowardly enough to grudge success to others! Rhoda felt, as we have all felt in our time, that she had never thoroughly appreciated her friend until she had departed, and she was one of the most enthusiastic members of the committee organised to arrange about the tablet to be composed in Tom's honour.

Of course, Tom must have a place on the Record Wall! Blues, Reds, Greens, and Yellows were unanimously decided on the point; contributions poured in, and on Sunday afternoon the Blues sat in consultation over the wording of the inscription.

"The simpler the better. Tom hated gush!" was the general opinion; but it was astonishing how difficult it was to hit on something simple yet telling. A high-flown rhapsody seemed far easier to accomplish, and at last, in despair, each girl was directed to compose an inscription and to read it aloud for general approval. None were universally approved, but Rhoda's received the largest number of votes, as being simple yet comprehensive: -- 

"This tablet is erected to the memory of Thomasina Bolderston, the most popular 'Head Girl' whom Hurst Manor has ever known. Her companions affectionately record the kindly justice of her rule, and the unfailing cheerfulness which was a stimulus to them in work and play."

"Yes -- it's the best, decidedly the best, but I should like it to have been better still!" said Kathleen thoughtfully. "It is so difficult to describe Tom in three or four lines."

"And it leaves so much unsaid! I should like to describe her a little bit so that future pupils might know what she was like. If they read that, they would imagine her just like anyone else," objected Bertha, frowning. "I suppose it wouldn't do to say something about her --  er -- 'engaging ugliness!' or some expression like that?"

Howls of indignation greeted this audacious proposition, and Bertha was alternately snubbed, reproached, and abused, until she grew sulky and retired from the discussion. Rhoda herself came to the rescue, and with the critical spirit of the true artist acknowledged the defect in her own work.

"Bertha is right! What I have written gives no idea of Tom herself. It's a pity, but I don't see how it can be helped. What words could describe Tom to anyone who had not seen her? Now, here's another idea! Why not make a rule that every girl who has had her name inscribed on the Record Wall must present a framed portrait to the school? All the frames would be alike, and they would be hung in rows in the Great Hall, so that future generations of pupils might be able to see what the girls were like, and feel more friendly towards them!"

"Rhoda! What a h-eavenly idea!" cried Irene rapturously. "How s-imply lovely! Why in the world have we never thought of that before?"

"I never heard of anything so splendid!" cried the girls in chorus, while Rhoda sat beaming with gratified smiles. Well, if her own name would never be printed in that roll of honour, at least she had composed the inscription of one of the most important tablets, and had suggested a new idea which bade fair to be as much appreciated as the Wall itself! Already the girls were debating eagerly together as to its inauguration, and deciding that the different "Heads" should be deputed to write to those old members of each house who had been honoured with tablets, to ask for portraits taken as nearly as possible about the date of leaving school. Irene, of course, would communicate with Tom to inform her of the step about to be taken by her companions, and to direct her to be photographed at the first possible moment.

"And -- er -- you might just drop a hint about her attire!" said Rhoda, anxiously, as a remembrance of the dress and coiffure of Erley Chase rose before her. Nothing more likely than that Tom would elect to do honour to her companions by putting on her very best clothes for their benefit, and imagine the horror of the Blues at seeing their old Head decked out in such fashion! "We should like best to see her as she used to look here."

"She must wear the old blue dress, and stand with her back to the fireplace, with her hands in her pockets," cried Kathleen firmly. "We don't want to see Tom lying in a hammock against a background of palms, or smirking over a fan -- not much! It's the genuine article we want, and no make-up. What will she say, I wonder, when she hears she is going to have a tablet? Will she be pleased or vexed?"

"She must be pleased -- who could help it? -- but she will pretend she is not. Mark my words, she'll write back and say it's a piece of ridiculous nonsense."

So prophesied Irene; but the result proved that she was wrong, for Tom, as usual, refused to be anticipated. Instead of protesting that she had done nothing worthy of such an honour, and beseeching her companions not to make themselves ridiculous, she dismissed the subject in a couple of lines, in which she declared the proposed scheme to be "most laudable," and calmly volunteered to contribute half-a-crown!

The Blues agreed among themselves that such behaviour came perilously near "callousness," but Rhoda recalled that last peep through the bars of the station gate, and could not join in the decision. She believed that Tom would be profoundly touched by the honour, so touched and so proud that she dared not trust herself to approach the subject from a serious view. And she was right, for if imagination could have carried her old companions to the study where Tom was then domiciled, they would have seen her chalking an immense red cross on her calendar against the date when Irene's letter had arrived, and mentally recording it as the proudest day of her life.

No mention was made of the photograph, but in due time it arrived, so life-like and speaking in its well-known attitude, that the more sentimental of the girls shed tears of joy at beholding it. Closely following it came other contributions to the gallery, which the new - comers examined with keenest interest, feeling more able to understand the enthusiasm of their seniors, now that the well-known names were attached to definite personalities.

About this time, too, arrived a full report of the examination, and, as had been expected, Rhoda was found to have failed in arithmetic. In other subjects she had done well, gaining the longed-for distinction in German and French, so that if only --  Oh! that little "If!" How much it meant! That terrible mountainous "If," which made all the difference between failure and success! If it had been a dark morning and she had slept on! If she had given way to temptation, and dozed off in the middle of her work! If she had listened to Evie's words of warning! -- If but one of those possible Ifs had been accomplished, she would have been among the happy crowd to-day, and not standing miserably apart, the only girl in the house who had failed to pass. The wild grief of the first few days swept back like a wave and threatened to overwhelm her, but she clung to the remembrance of Tom's words, and told herself passionately that she would not "whine"! She would not pose as a martyr! Even on that great occasion when the certificates were presented in Great Hall, and the school burst into ecstatic repetitions of "See the Conquering Hero Comes!" as each fresh girl walked up to the platform, even through that dread ordeal did Rhoda retain her self - possession, attempting -- poor child -- to add a trembling note to the chorus.

She never knew, nor guessed, that the girls honoured her more in that moment than if she had won a dozen distinctions. She did not see the kindly glances bent upon her by the teachers, for they were careful to turn aside when she looked in their direction; and if she had seen, she would never have believed it was admiration, and not pity, which those looks expressed. In her estimation the occasion was one of pure, unalloyed humiliation, and when she reached the shelter of her cubicle she seized the hand-glass and examined her ruddy head anxiously beneath the electric globe.

"It isn't true!" she exclaimed. "The ghost stories tell lies. I don't believe now that anyone's head ever turned white in a night. I can't see a single grey hair."



Chapter Twenty.

An Accident.

After a storm comes a calm. Compared with the struggle and anxiety of the summer term, the one which followed seemed stagnation itself. The arrival of the report had been an excitement, it is true; but when that was over the days passed by in uneventful fashion, until autumn waned and winter came back, with the attendant discomforts of dark mornings, draughty corridors, and coatings of ice on the water in the ewers; for this was a good, old-fashioned winter, when Jack Frost made his appearance in the beginning of December, and settled down with a solidity which meant that he had come to stay. The hardy girls declared that it was "ripping," and laughed at the shivery subjects who hobbled about on chilblained feet, and showed faces mottled blue and red, like the imitation marble in lodging-house-parlours; the shivery girls huddled in corners, and wished they could go to bed and hug hot bottles until May came back and it was fit for human creatures to go about again! People who possess brisk circulations can never understand the sufferings of those whom no amount of clothing will keep warm, and who perform their duties for four months in the year feeling as though icy water were streaming down their backs. Human sympathy is an elastic virtue, but it seems powerless to reach so far as that!

Poor Miss Everett belonged to this latter unhappy class, and perhaps the hardest duty which she had to perform at Hurst Manor was the spending of two hours daily in the grounds with her pupils, be the weather warm or cold. To be sure, they always moved about briskly, playing hockey and lacrosse so long as the weather allowed, and then turning to skating and tobogganing, but there were moments of waiting and hanging about, when the wind cut through her like a knife, and made her pretty face look pinched to half its size. Rhoda, brisk and glowing, would look at her with affectionate superiority, call her a "poor, dear, little frog," and insist upon running races to restore circulation. Evie would declare that she felt warmer after these exertions, but when at the expiration of ten minutes she was found to be shivering and chattering as much as ever, Rhoda would grow anxious, and consequently more flattering in her similes.

"You are a hot-house flower, and not fit to rough it like this! It makes me cold to look at you. I have a great mind to tell Miss Bruce how you suffer, and ask her to forbid you to come out to games in this weather!"

But at this Miss Everett protested in genuine alarm.

"Rhoda, you must do nothing of the kind! Don't you see that it would be as much as saying that I am unfit for my work? Miss Bruce thinks it quite as important that I should be with you for games as for work; perhaps more so, for there is more likelihood of your getting into mischief. I don't like feeling cold, but after all it is only for a few weeks in the year, and as I thoroughly enjoy being out of doors for the rest of the time there is not much to grumble about. It won't kill me to shiver a little bit."

"Cold, cough, consumption, coffin!" quoted Rhoda cheerfully. "I hate to see you with a blue nose, when I am tingling all over with heat, and feeling so fit and jolly. It's unsociable -- and unbecoming! Now just skate once more round the field with me, and I won't worry you any more!"

Miss Everett sighed, and consented. Her feet were so numbed that she had believed them incapable of any feeling, but now the straps of her skates were beginning to cut into her like so many sharp-edged knives. She longed to take them off, but did not like to refuse the girl's kindly invitation, while, unselfishly speaking, it was a pleasure to see the graceful figure skimming along by her side, with such healthful enjoyment in the exercise.

The pupils at Hurst Manor were seldom, if ever, allowed to skate on the lake, for it was deep, and the Principal preferred to have one of the fields flooded in its stead, where the girls could disport themselves with that sense of security which comes from seeing little tufts of grass showing beneath the surface of the ice. Even nervous subjects grew bold under such conditions, and while the more advanced skaters cut figures, or even essayed a game of hockey, the spectators circled round and round, looking admiringly at their exploits. At one end of the field was a slight ditch, or rather undulation in the ground, which when frozen over afforded a source of unending amusement, being as good as a switchback itself. Daring skaters went at it with a dash which brought them safely up the incline on the further side, but by far the greater number collapsed helplessly at the bottom, or, rising half-way up the ascent, staggered back with waving arms and gasping cries, vastly entertaining to the spectators. Evie would never be induced to make this experiment, having, as she said, "too much respect for her ankles" to subject them to so severe a trial, and having also passed that age when to tumble down in an icy ditch twenty times over in the course of an afternoon seems the height of mortal bliss.

The hardihood of the vast majority of the girls, the imperturbable good nature with which they picked themselves up from their recumbent position and hobbled up the banks on the edge of their skates, spoke volumes for the success of the system on which they were educated. They returned to the house glowing and panting, and surged up the staircase --  a stream of buoyant young life which seemed to warm the draughty corridors and bring sunshine into the colourless rooms. The piles of "bread and scrape" which disappeared at tea after such an afternoon as this would have amazed the parents of the daughters whose appetites at home had been so captious as to excite anxiety in the maternal heart!

"Of course," as the croakers had it, as soon as a week's consecutive skating had made everyone proficient enough to enjoy the pastime, the snow descended, and fell in a persistent shower which made the ice impossibly rough. The girls looked out from their windows on a wonderful white world, whose beauty was for the time hidden from them by disappointment, but, in the end, even snow seemed to bring with it its own peculiar excitements. Relief gangs of pupils were organised to sweep the principal paths in the grounds, while those not so employed set to work to manufacture "snow men." Not the ordinary common, or garden snow man, be it understood -- that disreputable, shapeless individual with his pipe in his mouth, and his hat perched on the back of his head, with whom we are all familiar -- the Hurst Manor girls would have none of him; but, superintended by the "Modelling Mistress," set to work with no smaller ambition than to erect a gallery of classic figures. Some wise virgins chose to manufacture recumbent figures, which, if a somewhat back-breaking process, was at least free from the perils which attended the labours of their companions. What could be more annoying than to have two outstretched arms drop suddenly, at the very moment when the bystanders were exclaiming with admiration, and to be obliged to convert a flying god into a Venus de Milo as the only escape from the difficulty? Or, again, how was it possible to achieve a classic outline when a nose absolutely refused to adhere to a face for more than two minutes together? The recumbent figures lay meekly on their beds and allowed themselves to be rolled, and patted, and pinched into shape, until at a distance, they presented quite a life, or rather deathlike, effect. The girls declared that the sight gave them the "creeps," whatever that mysterious malady might be, and snowballed the effigies vigorously before returning to the house, so that no straggler through the grounds might be scared by their appearance.

All this time an eager outlook was kept on a sloping bank at the end of the cricket ground, where the snow lay first in patches and then by degrees in an unbroken mass. When it grew deep enough tobogganing would begin, and that was a sport held in dearest estimation. The course was dubbed "Klosters," after the famous run at Davos, for the school-girl of to-day is not happy unless she can give a nickname to her haunts, and it was sufficiently steep to be exciting, though not dangerous.

Rhoda had been accustomed from childhood to practise this sport at home, and had brought to school her beautiful American toboggan, with the stars and stripes emblazoned on polished wood, ready for use if opportunity should occur. She knew that her experience would stand her in good stead, and was now, as ever, on the outlook for a chance of distinguishing herself in the eyes of her companions. One may be naturally clever and athletic, but it is astonishing how many others, equal, and even superior to oneself, can be found in an assembly of over two hundred girls. Do what you would, a dozen others appeared to compete with you, and it was ten to one that you came off second best.

"But wait till we can toboggan!" said Rhoda to herself. "They will see then who has the most nerve! I'll astonish them before I have done!" And she did.

Following a fall of snow came a frost, which pressed down and hardened the soft surface until it was in perfect condition for the desired sport. The games captains surveyed the course, and pronounced it ready, and directly after lunch a procession of girls might have been seen wending their way from the house, dragging toboggans in their wake, and chattering merrily together. The wind blew sharp and keen, and many of the number looked quite Arctic, waddling along in snow shoes, reefer coats, and furry caps with warm straps tied over the ears. It was de rigueur to address such personages as "Nansen"; but Rhoda gained for herself the more picturesque title of "Hail Columbia" as she strode along, straight and alert, her tawny curls peeping from beneath a sealskin cap, her stars and stripes toboggan making a spot of colour in the midst of the universal whiteness. No one thought of addressing her except in a more or less successful imitation of an American twang, or without including the words "I guess" in every sentence, and she smiled in response, well satisfied to represent so honoured a nation.

The progress of dragging toboggans to the top of an incline is always uninteresting, and never takes place without an accompaniment of grumbling, in which, we may be sure, the Hurst Manor girls were in no way behind. They groaned, and sighed, and lamented, as in duty bound, while Dorothy went a step further and improved the occasion by moral reflections.

"If I were a man I could preach a splendid sermon on tobogganing. All about sliding down hill, you know, and how easy it is, and how quickly done, and how jolly and lively it feels, and then the long, long drag back when you want to get to the top again. It is a splendid illustration; for, of course, sliding down would mean doing wrong things that are nice and easy, and the climb back the bad time you would have pulling yourself together again and starting afresh... It's really a splendid idea. I wonder no -- " But at this moment it occurred to Dorothy to wonder at something else, namely, how it was that her toboggan had grown suddenly so light, and turning round to discover the reason, she found it rapidly sliding downhill. The girl immediately behind had nipped out her knife and deftly cut the leading string, as a practical demonstration of the favour in which "sermonising" was held at Hurst, and the whole band stood and screamed with laughter as the would-be preacher retraced her steps to the bottom of the hill, and started afresh on her symbolic climb!

Five minutes later, with a rush and a whoop the first toboggans came flying down the slope. Their course was, perhaps, a trifle erratic, and apt to be followed by a spill at the bottom, but these were unimportant details only to be expected in the first run of the season, and the style improved with every fresh start. One girl after another came flying down, drew her toboggan up a little slope facing the run, and sat down upon it to recover breath and watch the exploits of her companions. Experience had proved that, however rapid the descent, a toboggan invariably stopped short before this edge was reached, so that it was accepted as a retreat of absolute safety, and, as a rule, there were as many girls resting there as starting from the brow of the hill. All went on merrily, then, until in the very height of the fun Dorothy was seized with an attack of her usual sickness. It was not a very deadly complaint -- nothing more serious than haemorrhage from the nose, but it was astonishing how much trouble it seemed able to give her! To the gaze of the world that nose was both a pretty and innocent-looking feature, but it must surely have been possessed with an evil spirit, since there was no end to the plights in which it landed the unhappy owner! It disdained to bleed in a cubicle, or any such convenient place, but delighted in taking advantage of the most awkward and humiliating opportunities. It bled regularly at Frolics, when she wore her best clothes, and wished to be merry; it bled in the ante-room of the Examination Hall, so that she went in to tackle the mathematical paper with three pennies and two separate keys poked down her back; it bled at the critical part of a game or when she went out to tea, or forgot to put a handkerchief in her pocket. "It is my cross!" she would sigh sadly, and to-day she was inclined to say so more than ever, since the attack was so severe, that she must needs go indoors, and leave her favourite sport on the very first day when it had been possible to enjoy it.

Miss Everett walked with her across the field, cheering and encouraging, and directing her to go straight to Nurse when she reached the house, then retraced her own steps and hurried back to her charges. She had been away only five minutes, barely five minutes, but in that short time something had happened which was destined to bring about life-long consequences to more than one member of the party, for it chanced that just as she turned away Rhoda Chester reached the top of the run, on the lookout for fresh opportunities. It was absurd to go over the same course, with no change, no excitement -- to do what thirty other girls could do as well as herself! She must try to discover some variety this time, and so she gazed about with critical eyes, and suddenly had an inspiration, for why not drag the toboggan a yard or two further up the steep bank beyond the path which made the present start? It was a tree - crowned bank, forming the very crest of the hill, so short that it measured at the most six or seven yards, but of a steepness far eclipsing any other portion of the run. If she could start from this higher point she would accomplish a feat unattempted by any of her companions, and descend at a velocity hitherto unknown!

No sooner thought than done, and she began to climb the bank, dragging the toboggan behind her, while the onlookers stared aghast.

"In the name of everything that is crazy, Rhoda Chester, what are you doing up there?"

"Rhoda, come down! Don't be absurd! You can't possibly start from there!"

"Why not, pray? I can, if I choose. I'm tired of ambling down that baby-run. I want a little variety!"

"You will have it with a vengeance, if you start from there. It's far too steep. Don't be obstinate now, and get into trouble. Evie will be furious with you."

"Why should she be? There's no rule against it. I'm not doing anything wrong... Get out of the way, please. I'm coming!"

"No, no; wait, wait! Wait until Evie comes back, and says you may. She will be here in a moment. Do wait, Rhoda, just one minute!"

But Rhoda would not wait. Although, as she had argued, there was no rule forbidding what she was about to do, she had an instinctive feeling that Evie was too anxious about the safety of her charges to give consent to anything that involved unnecessary risk. Evie's absence was her opportunity, and she must act now or never; so, seating herself firmly on her toboggan, she called out the last word of warning; "I'm coming, I tell you! Stand back!"

"You will break your neck! You will kill yourself, if you are so mad!"

"Oh, bother my neck! I'll risk it! I'll not blame you if it is broken!" cried Rhoda, recklessly; and even as she spoke the last word the toboggan shot forward and bounded over the edge. Bounded is the right word to use, for it did not seem to glide, but to leap from top to bottom with a lightning-like speed which took away breath, sight, and hearing. That first moment was a terrible blank and then she shot over the path itself, and was flying down, down the slope, drawing her breath in painful gasps, and staring before her with distended eyes.

The girls on the bank were craning forward to watch her approach. She saw the blur of their whitened faces, and behind them a little figure running wildly forward, waving its arms and crying aloud:

"Girls, girls! Jump! Run! Get away, get away!"

The words rang meaningless in her ears, for she was dazed beyond the power of thought. The running figure drew nearer and nearer, still waving its hands, still calling out that agonised cry. The girls disappeared to right and left, but the figure itself was close at hand --  closer -- closer -- at her very side. Then came a shock, a jar. Evie's tottering figure fell forward over her own; Evie's shriek of anguish rang in her ears, and then came blackness -- a blackness as of death!



Chapter Twenty One.

The Consequences.

When Rhoda opened her eyes she was lying in a strange bed, and some one was sitting by her side, anxiously watching her face. It was not Nurse par excellence, but the matron of another house, whose features seemed unfamiliar, despite their kindly expression.

"You are better? You feel rested now?" she questioned, and Rhoda struggled wearily to form a a reply.

"My head aches. I feel -- tired!"

"Yes, yes, of course. Don't speak, but lie quite still; I will stay beside you."

A soothing hand was pressed upon her own, and once again her eyes closed, and she floated away into that strange, dream-like world. Sometimes all was blank, at other times she was dimly conscious of what went on around, as when voices murmured together by her side, and Nurse related how she had spoken and answered a question, and the doctor declared in reply that she was better, decidedly better! She was heavy and weary, and had no desire but to be left alone, while time passed by in a curious, dizzy fashion, light and darkness succeeding each other with extraordinary celerity. Then gradually all became clear; she was lying in the sick room where patients suffering from non-infectious complaints were taken. The pressure at her head was giving way, allowing glimmering flashes of memory. What was it? -- a terrible, terrible nightmare; a horror as of falling from a great height; a sudden, numbing crash... Where has she been? What had she done? And then with another struggling gleam -- the toboggan!

Her cry of distress brought the nurse to her side, while she gasped out a feeble -- 

"I remember! I was tobogganing. -- I was too quick. I suppose I fell?"

"Yes, you fell, but you are better now; you are getting on finely. Just keep quiet, and you will be up again in a few days."

There was a tone of relief in the good woman's voice as though there had been another remembrance which she had feared to hear, but Rhoda did not notice it, for a very few words seemed to tire her in those days, and her brain was unable to grasp more than one idea at a time.

The next time she awoke her mother was sitting by the bed. It appeared that she had been staying in the house for the past four days, peeping in at the invalid while she slept, but waiting the doctor's permission to appear before her waking eyes. Rhoda was languidly pleased to see her, but puzzled to account for the air of depression which lay so constantly on the once cheery face. If she were getting better, why did everyone look so doleful -- the doctor, her mother, Miss Bruce -- everyone whom she saw? She questioned, but could get no answer, struggled after a haunting memory, which at one moment seemed at the point of shaping itself into words, and at the next retreated to a hopeless distance. And then suddenly, by one of those marvellous actions of the brain which we can never understand, the whole scene flashed upon her as she lay upon her pillow, thinking of something entirely different, and not troubling her head about the mystery.

She saw herself dragging the toboggan up the bank, felt again the horror of that first mad rush, saw the girls flying to right and left before Evie's waving arms, and heard Evie's voice shriek aloud in the pain of the sudden collision. Her own agonised exclamation brought mother and nurse hurrying across the room to lay soothing hands upon her, and hold her down in bed as she cried out wildly -- 

"Oh, I remember! I remember! Evie! The toboggan dashed up the bank, and she was looking after the girls, and I crashed into her, and she shrieked. Oh, Evie! Evie! She was hurt, terribly hurt... She fell down over me. Where is she now? I must go to her -- I must go at once!"

The two watchers exchanged a rapid glance, and even in that moment of agitation Rhoda realised that this was the awakening which they had been dreading, this the explanation of the universal depression. A new note of fear sounded in her voice, as she quavered feebly:

"Is Evie -- dead?"

"No, no, nor likely to die! She has been ill, but is getting better now. She is in her own room, with Nurse to look after her. You cannot possibly see her yet, for it would be bad for both."

"But you are sure she is better? You are sure she will get well? You are not deceiving me just to keep me quiet?"

"No, indeed. It is the truth, that she is getting stronger every day. When I say that, you can believe that I am not deceiving you, can't you, dear?"

Yes, of course, she was bound to believe it; but in some patients the faculties seem strangely sharpened in convalescence, and despite her mother's assurance Rhoda felt convinced that something was being kept back -- that something had happened to Evie which she was not to be allowed to know. She asked no more questions, but with sharpened eyes watched the faces of the visitors who were now allowed to see her, and found in each the same shade of depression. She was waiting for an opportunity, and it came at last on the first day when she was allowed to sit up, and Miss Bruce came in to pay her usual visit. No one else was in the room, and Rhoda looked up into the strong, grave face, and felt her heart beat rapidly. Now was her opportunity! Miss Bruce could be trusted to answer truthfully, however painful might be the news which she had to unfold; she was neither hard nor unsympathetic, but she had the courage of her convictions, and had faced too many disagreeable duties to understand the meaning of shirking. Rhoda clasped her hands tightly together, swallowed nervously once or twice, and began -- 

"Miss Bruce please -- I want to ask you -- Mother won't tell me. Was it my fault that -- Evie was hurt?"

The Principal's face hardened involuntarily.

"What do you think yourself, Rhoda? Your companions, as you know, are never ready to speak against a friend, but I have made the strictest enquiries into this sad affair, and I hear that the girls warned you that you were attempting a dangerous feat, and implored you to wait until Miss Everett returned. You chose to disregard them, and to take no thought of the risk to others, and -- "

Rhoda turned, if possible, a shade paler than before.

"I see!" she said slowly. "I suppose it's no use saying that I never thought I could hurt anyone but myself. I should have thought! Everyone who knows me, knows that I love Evie, and would rather have been smashed to pieces than have harmed her in any way."

"Yes, Rhoda!" Miss Bruce sighed heavily, "that is quite true, nevertheless it seems to me a little inconsistent that you did not think more of her feelings. She was responsible for your safety, and you can hardly have believed that she would have allowed such a mad trick. However, I don't wish to reproach you, for your punishment has been taken out of my hands. Nothing that I could do or say could affect you half so much as the thought of the trouble which you have brought upon your kind, good friend -- "

It was coming now; it was coming at last! Rhoda's heart gave a wild, fluttering leap; she looked up breathlessly into the unbending face.

"What is the trouble? I thought she was like me -- stunned and shaken. I never heard -- "

"No, it is not at all the same. You had a slight concussion, from which you have now recovered. Her injury is much more lasting. Her right knee-cap was broken, and the doctors fear it will never be quite right again. She will probably be lame for life."

Rhoda turned her head aside, and said no word, and Miss Bruce stood looking down at her in silence also. The curly hair was fastened back by a ribbon tied in the nape of the neck, and the profile was still visible leaning against the pillows. It was motionless, except for one tell-tale pulse above the ear which beat furiously up and down, up and down, beneath the drawn skin. The Principal looked on that little pulse, and laid her hand pitifully on the girl's head.

"I will leave you now, Rhoda. You would rather be alone. I am truly sorry for you, but I am powerless to help. One can only pray that some good may come out of all this trouble."

She left the room, and Rhoda was alone at last, to face the nightmare which had come into her life. Evie lamed, and by her doing! Evie injured for life by one moment's thoughtlessness -- rashness -- call it wickedness if you will -- even then it seemed impossible that it should be allowed to have such lasting consequences! One moment's disobedience, and then to suffer for it all her life! to see Evie -- dear, sweet, graceful Evie -- limping about, crippled and helpless; to keep ever in one's mind the memory of that last wild run -- the last time Evie would ever run! Could retribution possibly have taken to itself a more torturing form? She had spoiled Evie's life, and brought misery into a happy home.

"I could have borne it if it had happened to myself," she gasped. "But no! I must needs get well, and be strong, and rich, and healthy. I suppose I shall laugh again some day, and forget, and be happy, while Evie -- . I am a Cain upon earth, not fit to live! I wish I could die this minute, and not have a chance to do any more mischief."

But we cannot die just because we wish to escape the consequences of our own misdoing; we are obliged to live, and face them day after day. Crises of suffering, moments of humiliation, stabbing returns of pain just when we are congratulating ourselves that the worst is over -- they must be lived through, and though we fly to the ends of the world they will still follow in our wake.

One of the consequences which Rhoda dreaded, and yet longed for in curious, contradictory fashion, was her first interview with Evie herself. What would she say? What would she do? Would she be sweet and self-forgetful as of old, or full of bitter reproaches? She could gather no clue from her companions, and her first request to be allowed to visit the invalid in her room was vetoed on the ground that the excitement would be bad for herself, and could do Evie no good. When, however, she was allowed to walk about, and even entertain her companions to tea, the first excuse could no longer be offered, and at last, consent being given, she tapped tremblingly at the well-known door. Nurse's voice bade her enter, and she walked forward with her eyes fixed on the bed on which Evie lay. Her face was thin and drawn, and had lost its colour, yet it was none of these things which struck a chill to Rhoda's heart, but the expression in the eyes themselves --  Evie's sweet brown eyes, which of old had been alight with kindly humour. They were blank eyes now, listless eyes, which stared and stared, yet seemed hardly to see that at which they gazed. Rhoda stood before her for a full moment, before the light of recognition showed in their depths, and even then it was a flicker more than a light, and died out again with startling rapidity.

The girl stood trembling, the carefully rehearsed words fading away from memory, for excuses and protestations seemed alike useless in the presence of that despairing calm. She looked pitifully into the set face, and faltered out:

"Evie, I've come... I wanted to see you! I have thought about you every minute of the time... I could not stay away -- "

No answer. Evie might not have heard her speak, for all signs of emotion which appeared on her face. Rhoda waited another moment and then with a catch in her voice asked another question:

"Is -- is your knee very painful, Evie?"

"No!" Evie winced at that, and turning towards the other side of the bed, held out her hand appealingly towards the Nurse, who took it in her own, and frowned a warning to the visitor.

"You had better go now, Miss. She isn't equal to much yet. You have got your way and seen her, so just give her a kiss, and go quietly away."

Tears of disappointment rushed to Rhoda's eyes, and as she stooped to give that farewell kiss the salt drops fell upon Evie's cheeks, and roused her momentarily from her lethargy.

"Poor Rhoda!" she sighed softly. "Poor little Rhoda!" then her eyes closed, and Nurse took hold of the girl's arm and led her resolutely away.

"You look as if you were going to faint yourself, and I can't have two of you on my hands," she said as soon as the corridor was reached, and the door closed behind them. "You'll just come back to your own room, my dear, and lie down on the bed."

"Nurse -- tell me! you have been with her the whole time, and know how she feels. Will she ever forgive me? I never, never thought it would be so bad as this. She would not speak to me, would not look at me even."

"She wasn't thinking of you at all, my dear, she was thinking of her knee. That is all she can find time to think of just now. The doctors kept it from her as long as they could, but she questioned them, and would not be put off, so they had to tell her the truth. She knows she will be lame, and it has pretty well broken her heart. It's the bread out of her mouth, poor lamb, and she knows it. It will be many a long day before she is herself again."

And this was the end of Rhoda's first meeting with Laura Everett after her accident!



Chapter Twenty Two.

Mrs. Chester's Plan.

It was many days before Rhoda saw Miss Everett again, but, if she was not admitted to the sick room, her mother was a frequent and welcome visitor, and took entire charge of the invalid while the nurse fulfilled her ordinary duties. There was little actual nursing to be done, but the doctors were anxious to prevent solitary repinings, and to do what was possible to raise the spirits of their patient. Evie's own mother had come down for a few days to satisfy herself concerning her daughter's condition, but had been obliged to hurry back to the Vicarage, where the invalid sister was growing worse rather than better, so that her presence could badly be spared. She was a worn, faded edition of Evie, and looked so typical of what the girl herself might now become that Rhoda could not bear to look at her. The two mothers, however, became great friends, for they met with a remembrance of kindness on the one side, and an overwhelming sympathy on the other, and were drawn together by hours of mutual anxiety. In each case the worst dread was unfulfilled, but what remained to be borne required all the fortitude which they could summon. The Vicar's wife saw one of the props of the home disabled for life, and Mrs Chester's kind heart was wrung with anguish at the thought that her child had been the cause of so much suffering. It seemed a strange dispensation of Providence that she, the main object of whose life had been to help her fellow - creatures, should have this burden laid upon her; but she bore it uncomplainingly, striving to cheer the poor woman whose lot was so much harder than her own.

Before they parted she broached a scheme which she had been planning in secret, and, having received a willing consent, bided her opportunity to lay it before the invalid herself. It came at last one chilly afternoon, when Evie was laid on a sofa before the fire, as a sign that convalescence had really begun. The knee was still bound up, as it was not proposed that she should attempt to walk until the journey home had been accomplished, and it was on this subject that Evie made her first remark.

"I suppose," she began, looking at Mrs Chester with the brown eyes which had grown so pathetic in their gaze in the last few weeks, "I suppose I can travel now, as soon as it can be arranged. I shall have to be carried about at each of the changes, and it must be planned ahead in this busy season. I must speak to Miss Bruce, and ask her what I had better do."

Mrs Chester bent forward and poked the fire in a flurried, embarrassed manner; she knitted her brows, and her rosy face grew a shade deeper in colour.

"Er -- yes," she assented vaguely. "Of course; but Evie, dear, I have been waiting to talk to you about something which has been very much on my mind lately. We are leaving on Thursday, Rhoda and I, and are having a through carriage and every possible appliance to make the journey easy, and I thought that it would be so much simpler for you, dear, to travel with us, and spend a few weeks at the Chase before going home!"

Evie smiled, with the languid courtesy with which an invalid listens to an impossible proposition.

"It is very kind of you," she said. "Some day I shall be glad to come, but not at present, thank you. I am not well enough to pay visits."

"But my child, it would not be like an ordinary visit; you should do exactly as you would in your own home -- stay in bed, or get up, as you pleased, and make out your own programme for the day. You know me now, and can surely understand that you need feel no ceremony in coming to my house."

"No, indeed! You have been so kind to me all this time, that I should be ungrateful if I did not realise that. I would rather be with you than anyone else outside my own family, but -- but -- " the tears gathered and rolled down the pale cheeks -- "Oh, surely you understand that just now I want to be at home with my own mother and father!"

"Yes, I do understand, poor dear; it would be unnatural if you felt anything else; but listen, Evie, it is for your parents' sake, as well as for your own, that I urge you to come. You need constant care and nursing, and cheering up, and it would be very difficult for them to manage all this just now. Your mother is overworked as it is, and has already one invalid on her hands; but if you come to us, the whole household will be at your service. My kind old Mary shall be your nurse, and wait upon you hand and foot. I will drive you about so that you can get the air without fatigue, and you shall have your couch carried into the conservatory off the drawing-room, and lie there among the flowers which you love so much. Every comfort that money can buy shall be yours to help to make you strong again. I say it in no spirit of boasting, dear, for we have been poor ourselves, and owe our riches to no merit of our own. We look upon them as a trust from God, to be used for the good of others even more than ourselves, and surely no one had ever a nearer, stronger claim -- "

Her voice broke off tremblingly, and Evie looked at her with a troubled glance.

"Dear Mrs Chester, you are so good! It all sounds most attractive and luxurious, and I am sure you would spoil me with kindness, but -- would it not be rather selfish? You say mother is overworked, and that is quite true; but, all the same, she might feel hurt if I chose to go somewhere else."

"Now, I'll tell you all about it," cried Mrs Chester briskly, scenting victory in the air, and beginning to smile again in her old cheery fashion. "Your mother and I had a talk about it before she left. She felt grieved not to have you at home for Christmas, but for your own sake was most anxious that you should come to us. She realised that it would be better for you in every way, and the quickest means to the end which we all have in view, to make you well and strong again. She left it to me to make the suggestion, but you will find that she is quite willing, even anxious -- "

"Yes," said Evie, and lay silently gazing at the heart of the fire. The downcast face looked very fair and fragile, but for the moment the old sweetness was wanting. The lips were pressed together, the chin was fixed and stubborn, outward signs of the mental fight which was going on between the impulse to give way, and a sore, sore feeling of injury which made it seem impossible to accept a favour from this quarter of all others. The elder woman saw these signs, and read their meaning with painful accuracy, and the exclamation which burst from her lips startled the invalid by its intensity.

"Oh, my lassie!" she cried. "Oh, my lassie, be generous! You have been sorely tried, and our hearts are broken to think of your trouble, but don't you see this is the only way in which it is left to us to help? Sympathy and regret are abstract things, and can do no real good, for, though they ease our minds, they leave you untouched. My dear girl, can you be generous enough to accept help from the hands that have injured you? It's a hard thing to ask -- I know it is; but I am an old woman, and I plead with you to give us this opportunity! Let me be a mother to you, dear, and ease your recovery in every way that I can. Money has great power, and one never realises it more than in time of sickness. I can spare you many a pain and discomfort if you will give me the opportunity, and my poor girl is fretting herself thin by brooding over the past -- it would be new life to her to be allowed to wait upon you! It's hard for you, dear, I know it's hard! You would rather cut yourself adrift from us, and never see us again; but it is in your power to return good for evil -- to lighten our trouble as no one else could do. Will you come, Evie?"

Evie looked into the quivering face, and her eyes shone -- then the kind arms opened wide and the brown head nestled down on the broad, motherly shoulder. There was no need for words, for the answer was given far more eloquently in look and gesture.

"God bless you, my lassie!" murmured Mrs Chester fondly, and they sat in silence together, gazing into the fire. A few tears rose in Evie's eyes and ran silently down her cheeks, but they were happy tears, with which were wiped away all remains of bitterness. There is no truer way of forgiving our enemies than by consenting to be helped at their hands, and, if the effort be great, it brings with it an exceeding great reward. At the end of ten minutes Evie raised her head from its resting place and said, in her old, bright voice:

"Shall we ask Rhoda to tea? It is such a lovely fire, and you brought in such a bountiful supply of cakes and good things that it seems greedy to keep them all to myself. Ask Rhoda to come in and help to make a cosy little party."

Then, as Mrs Chester stooped to kiss her cheek, she whispered hastily, "Tell her not to mention the past -- never to mention it again! We will turn over a new leaf to-day and think only of the future."



Chapter Twenty Three.

Good-Bye To Hurst Manor.

The morning of the day dawned on which the invalids were to travel to Erley Chase, and Rhoda lay awake upon her bed, listening to the echo of the girls' voices as they sang the morning hymn in the hall below. Her heart was softened with a feeling at once of thankfulness and dread --  thankfulness that Evie's life had been spared, and her friendship renewed, and dread because, she dimly realised, this was the last of the dear school days as they had been. Even if she returned after the holidays, which seemed doubtful, it would be a changed house indeed, with the older girls scattered all over the country, and Evie no longer at hand to soothe and lighten every trouble. Her thoughts went back to her first coming to Hurst Manor eighteen months before, and dwelt sadly on her own ambitious hopes. It had all seemed so easy, so certain; she had planned her career with such happy assurance, with never a thought but that success and distinction lay waiting for her grasp; and it had all ended in this -- that she was returning home, enfeebled in health, foiled in ambition, with the bitter weight on her conscience that her self-will had inflicted a life-long injury on the kindest of friends.

"I have failed!" sighed Rhoda humbly to herself. "But why? I never meant to do wrong. I intended only to work hard and get on. Surely, surely, there was nothing wicked in that? It can't be possible to be too industrious, and yet Evie evidently thought something was wrong, and the Vicar... What can it have been? I wish, I wish I knew! I'm tired of going my own way, for it leads to nothing but misery and disappointment. I should like to find out the secret of being happy and contented like other people." Her eyes filled with tears, those blue eyes which had been so full of confidence, and she clasped her fingers upon the counterpane. The roll of the organ sounded through the house, and the girls' clear voices singing a familiar tune. She listened unthinkingly, until suddenly one verse struck sharply on her ear, and startled her into vivid attention: -- 

"The trivial round, the common task, Will furnish all we ought to ask; Room to deny ourselves, a road To bring us daily nearer God."

She had heard those words a hundred times before, had repeated them at her mother's knee, had sung them in church, not once, but many times, yet it seemed that until that moment no conception of their meaning had penetrated to her brain. What was it, which was all we ought to ask? "Room to deny ourselves!" -- to put ourselves last -- to be careless of our own position? And this path of self-denial was the road that led to God Himself? Was this what Evie had meant when she spoke of the secret which each one must find out for herself? Was this the explanation of the contentment which the Vicar had found in his ill-paying parish? "Room to deny oneself!" Oh, but this had been far, far from her own ambitions. She had asked for room to distinguish herself, to shine among her fellows, to be first and foremost, praised and applauded. Her own advancement had been the one absorbing aim in life, and to gratify it she had been willing to see others fail, and to congratulate herself in the face of their distress. Never once in all the miseries of disappointment which she had undergone had it occurred to her that the explanation of her difficulties lay in the motive underlying her efforts -- the point of view from which she had started. Other girls had worked as hard as herself, but with some definite and worthy aim, such as to help their parents, or to fit themselves for work in life. Rhoda was honest, even when honesty was to her own hurt, and she acknowledged it had been far otherwise in her case when she had failed in her examination, it had not been deficiency in knowledge which she had deplored, but the certificate, the star to her name, the outward and visible signs of success. When she realised the hopelessness of seeing her name on the Record Wall, loss of honour and glory had been her regret, not sorrow for the thought that she had passed through school and failed to leave behind a tradition of well-doing whereby future scholars might be strengthened and encouraged!

Rhoda hid her face in the pillow and lay still, communing with her own heart. How bitter they are, these moments of self-revelation! How mysterious is the way in which the veil seems suddenly to lift and show us the true figure, instead of the mythical vision which we have cherished in our thoughts! They come suddenly at the most unexpected moments, roused by apparently the most trivial of causes, so that the friend by our side has no idea of the crisis through which we are passing.

Rhoda Chester never forgot that last morning at school; she could never hear that hymn sung without a thrill of painful remembrance. When the years had passed and she had daughters of her own, the sound of the familiar words would still bring a flush to her cheeks, but no human friend ever knew all that it meant to her. Rhoda learnt her lesson none the less surely for keeping silence concerning it.

A few hours later the travellers were ready to depart, and Evie was carried down the staircase into the hall.

Mrs Chester had promised that everything that wealth could secure should be done for the comfort of her guest, and royally did she keep her promise. If she had been a Princess of the Blood, Evie declared she could not have had a more luxuriously comfortable journey. An ambulance drove up to the door to convey the little party to the station, and inside sat a surgical nurse, ready to give her skilled attention to any need that might arise. The girls flocked in hall and doorway to wave farewells, edging to the front to cry "Come back soon!" in confident treble, and then retiring to the background to gulp back the tears which rose at the sight of the thin little face, which told such a pathetic story of suffering. Not a single tear did Evie see, however, nor any face that was not wreathed in smiles, and when the strains of "For she's a jolly good fellow" followed the ambulance down the drive, she laughed merrily, and waved her handkerchief out of the window, never suspecting with what swelling throats many of the singers joined in the strain.

Rhoda laughed too, but she did not wave her handkerchief. Curiously enough, it never occurred to her to think that she herself was included in that farewell demonstration, or to resent the apparent indifference with which she had been allowed to depart. Her own special friends had embraced her warmly enough, but even they had given the lion's share of attention to Evie, while the majority of the girls had no eyes nor attention for anyone else. The Rhoda of six months or a year ago would have bitterly resented such a slight, but to-day she found no reason to blame others for following her own example.

Evie was the supreme consideration, and the girl was so entirely absorbed in looking after her comfort that she had forgotten all about her own poor little importance. Love is the gentlest as well as the cleverest of schoolmasters, and teaches his lessons so subtly that we are unconscious of our progress, until, lo! the hill difficulty is overcome, and we find ourselves erect on the wide, breezy plain.

At the station a saloon carriage was waiting labelled "Engaged," inside which were all manner of provisions for the comfort of the journey. Hot-water bottles, cushions, rugs, piles of papers and magazines, and a hamper of dainty eatables from the Chase Evie was wrapped in Mrs Chester's sable cloak and banked up with cushions by the window, so that she might look out and be amused by the sight of the Christmas traffic at the various stations. She stared about her with the enjoyment of a convalescent who has had more than enough of her own society, and the lingerers on the platform stared back at the pretty, fragile-looking invalid who was travelling in such pomp and circumstance.

"They think I am a princess!" cried Evie. "I hope they think I am a princess!" and she laid her little head against the cushions, and sniffed at a big silver-mounted bottle of smelling salts with an air of languid complacency which vastly amused her companions. Presently nurse lighted an Etna and warmed some cups of soup, while one good thing after another came out of the hamper to add to the feast; then followed a stoppage, with the arrival of obsequious porters with fresh foot - warmers; then, dusk closing in over the wintry landscape, the lighting of electric lamps, and the refreshing cup of tea. It was Evie's first experience of luxurious travelling, and she told herself with a sigh that it was very, very comfortable. Much more comfortable than shivering in a draughty third class carriage, and changing three times over to wait in still more draughty stations!

With the arrival at Erley Chase came more pleasant surprises, for she was not carried upstairs, but into a room on the ground floor, which was ordinarily used as Mrs Chester's boudoir, and had been transformed into the most cheerful and delightful of bedrooms. There was really little to distinguish it from a sitting-room, except the bed with its silken cover, and even this was hidden behind a screen in the daytime. A couch was drawn up before the fire, and over it lay the daintiest pink silk dressing-gown that was ever seen, with the warmest of linings inside, and trimmed without with a profusion of those airy frills and laces dear to the feminine heart.

"For me?" gasped Evie, staring at its splendour with big, astonished eyes. A glow of colour came into her cheeks as she turned it over and over to inspect its intricacies. "I should think I would come in to dinner just, with such a gown to wear!" she cried laughingly. "I am longing to put it on and see what it feels like to be a fashionable lady."

She would not acknowledge that she was tired, but even after an hour's sleep she still looked so fragile that the two members of the household who had not seen her before were deeply impressed with the change which had taken place since their last meeting. Very charming did she look when the sofa was wheeled into the dining-room, and she lay in her pretty pink fineries the centre of attraction and attention; but the flush of excitement soon faded, and the dark eyes looked pathetic in spite of their smiles. Rhoda watched the faces of father and mother, and her heart sank as she saw the elder man knit his brow, and the younger look away quickly and bite his lip under his moustache as if the sight were too painful to be endured. Beyond a few loving words at greeting, neither had manifested any concern about herself, and once again she had not noticed the omission.

"I've had such a happy day. I feel like a princess -- such a spoiled princess!" said Evie, when she went to bed that night; but there were sad days in store for the poor little princess from which all the care and love of her friends could not save her.

When the decree went forth that she should make her first attempt to walk, Rhoda clapped her hands with joy, and could not understand the reason of the quick, grave glance which the nurse cast upon her. She and her mother had decided that the attempt must be made in the drawing - room after tea, and nurse made no objection, hoping, perhaps, that the presence of onlookers would give her patient extra strength for the ordeal. She knew what it meant if the others did not; but, alas! they all learned soon enough, as, at the first slight movement, Evie's white face turned grey, and she groaned in mingled anguish and dismay.

"I can't!" she cried; "Oh, I can't! It is like knives going through me! I can't move!"

"Ah, but you must, my dear. It has to be done; and the braver you are, the sooner it will be over. You are bound to suffer the first few times, but it would be ten times worse to allow the joint to stiffen. Now be brave, and try to take just two steps with me! I will support you on one side, and -- " Nurse looked round questioningly -- "Mr Harold will take the other. You can lean all your weight on us. We won't let you fall."

Harold stepped forward without a word and put his strong arm under hers, and, as he did so, Evie raised her eyes to his with a look which those who saw it never forgot -- a look such as might have been given by an animal caught in a snare from which it was powerless to escape. Rhoda told herself savagely that Harold was a brute to persist in the face of that dumb appeal, but he did not quail even when the sob rose to a cry, and a trembling plea for mercy. The two steps were taken, and henceforth, for weeks to come, the nightmare of repeated effort weighed upon the spirits of the household. At eleven o'clock, after tea, after dinner -- three times a day -- was the inexorable programme repeated, in spite of prayers and protestations. Mrs Chester's theory was that it was brutal to torture the child, and that if she were to be lame, for pity's sake let her be lame in peace. Rhoda suffered agonies of remorse and passionate revolts against the mystery of pain, but the nurse and her assistant never showed a sign of wavering. As a rule, Evie made a gallant attempt to control her sufferings, but there were occasions when even her fortitude gave was, as, on one afternoon, when, after taking a certain number of steps, she was informed that still more must be attempted. She was powerless in the hands that held her, but when she collapsed into helpless sobbings on the sofa, Rhoda turned on her brother with furious indignation:

"You are a brute, Harold! You have no heart! How dare you do it -- how dare you make her suffer so!"

He did not answer, but turned his head aside, and stared steadily out of the window. Rhoda glared at him with smarting eyes, and suddenly saw something which put a check on her excitement. Harold's profile was turned toward her, and the light showed great drops of moisture standing upon the brow, and rolling slowly down the cheek. She realised, with a pang, that once again she had been too quick in her judgment. In spite of his firmness, Harold had suffered more than she, more than her mother -- ay, perhaps, more than Evie herself!



Chapter Twenty Four.

All's Well That Ends Well.

Despite the painful incidents of Evie's convalescence, Christmas was a happy season at Erley Chase, for it had always been a tradition of the household to make much of this festival, and Mrs Chester could not bring herself to change her habits as the years advanced. Every twenty - sixth of December Mr Chester would say solemnly, "This is the last time! I cannot let you wear yourself out like this. When Christmas cards have to be sent off by the hundred, and presents by the score, it is time to call a halt, for what has been a pleasure becomes a burden. Next year you drop these outside people, and think only of our immediate circle," and Mrs Chester would murmur meekly, "Yes, dear; of course. Just as you wish," and begin laying in stores for next Christmas at her first visit to the January sales. There was a cupboard in one of the spare rooms which was dedicated entirely to the keeping of presents, and into it went all manner of nick-nacks which were picked up during the year -- bazaar gleanings, in the shape of cushions, cosies, and table - cloths, relics of travel, and a hundred and one articles useful and ornamental, which had been bought because they were so cheap, and it really seemed wicked to leave them lying on the shop counter! When a need arose, as when a birthday was suddenly remembered the day before it fell due, or an anniversary suggested the propriety of a little offering, it was the easiest thing in the world to poke about in the cupboard until a suitable gift was discovered.

Laura Everett was much amused by this novel way of apportioning presents, which was so strangely different from that practised at her own home. When she was wheeled into the morning-room a few days before Christmas, it was to find a small bazaar of fancy articles spread on tables and sofas, while Mrs Chester sat checking off the names written on a long sheet of paper, and Rhoda cried out: "Here's a yellow silk cushion. Whom do we know who has got a complexion that can bear being set off against a background of sulphur yellow?" ... "Here's a gorgeous table centre, quite beautifully worked. Whom do we know who is old - fashioned enough to use table centres still?" ... "Here's a piece of Turkish embroidery, which would be the very thing to cover that shabby old sofa at the Vicarage; it was absolutely in holes the last time I saw it."

"Turkish embroidery -- Mrs Mason. Thank goodness, that's one thing settled! Wrap it up at once, Rhoda dear. It will be one thing less to do," cried Mrs Chester in a tone of relief, while Evie held up her hands in astonishment.

"Of all the extraordinary ways of giving presents! To have a room full of things and then to puzzle as to whom you can give them! This is indeed a new experience for me. When we talk over our presents at home it is to wonder how in the world we can contrive to buy twenty things for nineteen shillings. Such a wholesale way of managing things I never imagined in my wildest moments."

She gave a little sigh of envy as she looked at the lavish profusion which lay around; yet, after all, there was a pleasure in contriving those simple gifts -- in putting in delicate stitches to add to the value of cheap materials, a triumph in manufacturing something out of nothing, which Rhoda and her mother could never enjoy! She was not at all sure that that old home fashion was not the sweeter after all.

While the apportioning of gifts was going on in the morning-room, the cook and her kitchen maids were busy at work in the great nagged kitchen, manufacturing all sorts of dainties to be packed away in the hampers ranged in readiness along the walls. It was a sight to see the good things laid out on the tables, and Evie was carried down on her chair to admire and praise with the rest, and to watch the interesting process of packing. Far and wide these hampers went, carrying good cheer into many a home where otherwise there would have been scanty provisions for the day of rejoicing, and bringing unexpected gleams of sunshine to many an anxious heart. Needless to say, one of the best was addressed to a country parsonage especially dear to Evie's heart, and was accompanied by a parcel of presents, which had not been lightly bought, but worked by loving fingers during long hours of convalescence.

Christmas Day itself was a busy occasion, when the home party had little leisure to think of themselves, so unending was the stream of pensioners which came up to the Chase to receive their gifts, and to be fed and warmed in the gaily-decorated rooms. Dinner was served early, so that the servants might be free to have their festivities in the evening, and at nine o'clock all the employees on the estate came up, dressed in their best, and danced with the servants in the hall. Mr and Mrs Chester, with Harold and Rhoda, honoured the assembly by joining in the first dance, and Evie sat in her wheeled chair, looking on and trying to keep a smiling face, the while she fought one of the mental battles which seemed to meet her on every step of the road to recovery. She had been so much occupied grieving over the serious financial loss which her inability to work would involve, that she had taken little thought of the pleasures from which she was debarred; but, after all, she was but a girl, and a girl with a keen capacity for enjoyment, and it was a very keen pang which went through her heart as she listened to the seductive strains of the band, and watched the couples glide slowly by. The dark brows twitched as if in pain, and she drew aside the folds of the pink tea-gown to cast a longing glance at the little useless feet stretched before her. A sudden remembrance arose of the day when Rhoda protested in dismay at the thought of wearing the ugly regulation school shoes, and of her own confession of love for pretty slippers, of the satisfaction with which she had donned the same on Thursday evenings, and danced about the hall as blithely as any one of her pupils. Those days were over -- for ever over; she would never again know the joy of any rapid, exhilarating motion. She lifted her hand to wipe away a tear, hoping to escape observation the while, but, to her dismay, Harold stood by her side, and his eyes met hers with an expression of pained understanding. Any reference to her infirmity seemed to distress him so acutely that the first instinct was to comfort him instead of herself, and she smiled through her tears, saying in the sweetest tones of her always sweet voice:

"Don't, please! Don't look so sorry! It was babyish of me, but just for one moment -- I was so fond of dancing, you know, and I had never realised before -- "

"Just so. You realise fresh losses every day. I know what you must feel. You have not been babyish at all, but most brave and heroic."

Evie sighed. "It's nice to be praised, but I feel as if I don't deserve it. I am not in the least brave at heart... Sometimes I almost dread getting strong, for then I shall have to face so much... I'm conceited, too, for I hate the idea of limping, and being stiff and ungraceful. I thought I did not care for appearance, but I did -- oh, a great deal! It is a humiliating discovery, and I am trying hard to cure myself, but pride dies slowly! There was a girl at school who was lame. I used to be so sorry for her, and yet, compared with other misfortunes, it is a very little thing. I can still move about and use my faculties. It is not so bad, after all!"

"Yes," said Harold, unexpectedly. "It is very bad. It is a mistake to pretend to yourself that it is only a small trial, for it's not true, and the pretence is sure to break down some day, and leave you where you were. It is a great affliction for people to be crippled, even when they are old and have lost their energy; but for a girl like you it is ten times worse. Don't be too hard on yourself, and expect resignation to come all at once. I believe the best plan is to face it fully, and to say to yourself, 'It's a big test -- one of the biggest I could have to bear. I shall feel the pinch not to-day only, but to-morrow, and the next year, and as long as I live. It is going to take a big effort to save myself from growing bitter and discouraged, but it's worth fighting, for my whole life hangs on the result. If I can succeed -- if I can rise above infirmity, and keep a bright, uncomplaining spirit' -- "

He broke off suddenly, and Evie breathed a quick "Yes, yes, I know! I feel that too. Thank you so much. It is good to talk to someone who understands. It helps me on."

"Don't thank me. It is like my presumption to venture to preach to you. But you have helped me so much that when I saw you in trouble I could not be silent. I was obliged to do what I could."

"I -- I have helped you?" repeated Evie, blankly; and a flush of colour rose in her pale cheeks, which made her look for one moment the happy, blooming girl of old. "In what way have I ever helped you, or been anything but an anxiety and care?"

But Harold did not answer, and that was the last chance of a tete-a - tete conversation that evening, for presently she was carried off to her own room, and helped into bed, where she lay awake for a long, long time, staring before her in the twilight, and recalling the lessons of consolation to which she had just listened. It must surely have been wonderfully wise, wonderfully true, since it did not so much comfort, as do away with the very necessity for comfort! She could not delude herself that she felt sad or despondent, or anything but mysteriously happy and at rest, as she lay smiling softly to herself in the flickering firelight.

Two days later came a delightful surprise. Evie and her late pupil were sitting in the morning-room writing letters of thanks to the many donors of Christmas presents, when the door opened and shut, and someone walked into the room. It was such an ordinary, matter-of-fact entrance that neither of the writers troubled to look up, taking it for granted that the new-comer was Mrs Chester, who had left the room but a few minutes before. Two minutes later, however, Evie finished her sheet and lifted her eyes to make a casual remark, when she promptly fell back in her chair with a shriek, and a hand pressed over her heart. Rhoda jumped up in alarm, and then -- was it a dream, or did a well-known figure really lean up against the mantelpiece, in familiar, gentlemanly attitude, a roguish smile curling the lips, and little eyes alight with mischief?

"Tom, Tom! Oh, Tom, you angel! Where in the world have you come from?" cried Rhoda, rushing forward with outstretched arms, in a very whirlwind of welcome. "How perfectly delicious to see you again, and what a terrific start you gave me!"

"Oh, what a surprise!" chanted Tom easily, rubbing her cheeks as if to wipe away the kisses pressed upon it, and advancing to greet Evie with a nonchalance which for once was a trifle overdone, though neither of her friends was in the least danger of mistaking her real feelings. "The same to you, and many of them," she continued, sitting down without waiting for an invitation, and smiling round in genial fashion. "It really was as good as a play, standing there, and watching you two scribbling away with faces as solemn as judges -- and what a squeal Evie gave! It made me jump in my skin! Yes; I'm visiting my female relative, and determined to pay you a visit even if it were only for an hour. It can't be much longer, for we have a tea fight on this afternoon, when every spinster in the neighbourhood is coming to stare at me and deliver her views on higher education. Such a lark! Some of them strongly approve, and others object, and I agree with each in turn, until the poor dears are so bamboozled they don't know what to do. They think I am an amiably-disposed young person, but defective in brains, and poor aunt Jim gets quite low in her mind, for she wants me to impress them, and branch off into Latin and Greek as if they came more naturally to me than English. I wish they did! It takes the conceit out of one to go up to college and compete with women instead of girls."

"Don't you like it, Tom? Are you happy? Didn't you miss the Manor, and feel home-sick for the girls and the old school parlour?" queried Rhoda eagerly, and Tom screwed up her face in meaning fashion.

"Should have done, if I had not kept a tight hand; but you know my principle -- never to worry over what can't be cured! Plenty to bother oneself about, without that. I thought of you all a great deal, and realised that I'd been even happier than I knew, and that I disliked taking a bottom place so abominably that it was plainly the best thing for me to do. I love power!" sighed Tom, wagging her head in sorrowful confession, "and that's just what I see no chance of getting again for a precious long time to come. I haven't much time to grieve, however, for my poor little nose is fairly worn away, it's kept so near to the grindstone."

"You look thinner," said Rhoda, truthfully enough. "Poor old Tom, you mustn't let them wear you out. We will take care of you, at least, so I'll go and order lunch earlier than usual, if you really must be off so soon. The three o'clock train, I suppose?"

"Yes, please. Don't worry about anything special for me. Half a dozen cutlets or a few pounds of steak is all I could eat, I assure you!" said Tom modestly, and Rhoda went laughing out of the room, leaving her two friends gazing at one another in an embarrassed silence.

No reference had so far been made to the accident which was the cause of Evie's presence at the Chase, but it was impossible that the visit should end in silence, and both instinctively felt that Rhoda's absence gave the best opportunity for what must be said. The colour came into Evie's face as she nerved herself to open the painful subject.

"You know, of course, Tom, that I am not going back to Hurst. Miss Bruce has been most kind, but she must consider the good of the greater number, and this accident has shown more plainly than ever the necessity of having a House-Mistress who can job in the games with the girls. I shall never be any good for a large school again, for, even apart from the games, the long stairs and corridors would be too trying. So you see my career is cut off suddenly."

"Yes, I see; I thought of that. It's very interesting!" said Tom in a dreamy voice, which brought a flush of indignation into Evie's eyes.

"Interesting!" she repeated. "Is that what you call it? It's not the word I should have used, or have expected from you, Tom, or from any of my friends."

"No! Perhaps not, but it is interesting all the same, for one is so curious to see what will happen next. When you have planned out your life, and fitted in everything towards one end, and then suddenly, by no fault of your own, that end is made impossible -- why, if you believe in a purpose in things, what could be more interesting and exciting? What is to happen next? What is one to do? It is like reading a story in parts, and breaking off just at the critical crisis. I should like to turn over the pages, Evie, and see what is going to happen to you!"

Evie smiled faintly.

"Would you, Tom? I am afraid I have been hiding my head like an ostrich, and trying not to look forward, but your view is the healthier, and I'll try to adopt it. I don't give up all idea of teaching, though big schools are impossible. Perhaps they would take me at some small, old-fashioned seminary where sports are considered unladylike, and the pupils take their exercise in a crocodile up and down the parade."

"Ugh!" said Tom, with a grimace which twisted every feature out of recognition. "No, surely, Evie, you will never condescend to that! You lie low for a bit and get strong, and keep up your classics, and I'll see if I can't find you some coaching to do among the girls I meet. If you could get along that way for a few years it would be all right, for I shall be settled by that time and able to look after you. You shall be my secretary, dear, and have a jolly little den to yourself, where I can take refuge when the girls get too much for me. We could be very happy together, you and I, couldn't we, and grow into two nice, contented old maids, with too much to do to have time to envy our neighbours?"

She fixed her bright little eyes on Evie's face as she asked the question, and to her horror and dismay Evie felt the colour rush to her cheeks and mount higher and higher in a crimson tide which refused to be restrained by the most desperate mental efforts. How idiotic to blush at nothing -- how senseless, how humiliating, and how quite too ridiculous of Tom to turn aside and stare at the opposite side of the room in that ostentatious manner! Evie felt inclined to shake her, but at that opportune moment Rhoda returned, and during the remainder of Tom's visit there was no opportunity for private confidences.

Once more Rhoda accompanied her friend to the station, and waited anxiously for the word which would surely be said concerning the escapade which had cost so dear, but, like Evie, she was obliged to introduce the subject herself.

"Have you nothing to say to me, Tom?" she asked wistfully. "I haven't seen you since -- you know when -- but, of course, you heard how it happened. It was all my fault. What are you going to say to me about it?"

"Why, nothing, Fuzz!" said Tom, turning her little eyes upon the quivering face with a tenderness of expression which would have been a revelation to casual acquaintances who believed Miss Bolderston incapable of the softer emotions. "Why should I? You have said it all to yourself a hundred times better than I could have done, and who am I that I should make myself a ruler or a judge over you?"

"But she is lame, you know!" said Rhoda, sadly. "Nurse says the knee is stronger than she expected, but even so she will always limp. Imagine Evie limping! She was such a graceful little thing, and tripped about so lightly, and she was so proud of her little feet -- I have spoiled her future too, for she can never take such a good post again. I have ruined her whole life."

"We will discuss that point ten years later; it is too early to decide it yet. Many things happen that we do not expect," remarked Tom sagely, whereat Rhoda shook her head in hopeless fashion.

"I cannot imagine anything happening that would make this any better -- on the contrary, Tom, it has made me realise how little help one can give, and what a fraud money is when it comes to the test. I used to imagine that I could do pretty nearly everything I wanted because I was rich, but look at Evie! I would give my life to help her, but beyond a few trumpery presents, and a little lightening of pain, what can I do? She would not accept more, and one dare not offer it, though if she would allow it we would be thankful to pension her off for life. Money can't do everything I see!"

"That's a good thing! Let's be thankful for that, at least. It's worth something to have learned that lesson," cried Tom cheerily, and for the rest of the way to the station she talked resolutely on indifferent subjects, refusing to be drawn back to the one sad topic. Only when the last good-bye was said did she soften into tenderness, actually allowing herself to be kissed without protest, and saying hurriedly in a low, half-shamed voice:

"Good-bye, Fuzzy. Bless you! Never say die. Sometimes, you know, it takes a big thing to open one's eyes. Keep straight ahead from where you are now, and you'll have no more tumbles." Then the train moved off and Rhoda lost the last glimpse of her friend in a mist of tears. Dear Tom! Dear, blunt, kindly, honest Tom; what a strength she had been to all who knew her -- what a strength she was going to be to generations of girls to come! Rhoda looked forward into the future and prophesied to herself that she would know no prouder boast than that she had been one of Tom Bolderston's girls, and had been brought up under her rule!

That evening the occupants of the drawing-room looked up in amaze as a rustle of silken garments struck their ears, and a stately young lady came forward with a fan waving in one hand, and masses of ruddy hair piled high upon her head. Rhoda, of course; and yet, could it be Rhoda? for with the short skirts and flowing mane the last traces of childhood had disappeared, and the woman of the future seemed already to stand before them. Mr Chester gave a quick exclamation, and Rhoda turned to him and swept a stately curtsey.

"At your service, sir. I thought you might like to see your grown-up daughter. My new dress came home to-day, and I looked so fine in it that I was obliged to do up my hair to be in keeping. And I went to mother's room and stole her pearls and took her very best fan. When girls come out they always help themselves to their parents' fineries, so I thought I had better begin at once. Do you like me, dear?"

She looked up at him, half shy, half laughing, and there was silence in the room while each of the onlookers felt a thrill of unexpected emotion. It was like looking on at the turning point in a life, and the girl was so beautiful in her fresh young bloom that it was impossible to behold her unmoved. The coiled-up hair showed the graceful poise of her head, the shoulders were smooth and white as satin, the blue eyes had lost their hard self-confidence, and shone sweet and true. Yes! Rhoda was going to be a beautiful woman; she was one already, as her father realised, with a natural pang of regret mingling with his pride. His eye softened as he laid his hand on her shoulder.

"Yes, my daughter, you are grown-up indeed! I never realised it before. You had better prepare for the duties of chaperon, mother, for I foresee that this young lady will keep us busy. We shall have to take her about, and entertain her friends, and yawn in the corners while they dance half through the night. That's it, isn't it, Rhoda?"

Rhoda looked at him with a start of surprise. By tacit agreement nothing had yet been said of future arrangements, so that this was the first definite hint which she had received of her parents' intention. Her voice was half regretful, half relieved, as she said:

"Then I am not to go back to school, father? You have decided that it is better not?"

Mr Chester put his hands on her arms and looked at her fondly, a remembrance rising in his mind as he did so of that other evening eighteen months ago, when the prospect of school had been proposed, and the girl had taken up the question and settled it out of hand, in arrogant, youthful fashion. It was a very different tone in which the present question was asked, and he was quick to note the difference.

"What do you say, mother? She doesn't look very much like a school-girl to-night, does she? No, Rhoda, I think those days are ended. You have had a year and a half at school, and it has been a valuable experience for you in many ways, but both your nerves and ours have been overstrained lately, and we will not risk any more separations, but try what travel will do to complete your education. It has always been my dream to go abroad for a year when you were able to come with us, and now that time has arrived. We will plan out a tour that shall be both pleasant and educational, and enlarge our minds by learning something about other countries besides our own."

"Rome for Easter, the Italian lakes and Switzerland in summer, the Riviera and Egypt in winter -- Oh, father, how lovely! How I shall enjoy it! How happy we shall be travelling about all together! I could not have told you what I wanted, but this is the very thing of all others I should most enjoy. And mother will like it too? It will not tire you, will it, dear, or worry you to be away from home?"

"My home is where you are. I shall be perfectly happy, dear, so long as we are together," said the mother, who had never been known to oppose her own wishes to those of her family; and in this easy fashion the matter was settled. One moment the project was mooted, the next dates and routes were being eagerly discussed, and the question of wardrobe being taken into account. Presently Mr Chester must needs consult the atlas which was in constant reference in every conversation, and away went the three in happy conclave to turn over the leaves on the library table, while Evie was left to look after them with wistful eyes, and Harold to study her face in his turn. She turned to find his eyes fixed upon her, and struggled hard to speak brightly.

"They all seem so happy -- it is good to see them; and how pretty Rhoda looks to-night! It is so interesting to see the girls grow up, and come out as full-fledged young ladies. I've seen two transformations to - day -- Rhoda and Tom!"

"Miss Bolderston? Really! Would you call her a transformation?" queried Harold, raising his eyebrows with an expression which said all that he dare not put into words. "If that is a transformation, one is tempted to wonder what she was like before -- "

"Don't!" Evie looked at him pleadingly. "Don't make fun of her, please, because we love her so dearly. Men don't appreciate Tom, and she doesn't show her best side to them, but she is a splendid girl, and the truest of friends. She was so kind to me to-day."

"You were talking to her about your work, and worrying because you could not go back at once!" said Harold shrewdly, and Evie looked at him under raised, apologetic eyebrows, quite overcome at being read in so easy a fashion.

"Well -- just a little! I said that I could not go back to Hurst, as I should not be able to take part in games again -- "

"And she sympathised with you, and agreed that it was a desperate lot?"

"No, indeed! You don't know Tom! She is far too much of an optimist to see the black side. She only said she was interested to see what would happen next, and that it was like being stopped suddenly in the middle of a story. I thought it was a very cheerful way of looking at it." She paused, not caring, for some indefinite reason, to say anything of that later proposition, in the carrying out of which she and Tom were to grow old side by side; but the idea lay on her mind, and presently she added dreamily, "But, even if I am lame, my mind is not affected. I can teach just as well as ever. There must be an opening for me somewhere. There are plenty of small schools where they don't go in for sports, plenty of girls who have to be educated at home -- delicate girls, backward girls, girls who are, perhaps, like myself! I could teach them still if they would let me try -- "

It was a very sweet little voice, and the quiver with which it broke off sounded strangely pathetic in the silence. Harold did not speak, and his head was bent forward so that Evie could not see his face. His hands were clasped and pressed so tightly together that the muscles stood out under the skin, but presently one of them was stretched forward and laid pleadingly over her own.

"Dearest and sweetest," said Harold softly; "teach me instead!"

When Rhoda came rushing into the room ten minutes later it was to find her brother seated by Evie on the sofa, and to meet two pairs of eyes which tried vainly to look calm and composed, but which were in reality so brimming over with happiness that the news was told without need of a single word.

"Oh!" she cried, stopping short and staring in astonishment. "Oh!" and then Evie struggled to her feet and held out wide, welcoming arms.

"Oh, Rhoda, I am never going to be unhappy any more. Harold won't let me. He is going to help me all my life!"

"She is going to help me!" corrected Harold firmly. "I'm the happiest fellow in the world, Rhoda, and you must be happy too. Come and kiss your new sister."

Rhoda gave a little sob of joy, and flew into Evie's arms.

"My own sister! And I can take care of you always. I shall have a right, and you will not have to worry any more, or be anxious, or troubled. Evie, Evie, you can forgive me now, you can feel that I have not spoiled your life! You will be happy even if you are lame!"

"Yes, she will be happy -- she has found a good man to take care of her!" said Mrs Chester, coming forward from the background, and taking Evie into a warm embrace. "My dear child, I thought, I hoped, it might come to this! Once upon a time I was afraid I might be jealous of Harold's wife, but not you, dear, not you! That would be impossible. We owe you too much. You are welcome -- a thousand times welcome! I am a rich woman indeed, for I have two beautiful daughters instead of one!"

Evie dropped her head on the broad, motherly shoulder and shed a tear of pure happiness and thankfulness.

"Tom was right!" she said to herself softly. "Tom was right -- it was too early to judge! Good has come out of evil!"

<eob>

The Story Of A School War

By

Florence Coombe



Chapter I

The Joke That Failed


"I say, you fellows, look here! What do you think of this? It's our lunch!"

"This" was a large basket, lined with a white cloth, at the bottom of which lay nine bread-pills. Nine boys looked down at them in rueful disgust, and then across the school-room to where a larger group stood chuckling mischievously, their hands and mouths filled with tempting, crusty hunches, carved from the loaf according to fancy.

Those nine gray, unappetizing pellets represented all that was left of the loaf; and Mason, the boy who first spoke, realizing this, flung the big basket in a burst of indignation at the heads of the opposite clump, one or two of whom were hit. Revenge was prompt. Ere it touched the floor it was hurled back with vigour, but, being dodged successfully, fell harmless to the ground.

Mason and seven others were new-comers to Brincliffe School, and when the luncheon interval was heralded by the entrance of the loaf and the exit of the masters, it did not occur to them to join in the general rush that was made at the basket. And this was the sorry reward of good manners!

The fact of the matter is that they were not merely new boys, and therefore lawful game, but day-pupils. That was a grievance at Brincliffe -- a great grievance. It was only last term that the first day-boy was admitted into Mr. West's establishment. More than one young wiseacre had gloomily prophesied that Jim Bacon was the thin end of the wedge. And now they gloated, "Didn't we say so?"

It is not easy to see at once what objection there could be to certain boys attending the school and yet sleeping in their own homes. But a rooted objection there undoubtedly was -- all the stronger, perhaps, because no valid reason for it could be stated.

Now for a few moments words took the place of missiles.

"You -- you greedy, giggling gobblers -- you!" This was from Mason, and he was hungry. The "g's" came out in slow, studied jerks.

"And what are you, pray? A pack of pretty poppets! Mammy's darlings! Must go home to by-by, mustn't you?" Sneering was Joe Green's forte.

Words failed Mason, but a small black-eyed lad, called Lewis Simmons, took up the cudgels in his stead.

"I'd rather be a pretty poppet than an ugly chimpanzee like -- some people!"

"Hold your tongue, baby! Cheek me again, and you'll get smacked. We must see that all you duckies go to bed at twelve for a little nap. You shall have a nice beauty-sleep, you shall!"

"Don't answer! Swallow it down!" muttered Jack Brady, laying his hand on Simmons's shoulder. "Let 'em have the last word if they're stuck on it. We're only wasting breath."

"It's all very well, Brady, but they have treated us abominably! We'd done nothing to them." Ethelbert Hughes, who said this in a low voice, was Simmons's special chum, though a great contrast, being tall and fair, with a gentle, quiet manner.

"Still, there's nothing gained by bandying names," returned Brady. "And it isn't even amusing to listen to. A fellow's seldom funny and furious at the same time.

"I don't care about words," said Mason, giving a fierce kick to the basket. "I'm quite ready to bandy thumps, if they prefer it. But they deserve trouncing in some way for a caddish trick like this."

"It was a bit rough on us, but they only meant it as a joke," persisted Brady. "We must pay them back in joke, and then it'll be all right."

"Will it?" growled Bacon. "I know better. Why, they hate day-boys like poison, and they'll let you all feel it too. I had a nice dose of it last term, and I'm jolly glad there are some more of you to share it with me this time."

"Oh, that's it, is it?" said a boy called Armitage. "And are they all such donkeys as to care whether we sleep here or not?"

"They're all such sheep as to follow the same track blindly, and not dare to act on their own hook," replied Bacon. "It's the fashion to run down day-boys, that's all. But it's a beastly shame, and I almost wish West hadn't let me in."

"Oh, rubbish!" said Brady. "Fashions change quickly. We'll have a ripping time, in spite of everybody."

Meanwhile the boarders were discussing matters from their point of view.

"It's just what I expected," said Norman Hallett, a tall, well-built boy, who was the eldest in the school. "Once open the door -- only a chink -- and in pours the whole town." He waved a half-eaten crust to illustrate the pouring in.

"West had better drop the name of Brincliffe, and call us Elmridge Grammar School at once. That's what we are now," observed Green.

"I don't mind so much about that," said a grave-faced boy, whose name was Vickers; "but what I do hate is the way day-boys spoil everything. It can't be helped, but nothing's ever fair or equal when once day-boys get mixed up with a school. I'll tell you exactly what happens. First" -- and here the speaker laid his forefinger on his thumb to mark the order -- "First, they're always trying to make you green with envy by talking about the jolly things they're going to. Second, they're continually getting holidays for themselves on some pretence or other. Third, they love to pity you, and declare they'd shoot themselves rather than be regular boarders. Fourth, they buy cribs and keys, and keep them at home, and get help from their fathers, and work extra hours, and spoil your chance of a prize altogether. Fifth, they're for ever sniggering over private jokes about people you neither know nor want to -- "

"Hold, Vickers, my dear chap!" broke in Cadbury, the school jester. "It pains me to check the fluency of our golden-mouthed orator, but I've been waiting in vain for 'Finally'. Let's have an innings. What I object to is that they're such a horrid lot. Cocky to a degree -- simply think no end of themselves -- and lose their hair altogether at the first little playful joke. I think the beastly way in which they took that bread game spoke for itself. I should like to have hammered them for that."

"West will be changing all our hours and classes soon to suit the convenience of the day-boarders. That'll be the next move. I know it, because I heard him ask that gawky chap they call Mason if he could stay on Wednesday evenings for the dancing class. If he could, indeed! That's the way they're going to be treated."

"If they are, it'll be war to the knife between us and them," observed Hallett, folding his arms with an air of conscious might.

"War wiz knife, Hallett? Ah!"

It was a black-browed foreign child of nine who whispered these words, creeping close to Hallett, and gazing up curiously into his face. Hallett burst out laughing.

"Listen to this bloodthirsty brigand of a March Hare! The instinct of his ancestors is strong within him. No, Harey," he continued, "I won't stickle for knives, or even pistols. Shall we call it war to the fist? Anything will do, so long as it's war."

"What do you all think of the weekly? Is he as bad as the rest?" asked Grey, one of the juniors. He was always careful to find out what he ought to think before he thought it.

"Which is the weakly one?" asked Cadbury. "That lily-flower bending on its stalk to address the cheeky, black-eyed imp? He looks weakly enough, all eyes and hair."

"No, no; that's Hughes, from the Bank. I mean the new weekly boarder, who's to go home from Saturday to Monday."

"I know the one," said Hallett. "The apple-faced boy who does so much laughing. I heard someone call him Brady."

"Oh, that fellow! He doesn't look so bad," pronounced Trevelyan, who ranked only second to Hallett.

"He seems to have a strong sense of humour," remarked Vickers gravely, at which his comrades giggled. Vickers was commonly believed to have none. He never laughed when anyone else did.

"A weekly boarder is a very different thing from a day-boy," Hallett went on. "If Brady was wise he wouldn't go mixing himself up with that lot. I shall give him a wrinkle when he comes my way. He really looks rather decent, and he was the only one who grinned about the bread. Of course it may have been from sheer force of habit, and therefore no credit to him; but still, he did grin."

At this moment the discussion in both camps was brought to a sudden finish by the return of the masters. The chief himself, Mr. West, was the first to enter, and his eye was immediately caught by the bread basket, which lay dejected on its side in a little pool of crumbs. He looked suspiciously at it.

"Who threw the basket on the floor?"

Dead silence.

"Come, speak out! Someone must have done it; baskets don't jump off tables by themselves."

After another short silence, one of the young day-pupils, who happened to be standing close beside it, picked up the basket and placed it on the table.

"Did you knock it down, Frere, my boy?" asked Mr. West.

"No, sir. It was one of the boarders; I don't know his name. I think he aimed it at some of us, and it fell on the floor instead."

Frere spoke innocently. He had never been to school before, and it did not occur to him that he was doing any harm by his frankness -- least of all, to himself! The eyes of his friends and enemies alike glared reproachfully at him, but he did not notice them. It was Jack Brady who broke in.

"We threw the basket at them first, sir, and it did hit them!"

"Well, never do it again, Brady. Look what a mess it's made on the floor! And you others, you have been in the school longer; you ought to have known better than to throw it back. You might have broken something."

That was all. But the bitterness between the two camps was not lessened by the incident, and Frere was liked none the better for it.

However, now work began again, and ill-feeling was shelved perforce for the time. The sarcastic Green, for instance, found himself required to read the part of "Nerissa" to Mason's "Portia"; and Hughes was set to sketch Africa on the board in company with Vickers. The boys did not know that Mr. West had given a hint to the masters to mix the new and old element well together.

That opening day was a weary one to the nine town boys, and all but Jack Brady, the "weekly", scampered off with boisterous delight when school was dismissed at four o'clock.

The two chums, Ethelbert Hughes and Lewis Simmons, had been quickly dubbed "Ethel" and "Lucy", and they did not at once appreciate their new names. But Jack Brady, when he found himself hailed indiscriminately as "Apple" and "Grinner", answered and laughed without a trace of resentment. Perhaps that was why neither title stuck to him, while Hughes and Simmons became Ethel and Lucy to everyone, and even at last to each other.

Jack was standing at the window, watching his friends disappear in the direction of the town, and whistling softly to keep up his spirits, when Hallett approached him.

"Hullo, Red-cheeks, they say you're not a day-boy. I think myself that going home once a week is a mistake; however, of course that's a matter of opinion. But why on earth do you stick by those wretched eight whom West has let in to spoil the school?"

"Fellow-feeling!" Jack's smile atoned for the shortness of his reply.

"Nonsense! I can't for the life of me see why you should connect yourself with that lot at all. We've no quarrel with you."

"Nor with the others, for the matter of that," returned Jack, looking straight into Hallett's face.

Hallett moved away with a short grunt, for want of an answer. Then, remembering one, he turned back.

"What about young Frere? What did you think of that?"

"I'd have stopped him if I could. But he didn't mean any harm. To a home-boy it sometimes comes natural to blurt out all you know when you're asked a question."

Hallett shrugged his shoulders.

"You'll make a first-rate pleader one day, Brady. If ever I want defending, I'll engage you."

"Thanks!" said Jack. "You're very kind."



Chapter II

Toppin's Dive


If Mr. Anderson, the junior English master, had not happened to meet some friends as he was on his way to the swimming-bath with the boys, this chapter would not have been written. But they were old friends, and very unexpected, who were only visiting Elmridge for an hour or two. So he acted as I suppose nine out of ten young men would have acted in the same circumstances.

"Look here, boys," he said, running after the nearest group. "Can I trust you to go on quietly to the baths by yourselves? I shall follow you very shortly. You can all have your dip, and dress, and by that time I shall be with you. You won't get into mischief, and play pranks, will you? Promise!"

The four boys he addressed promised readily.

"Right! Green, you're one of the seniors; I put you in charge. See that all goes on just as if I were there. No one stay in the water more than twelve minutes."

"Very well, sir!"

And Mr. Anderson departed with light heart and clear conscience.

It was only a couple of days since the term began, and the very chilling reception accorded to the day-scholars had made friendly advances between the two factions next to impossible. A distant toleration was just now the recognized attitude.

But there were two people who were "not playing the game". One was Jack Brady, who persisted in walking first with one party and then the other, and refused point-blank to be distant towards anyone. The other was the youngest scholar of Brincliffe, one Hugill Trevelyan, commonly known as "Toppin". He was only seven, and did not understand the meaning of a civil war. Toppin had been sent to school with his elder brother Escombe because his parents were abroad.

The March Hare (Massimiliano Graglia, to give him once for all his right name), who was two years Toppin's senior, and therefore better able to quarrel to order without knowing the reason why, had a great affection for him, and, when possible, would take charge of him. Toppin being a very independent young man, however, this was not often possible. More frequently he would patronize the March Hare, and explain to him English words or ways that were puzzling.

It chanced that this afternoon three day-boys, Bacon, Armitage, and Simmons, were in advance of the rest of the school, who were sauntering behind in clusters of threes and fours. Hughes was not with Simmons, being forbidden by his doctor to indulge in swimming at present. Bacon looked back just as Mr. Anderson was turning in the opposite direction with his friends.

"Hullo, what sport!" he exclaimed. "Andy's given us the slip!"

"Be joyful! Let's race for the best boxes!" said Armitage. "We shall be in the water long before the other slow-coaches have reached the baths. One, two, three -- off!"

Now Toppin was one of the group behind, and being naturally fleet of foot, a race was a thing he could not resist. So he took to his heels and pursued them.

Jack Brady and the March Hare were walking with Toppin, and if it had been practicable, the Hare would have accompanied him in the race, but if there was one thing of which the March Hare was incapable, it was running. Jack, who had found this out, checked him from making the attempt.

"Let Toppin go, Harey, and you stay with me," he said. There was a look of satisfaction on his face. It was fine to see even the smallest boarder chevying three day-boys!

Toppin ran his fastest, and panted into the baths only a yard behind Simmons.

"Why, if here isn't the kid! What the dickens has brought you after us, young un?"

"I saw you -- racing," panted Toppin, "and I wanted to see -- if I couldn't -- catch you. And I did!"

His thick red hair was tumbled by the wind, and the odd little tuft which had won him his nickname stuck up very prominently. The small pink face was aglow with triumph, as he stood gasping for breath, and looking up at the three older boys, his hands planted in his pockets and his feet apart.

"You're a boarder," said Armitage, with a touch of contempt.

"I should think I am! Rather!" was Toppin's proud reply.

"Well, you'd better trot back to your friends, and bathe with them. We're not going to wait for anyone."

"Nor aren't I," said Toppin carelessly.

"Come on!" shouted Simmons from a box. "Don't waste time!"

Preparation for a bath is not a long process with a boy. Garments were dragged off and tossed about, and in a minute they were ready, and dancing round the edge of the clear green water.

Avoiding the steps as a matter of course, Toppin was swinging his arms preparatory to jumping into the shallow end, when, seeing Simmons skipping along the plank that led to the diving-board, in the part where the water was marked "5 ft.", he paused to watch. Simmons raised his hands above his head, curved his body, and dived.

"Oo!" cried Toppin admiringly.

Presently a head appeared, rolling round and blowing. Simmons was swimming towards Toppin. Bacon was now preparing to take a header.

"I say, Lucy, you're not a tall chap. No more aren't I. Why can't I swim and dive?"

"It isn't size that's needed, it's talent," observed Simmons, treading water, as he winked at the little fellow.

"Rot!" said Toppin decidedly. There was a loud splash. Bacon had vanished.

"Up he comes again!" cried Toppin, clapping his hands in an ecstasy. "Oh, I'm going to dive to-day. You can see how easy it is. Let me have a shot before the others come, case I fail."

"Better wait a year or two, Top," said Simmons, deliberately turning a somersault.

"I'm bovvered if I do!" cried Toppin, scampering round to the diving-board. He was in a state of great excitement. "I'm going to dive, and turn head over heels, and stamp in the water, just like you."

"Oh, let the nipper see what he can do!" said Armitage, laughing. He was standing on the diving-board. "There's nothing like beginning early. Can you swim, kiddie?"

"Not -- not far," said Toppin cautiously. "I can swim with my arms all right, only I sometimes put one foot on the ground."

"If you don't swim, you'll sink, you know," explained Armitage. "This is deep water."

"Not so very; only five feet," rejoined Toppin. "I'm not funky. Of course I know how to swim. I've watched frogs awfully closely."

"Well, then, up with your hands -- same as you saw the other two."

Toppin lifted them high, the tips of his fingers met in the approved style, and he took a long breath. Then, gradually, his hands fell back to his sides, and the breath ended in a sigh. Armitage pushed the child impatiently aside.

"Get away, you silly little coward! I'm not going to waste my time standing over you. Go back to the shallow end, and dance at the ropes. We'll come over and duck you."

Toppin was quivering, but his face flushed crimson, and, thrusting himself forward once more, he laid a hand pleadingly on Armitage's wrist. At the same moment a clatter on the stone stairs told of the approach of section number two.

"Give us one more chance, Armie, please! I promise not to funk it again. Listen, they're just coming!"

"You'll not do it," said Armitage.

"Won't I, though! Look here! count three, and then give me a tiny push."

As Jack and the March Hare entered the saloon they heard Armitage say, "Very well. One, two, three; now go!"

There was a faint, quickly-checked cry, and then a little splash. Toppin was under the water.

The same instant the March Hare -- hat, boots, and all -- had leapt in, and was fighting his way towards the deep end.

Jack's first impulse was to tear off his coat and follow the Hare's example; but when he saw a little red head appear and immediately be captured, and when he realized that Bacon, Simmons, and Armitage were all swimming to the rescue, he refrained.

Although the March Hare was the first to lay hold of Toppin's crest, the next minute he was himself in need of rescue. The Hare had only advanced to the swimming stage when both hands and feet are absolutely necessary, and the pause to seize his friend had sufficed, when combined with the weight of his garments, to sink him; so Toppin dived for the second time, in company with the March Hare.

"Quick!" yelled Jack, "or there'll be two drowned! Shall I come?"

But the pair had risen again, and were clutched and violently wrenched apart by Armitage and Bacon. For the March Hare's grip of the red locks was very tight.

Bacon found Toppin fairly easy to land, but the Hare, in full walking costume, was quite another matter, and Simmons's help was required. Besides, Toppin kept quiet when commanded to, while the March Hare fought and struggled, and had to have his head thumped severely. Fortunately the steps were not far off, and Jack awaited them there.

He was frightened when he saw that Toppin's familiar little pink face had changed to an ivory-white, and that his eyes were shut. Was he senseless, or worse? Jack grasped the small, dripping body in his arms, and staggered to where the bell hung that summoned the attendant. He pealed it loudly, and sank down beneath it to wait. Other boys had arrived during the incident, and were now pressing round, questioning and jabbering. Jack had nothing to say to them. He was hard at work chafing the motionless form, and his brain was in a whirl. What if Toppin never moved or spoke again!

Suddenly the eyelids lifted: Toppin looked straight into Jack's face.

"May I move now?" he asked innocently. Oh, what a relief it was to hear his voice!

"You young fraud!" exclaimed Jack; but his own voice shook, and he was glad to surrender his charge into the hands of the attendant, a man trained for his position. The March Hare, who was shivering beside him, sobbed with joy when he saw one small leg draw itself up, and an arm move a few inches, at their owner's will.

"Top-peen! Top-peen!" he cried. "You are not died!"

Toppin stared at his friend over a tea-spoon. He was sipping hot spirits-and-water, and wondering what it was. But Jack turned upon the March Hare.

"We shall be standing you head downwards in a minute, Hare. You're next door to drowning yourself. Get up, and come with me!"

The Hare protested feebly, with chattering teeth. But the attendant thrust a spoonful of Toppin's drink between them, and counselled Jack to take him to his wife. That good woman stripped the Hare in a twinkling, wrapped him in a blanket, and set him before her kitchen fire to watch his garments dry. Jack meanwhile returned to the saloon, to find Toppin clothed once more, and curled up on the matting, near the heating apparatus, munching a biscuit.

"How do you feel now, Top?" he asked, stooping to see his face.

"Pretty bobbish, thanks, Brady," was the answer, and it told that Toppin was himself again.

"You'll have to look sharp if you want a dip, Brady," called Green. "Andy'll be round in a minute, I expect."

"Thanks! I'm not bathing to-day," was the response.

Just then Escombe Trevelyan, who was swimming lazily about, landed at the steps close by, and beckoned Jack to come nearer.

"I want to hear the truth of this affair, Brady," he began in a confidential undertone. "Did you see it happen?"

"Which part? I saw the March Hare leap in with his hat on his head and his towel on his arm. He did look properly mad, I can tell you!"

"I mean before that, when Toppin went under."

"They say he actually took a dive from the board, don't they?"

"Yes, but I want to get hold of someone who saw it. I can't understand his being such an absolute little fool, and I can't worry the kid himself about it just at present."

So saying, Escombe swam off once more.

Armitage was the next to approach Jack. He looked rather pale, but began by talking rapidly about a paper-chase that was being planned. Jack knew well enough that this was not what he wanted to talk about, but he walked away from the bath with him, still pleasantly discussing starts and times, till they found themselves alone on the stone stairs. Then Armitage came to a stand-still, and his tone changed.

"Brady, I want to speak to you; I want to explain, you know, about Toppin."

"Oh, I saw you push!" remarked Jack bluntly.

"I'm not going to deny it, but do you know that he begged me to? You came in too late to hear that."

"If I hand you a pistol and ask you to shoot me, will you do it?"

"Don't be a fool, Brady. There was no danger. I shouldn't have let him drown."

"He precious nearly did."

"That was the March Hare's fault. I shouldn't have let him sink again."

"Then you think you were right to push him in, Armitage? I don't. Shall we ask Anderson's opinion?"

"No, Jack, I beg and implore you to keep it dark. Of course I should never do it again. But Simmons and Bacon have sworn not to bring me into the affair. Toppin knows it was his own fault, and is a bit ashamed of it. There's only the March Hare besides yourself. I thought perhaps you might persuade him -- "

A shadow darkened the open entrance. There was a stamping on the door-mat, and then Mr. Anderson appeared on the stairs. Jack advanced to meet him.

"Finished your bath, Brady?"

"Yes, sir. I mean, I haven't had one. All the rest have. I wanted to tell you there's been a little -- a little commotion, sir."

"What on earth do you mean? Not an accident?"

"No, sir; only it might have been. Toppin -- little Trevelyan, that is -- got into the deep end, and the March Hare -- you know the boy I mean, sir -- he thought he was drowning, and jumped in after him with his things on, and so they had to haul them both out. Toppin's as right as a trivet again, and as warm as a toast. And the Hare isn't hurt either, but he has to sit in a blanket and wait for his clothes to dry."

Mr. Anderson looked very agitated, and his voice betrayed his feelings.

"Why couldn't you behave as if I was with you? Really, it is absurd to think that all you elder lads can't manage to keep an eye on the juniors for twenty minutes. Where are these two boys? Take me to them directly! What do you suppose Mr. West will say? He'll certainly be extremely angry with you all. I shouldn't be surprised if he stops your coming here."

"We wondered whether you would feel obliged to tell him, sir," said Jack thoughtfully. "Of course, if you must, you must; but it doesn't seem as if there was much to be gained by it, does there? The March Hare and Toppin have learnt their lesson pretty thoroughly."

Mr. Anderson frowned and bit his finger, and the toe of his boot tap-tapped on the ground. It was evident he was undecided. Presently he looked at Jack.

"You mean that, provided I find these two lads absolutely none the worse for their ducking, you beg me, as a great favour, not to carry a report to Mr. West?"

"Yes, sir," Jack responded briskly.

"Well, I won't promise, but I'll think it over."

Mr. Anderson's thought ended in a decision which he announced to the boys when they were gathered together.

"For once, and once only, I have consented to spare you all from certain punishment by not reporting to Mr. West this accident, which you ought to have prevented. But you must never ask or expect to be shielded by me again. Now we will go for a brisk walk as usual, and call for Graglia and Trevelyan minor on the way back. I dare say they will be ready for us by that time."

Now, none of the boys, except those immediately concerned in the accident, had realized that they were in any danger of punishment; but when the matter was set before them in this light, their gratitude to Mr. Anderson was profound.

"Oh, thank you!"

"Thank you, sir, very much!"

"It sha'n't happen again, sir!"

"Thank you awfully, sir!"

Pleasure and surprise were equally mingled in the boys' expressions. But Jack caught a murmur from Cadbury, very soft and low,

"It's six for us, and half a dozen for yourself, eh, Andy?"



Chapter III

The Chicken And The Bicycle


Mr. West, the master of Brincliffe, was a man of independent mind, and though the boys liked him well enough, there was a difference of opinion regarding his regulations. For example, the same term in which the door was opened to day-pupils, it was shut to hampers, even birthday ones. Cadbury suggested reporting this high-handed act to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children, but decided to let him off when a permission was announced which almost atoned for the loss of cakes and preserves. Bicycles were allowed!

Every boy who had one might bring it to school, although, of course, there were strict limits to its uses, and he who misused the privilege laid himself open to the heavy penalty of leaving it at home the next term. The plan worked well, and gave huge pleasure to the pupils.

With the exception of such small fry as the March Hare and Toppin, nearly every boy managed to possess himself of a machine of some kind. Many were old, one was originally a lady's, and another had a solid tyre, but so long as the wheels would go round nothing mattered. And the wheel must be in a sorry condition indeed which a boy can't work.

The season was still early when the Bicycle Paper-chase was proposed and arranged. It was Jack Brady's suggestion, and every boy to whom it was named jumped at the idea. Mr. West granted permission, provided that a master accompanied them, and Norman Hallett drifted into the post of captain.

It was agreed, after much consultation, that Hallett and Jack should be the hares, that three minutes' start should be allowed, and that everyone who liked to should be a hound. Simmons was to carry the horn and "blow the true trail" whenever it was lighted upon. Half a dozen more were selected to test the side tracks, as there were certain to be plenty of false scents started.

The Saturday fixed for the chase proved a fine one, and the whole pack was assembled outside the school gates at the hour appointed. Mr. Anderson was once more in charge of the party. Little duties like these fell naturally to his lot as the junior master.

One or two youngsters, who had not got machines of their own yet, had begged leave to hire for the afternoon, so it happened that the March Hare and Toppin were the only boarders left behind. Mournfully they swung upon the gate, and watched the pack ride gaily away at the word "Time!" from Mr. Anderson.

"I wish that they should have tooken us, eh, Top-peen?" said the March Hare.

"You ought to say 'took', not 'tooken'," corrected Toppin. He felt rather cross, and disinclined to dwell on the subject of his wrongs.

"Ah, I am -- what is your one word? -- non-grammar-eesh?"

"No, -- stupid," said Toppin.

"Uhéi!" This sorrowfully. Then, drawing nearer, "But no mind! I love you -- oh, yes, I love you a great well, Top-peen! Shall we -- shall we keess?"

Toppin shook his head decidedly, and jumped off the gate in a hurry.

"That's the second time since Sunday you've wanted to kiss, and I've told you over and over again I hate it, I don't like it! I never want to kiss! Now, do you understand?"

The March Hare was sadly afraid he did.

"If you were an English boy you'd never think of asking such a thing," Toppin went on, tramping up and down as he talked. He really did not want to be unkind to the Hare, but requests like this vexed him sorely. "Don't you see, Harey, there are some people who will kiss me, and I can't stop them -- like Miss Turner, f'r instance." Miss Turner was the matron. "And then there are some I've got to kiss, like aunts and people. But one doesn't put in any extra, if one can help it. When I'm grown-up I sha'n't have to kiss anybody, and that'll be jolly. I shall never, never kiss at all, only shake hands or bow, like Escombe does."

"Top-peen, you did keess me once time, last week!" The Hare was timidly reproachful now.

Toppin stood still and coloured.

"Yes, I did. Because you bovvered me to, and -- and you'd jumped in after me!"

"And shallent you -- not ever -- keess me once time more?"

"Oh -- well -- look here! Perhaps when it's your birthday, if we get somewhere quite secret, where nobody can possibly see us, I -- I'll let you have one -- a quick one!"

"T-thanks you!" said the grateful Hare.

"It's 'thanks', or else 'thank you'," corrected Toppin.

The Hare took no notice. He only tucked his arm affectionately into Toppin's, knowing that he was keeping within his rights in doing so. Toppin could say nothing. Arm-in-arm is quite correct and English!

"I have som-ting to say. Zat Armitage -- he did not ought to be gone chasing paper. He is bad! I hate him, don' like him!"

"Why?" enquired Toppin, with wide-open eyes.

"Be-cause he try to drown you. I am -- what is it? -- to re-venge it!"

"What awful rot you talk!" said Toppin. "He only did what I told him, same as you would have done."

"Oh no, he had ver' wickedness. Ever'body say he had. I am telling many -- one after one, by secret! And he is a debboy. Zey are more angry for zat. So much better!"

"Rubbish!" cried Toppin impatiently. "You've no business to tell anyone anything. And you're looking fierce and ugly, Hare. Do put Armitage out of your head, and come and have a see-saw!"

The chase, meanwhile, had opened well. The track was unmistakable to begin with, and it led right away from the town into the free country. The pack of hounds spun gaily along at full tilt, and many a machine was travelling at a pace it had not known for years. Every now and then there was a small collision, ending generally in a tumble; but if anyone was hurt, he kept it to himself, for all remounted and rode on, and nobody waited behind to make enquiries.

Of course there were any amount of false alarms, shouts and shrieks, wavings and ringings, and Simmons's toot-toot sometimes went unheard in the hubbub. Mr. Anderson grew quite boyishly excited, and kept bawling, "Come on, you fellows, come on! Buck up! We'll run them down yet!" And it is probable that Mr. West might have had a word to say had he seen the pace at which the willing hounds obeyed.

After one of the collisions above-mentioned, Grey, who was not a good rider, and happened to be the last of the pack, came upon Cadbury, dismounted, by the roadside.

"What's up?" he cried, as he swayed laboriously past.

"Oh, that you, Grey? Get down, there's a good fellow, and hold my bike a jiffey. I'll tow you up the next hill, if you will. Thanks so much! I had a spill just now, and my handlebar's got slewed round, and I can't keep it straight and right it at the same time."

The spanner had to be hunted out, the screw loosened, and the bar straightened; and thus a little time was occupied.

"Bother it! They're out of sight!" cried Cadbury when both were once more ready to mount. "I suppose we shall see Andy tooling back soon, to whip in the lazy pups! Never mind, I'll keep you company. Don't you burst your wind! We'll take it quietly."

"How they do yell! They've lost the trail," remarked Grey. "Hi! I say, there's paper down this lane; look -- and it has a bit of Green's writing on it. You bet this is the true trail, and that the hares only scooted along the main road a bit farther, on purpose to mislead."

"You may be right. Anyhow, let's try our luck. It's downhill, so we can put on steam. What sport if they all have to turn round, and find we're in front instead of behind! Mind, old chappie, I'm passing on your right ... wait for you ... below!"

The last words came faintly back; Cadbury had passed Grey like a streak of lightning, his feet up, and his hands in his pockets.

There was a turn in the lane farther down, so that Grey for a minute lost sight of his comrade. He looked carefully ahead as he rounded it, to see if the end of the descent were near. The hill only grew steeper, but the end was a good deal nearer than he thought.

A half-grown chicken, startled by his silent approach, sprang out of the hedge and fluttered in front of his wheel, clucking madly. Grey pealed his bell, but it had no effect on the distracted chicken, which seemed bent on destruction. He clutched his brake; it would not work. There came a stifled squawk, and a slight bump!

In affright and agitation, Grey turned his machine into the hedge, and tumbled off, somehow, anyhow, into the road.

Five minutes later, Cadbury was toiling back up the hill in quest of his school-fellow, when he came upon a very unexpected sight. A prostrate bicycle beside a live, but bruised and dusty boy, who was sadly gazing upon the body of a chicken.

"My good Grey! Good gracious! What has happened? How did you manage it?"

"Oh, Cadbury, I'm so glad to see you! Isn't it awful? I wouldn't have run over it for worlds if I could have helped it, but it simply insisted on it!"

"Suicide while temporarily insane," put in Cadbury, covering his mouth with his hand.

"Well, it did look just as if it wanted to die! But what shall I have to fork out, do you suppose? Five bob? I've got no more on me. Say, they aren't likely to prosecute, are they?"

Grey was really frightened. Cadbury looked at the picture again, tried to take it seriously, failed, and burst into a fit of laughter.

"Awfully sorry, Grey, but -- ha, ha, ha! -- what am I to do? You -- ha, ha, ha! -- you do look a treat! I -- ha, ha, ha! -- I'll stop in a minute. Oh, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho!"

Poor Grey felt anything but amused. He gathered himself to his feet, and remarked stiffly, "Well, Cadbury, when you've done -- "

Cadbury steadied himself with an effort.

"It's all over now, Grey. I'm as grave as a judge. And to show you how penitent I am, I'll see this job through for you. But you must obey me to the letter. No, don't brush yourself! Just lie down again as you were, and, however much you're tempted to, don't apologize! Be dignified and injured."

Grey objected, but was persuaded to submit.

"Now to find the owner of this giddy young fowl! We'll see if they lay claim to it here."

Cadbury pushed open a little gate, and knocked at the door of the nearest cottage. It proved to be the residence of the chicken's mistress, an untidy, heavy-looking woman, who apparently lived alone. Cadbury greeted her with the air of a constable, lawyer, and magistrate rolled into one, and the woman listened with deep respect.

"If the fowl of which I am speaking does belong to you," he pursued, in stern and solemn tones, "I am sorry to tell you it has been the cause of a most unfortunate accident that might have proved fatal. I suppose you are well aware that cattle, poultry, and other domestic animals are required to be kept under proper control. If you will kindly step outside with me, I will show you what mischief has been done."

The woman, looking much concerned and a little frightened, followed Cadbury meekly to the scene of disaster. When she saw the lifeless chicken, she raised her hands in horror.

"Dear, dear, dear, sir! Why, it's dead!"

"And it's a very good thing, madam, for you and for all of us, that my friend here is not dead," said Cadbury reprovingly. "The chicken did not die until it had done its best to kill him. And also to wreck his machine! A bicycle is a very costly thing. Grey, my dear fellow, are you feeling a little better? You are sure no bones are broken?"

Cadbury's voice was full of tender anxiety.

"I think not, thanks," responded Grey without moving.

"Dear, dear, dear, sir!" exclaimed the woman again. "Is there anything I can do for you? I'm sure I'm very sorry; I am that!"

"I'm sure you are," said Cadbury, softening towards her. "And we should be most unwilling to take proceedings, or anything like that, if we can only arrange things comfortably."

At mention of the word "proceedings", the woman grew visibly more uncomfortable. She pressed them to enter her cottage, and plied them with plum loaf and unripe gooseberries!

"You see, sir, I'm not so well up as I might be in law matters. Maybe you're right, I won't say. It's hard to keep the chickens from straying, but I'll mind 'em better in future, for their sake and my own too. There's nobody regrets the haccident more'n I do; but I'm a poor woman, and a fine would fall cruel 'eavy on me!"

"I assure you, we wouldn't be hard on you for anything," exclaimed Cadbury, still more kindly.

"You're very good, sir. I don't really 'ardly know what to suggest, but would the chicken be of any service to you now?"

"The chicken! Well, I'm sure we can't refuse that. What say you, Grey?"

"What on earth should we do with it?" muttered Grey.

"Ah, there is one little difficulty, but only a slight one. Would you add the small favour of roasting it for us, ma'am? We have no convenience for cooking it. We should then call the matter settled, and say no more about it."

"Thank you kindly, sir. I'll roast it, and gladly. And where might I bring it to, sir?"

"Oh, my goodness!" ejaculated Grey under his breath. Cadbury considered a moment.

"I think it will be better to leave it to be called for," he said presently. "We shall probably send someone over next Wednesday."

The woman looked mildly surprised at the suggested interval, but only replied, "Very good, sir. Just when you please. It shall be ready. And this is to go no further?"

"Certainly not. I'm sure you have made all the amends in your power, and we are much obliged to you. Good afternoon! Come, Grey, do you feel as if you could make a start? Lean on my arm, and I will help you."

As the woman, grateful and relieved, closed her door, Grey gazed admiringly at his school-fellow.

"Cadbury, what a clever chap you are! I can't think how you worked it. But I say, what about fetching the thing? Who's going to risk that?"

"You are."

"Me! What do you mean?"

"What I say. Aren't you expecting to visit your godmother next Wednesday?"

"Yes; and what's more, I must! She'd write and ask West why I didn't turn up."

"Oh, you'll turn up right enough! But you'll run over here first."

"She lives bang in the opposite direction."

"Never mind. You'll be an hour or so late for once. You must explain that you were -- well, detained! She can make what she likes of that."

"Um! I don't feel over sweet on the job."

"Possibly not; we can't always do what we like. It's your little part in the game. I've done mine for the present. You must hide the chicken away somehow and bring it home, and then I'll have a second innings, and undertake all the risk."

By this time the top of the hill was gained once more. Of course any idea of rejoining the paper-chase had to be given up, but a little brushing and beating made Grey respectable, and he and Cadbury rode home together, to confess to having lost the track, and to await the return of the pack, who, after a capital run, had eventually captured the hares at a most convenient spot -- the door of a lemonade shop!



Chapter IV

A Knock At The Window


By mutual agreement the story of the chicken was kept secret for the present, and the next three days passed uneventfully, except to Jack, whose Sunday at home was no small event, though a weekly one. Lessons were just ended on the following Wednesday morning, and Cadbury was doing monitor's work in the school-room when Grey sidled up to him.

"Hullo, Dapple-grey, you're the culprit I was wanting. These are your things, aren't they?"

"Yes; but I was just going to put them away. You mustn't mark me!"

"You've not forgotten the little call you have to pay this afternoon?"

"I wanted to speak to you about that, Cadbury. It's very difficult for me to do it, you know. What do you say -- supposing we leave that chicken alone? I don't want to go after it. And it's my chicken, you know."

"Half of it," replied Cadbury. "You can leave your half behind if you like, but I want mine. I earned it by getting you out of your scrape. Look here, Grey! Here are five -- six articles belonging to you. I put six marks against your name, and that's half-way to an imp., unless you do your duty towards that chicken."

"Oh, dash it! Well, what have I to do?"

"You can't carve, can you?"

"Don't know. 'Spect so."

"No, I'm sure you can't. It's an art. I can. So that settles it. I must have the fowl first this evening; cut it up, and send on your portion to your bedroom. Let the March Hare fetch it. He's a noiseless customer."

"That won't do," said Grey. "Hallett wouldn't allow it. Since that last pillow-fight, when his bolster knocked a can over and got soaked, he's been awfully down on larks. He's sworn to lick the first boy who opens the door after the gas is out -- and he can do it, you know."

"Very well, I'll send it via the window," said Cadbury coolly. "All the same, I don't think you'll find Hallett's above eating it. When you hear the chicken knock, open the window and let it in -- that's all."

"Oh, yes, it sounds easy enough to you! But supposing I get the chicken, how am I to bring it into the house without being seen? Suppose I meet West in the hall, or Miss Turner on the stairs, or the housemaid in your bedroom? I defy you to hide a roast fowl about you, and I don't care for getting into rows, if you do."

"My dear Grey, we know you don't," said Cadbury. "You're an adept at escaping them. But you needn't fear for this; I have a way out of the hole. I'll drop a line from our window. You come round beneath it on your return, before you enter the house, and tie the chicken firmly to the end of it. Then, when the right time comes, I can haul it up. And look here, don't let's explain to the other chaps how we came by the chicken. Let's make a complete mystery of it for a day or two, and have a lark over it."

That seemed good fun. Grey gradually allowed himself to be persuaded to perform his part of the task. Cadbury, in his turn, made what small preparations seemed necessary. He upset a salt-cellar at dinner, and managed to collect at least half the contents in his handkerchief. He also made a collection of string, chiefly from the smaller boys, who give without asking questions -- or, at least, without demanding answers.

Evening came at length, and with it Grey's return. A wink and a nod was all the communication that passed between him and Cadbury, but it satisfied the latter that the chicken was in the garden, and for once he longed for bed-time. In such a hurry was he when the happy hour arrived, that he forgot to wait for Mr. West's departure, and was half-way upstairs when he was called back with a rebuke for his breach of manners.

In the room over which Escombe Trevelyan was head slept also Cadbury, Vickers, Jack Brady, and Toppin, the last-named being despatched to bed an hour before the rest.

"What's up, Cadburius?" enquired Trevelyan with an amused smile. "Got to catch a train?"

"No, a chicken!" was the reply.

"Poor fellow, his mind's giving way!" said Jack.

"Talking about chickens," broke in Vickers, "I saw the old cat sneaking along just now with what looked for all the world like the leg of a fowl in her mouth. You bet the masters are having a tuck-in to-night."

"Not a bit of it!" exclaimed Cadbury. "Depend upon it, she's been at our chicken. The shameless, thieving beast!"

"At yours, Cad?" This was uttered in chorus.

"At mine -- ours! It's a treat for us all. I was going to wait till lights were out, but I daren't now. The cat'll have the rest if we aren't quick; perhaps she's eaten it already. Keep cave by the door, Jack, while I haul in the line."

Few things really astonish a boy. Cadbury was regarded as capable of anything, and when the sash was cautiously raised, and the string pulled up, the fact that a real roast chicken, half-wrapped in newspaper, dangled at the end, caused more amusement than amazement.

"Well, I'm blowed! Where did this grow?"

"I shall drop a line to-morrow -- two lines -- and see what comes up."

"It'll be the old cat, likely."

"Hush! I must stow this away till Pepper's been round," said Cadbury, hastily stuffing the bird into his own bed.

There was not long to wait; Mr. Peace appeared almost before they were ready for him. Mr. Peace was the senior resident master, whose short temper had won for him the above nickname. His back was scarcely turned, the boys were still responding cordially to his rather gruff "Good-night", when Cadbury drew the chicken forth and waved it triumphantly in his hand. Trevelyan, who was next the window, pulled the blind up silently. It was a brilliant moonlight night, so that gas was unneeded.

"The cat has had her full share," Cadbury remarked sadly. "But never mind. Half the chicken belongs to Gr -- , to the next room, I mean, and as I've got the trouble of carving, I shall give them the Pussy-half. It'll be all right, they won't know; they'll only think I cut it rather roughly."

"And our reluctance to share supper with the cat is purely a matter of sentiment," added Vickers. "'Where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise.'"

"There goes Chickabiddy!" exclaimed Jack, as the fowl suddenly sprang from Cadbury's bed into the middle of the floor. He hopped out and recaptured it.

"Thanks! Well, it's no easy job, I do assure you, to divide a fowl on a bed, with no plate, no fork, and only a penknife. I can carve well enough under civilized conditions, but -- "

"Tell us how you came by it, old man," said Jack, who was trying to decide in his own mind whether he should consent or refuse to join the feast. He liked chicken very much indeed, and what would they think if he declined it! Besides, there was no rule against eating chicken in the bedrooms. True, there was something about "No eatables to be taken upstairs". But then the chicken had not been taken upstairs; it had come by a lift. Still, Jack could not quite quiet the little voice within.

"No, I won't shock you with details," replied Cadbury mischievously. "Perhaps you wouldn't eat it if I did."

"I'm not going to anyhow, thanks very much," returned Jack with sudden determination. "There'll be all the more for the rest of you, won't there?"

"Don't talk nonsense!" exclaimed Trevelyan. "Of course you'll have some! If I think fit to eat it, you may. Don't play the blameless prig, for goodness' sake!"

"Brady thinks I've filched it," said Cadbury.

"Brady doesn't want a nightmare," rejoined Jack, laughing, "though he thinks it awfully kind of Trevelyan to answer for his conscience."

"You won't refuse the merry-thought -- just for luck, Jack!"

"I have too many of my own generally, specially at Pepper's classes."

"Oh, pinch Brady, somebody! He's punning!" cried Cadbury. "There! it's come in two at last!" and he surveyed his handiwork with great pride. "Now to send along the next room's share!"

Wrapping it in the torn newspaper, he tied it to the string once more, opened the window very gently, and after several unsuccessful efforts whirled it thump against the adjoining window, and waited till a pull at the line showed that it was received.

After a few minutes there came a faint whip at their own window-pane, and Trevelyan took in a scrap of paper weighted with a bull's-eye. Seeing there was some writing on it, he struck a match, and read:

You've bagged the biggest half.

Send us some salt.

Please return bull's-eye.

Where's our leg?

In answer Cadbury screwed up a pinch of salt, and scribbled on the paper:

Ask the cat.

Mind you don't leave your bones about.

Needless to say, the bull's-eye was not returned.

The packet was tossed on to the neighbouring sill, and then they settled down to enjoy their meal in peace. It was well that there was not overmuch light, for they could not consume it elegantly. As a matter of fact, they gnawed it in an ogreish fashion, and in such haste that they could scarcely stop to plunge their bones into the salt for a flavouring.

"I suppose you're quite sure this is chicken, Cadbury?" said Vickers presently.

"Quite. Why do you ask?" mumbled Cadbury.

"It struck me as being rather -- well, a trifle gamy, nothing more."

"Pretend it's pheasant, then," said Cadbury.

"Mayn't I have a little bit?"

The sleepy voice came from Toppin's bed.

"Certainly not," replied his elder brother promptly. "Chicken at night is bad for little boys -- high chicken especially. Tuck your head in, and don't let me hear you speak again, or I'll come to you with a slipper."

Toppin was kept in very strict order by his brother, and the boys, who were used to his methods, made no remark.

Suddenly, in the midst of the cracking and munching, Jack exclaimed in a whisper, "Cave! I hear feet!"

In an instant all the chicken-bones, salt, paper, and penknives were swooped off the counterpanes, and every boy lay flat and shut his eyes.

That same moment, to their untold vexation, a merry peal of laughter rang out from the next room. And the approaching tread of a man's feet, quick and regular, was heard by all.

"The daft maniacs!" growled Trevelyan between his teeth.

Their door was first opened, and Mr. Peace walked in. Of course, he was received with dead silence.

"Now, boys, you needn't feign sleep, because we know you're wide awake. You've been talking, too. Trevelyan!"

"Yes, sir."

"You are head of this room; what's the blind up for?"

"We -- we like to see the stars," suggested Trevelyan.

"H'mph! Was it you who laughed just now?"

"Oh no, sir. My brother woke up a few minutes ago, and I advised him to go to sleep."

Nothing could have sounded more innocent, and perhaps Mr. Peace would have moved on without saying any more, but that, even as he turned to go, there came a little crash at the window-pane.

The boys held their breath in suspense. Trevelyan bit his lip till the blood oozed, and Cadbury covered his face with his hands. Even Jack trembled. Only Vickers lay apparently unconcerned.

"I suppose that was a poor bird dashed itself against the window," he murmured.

"Do you, Vickers? I don't," replied Mr. Peace, striding forward. "Ah, your poor bird has cracked the glass, my boy! I will invite Mr. West to come to your window to-morrow to see a star of another kind."

So saying, the master threw up the sash and laid his hand on a small parcel roughly wrapped and tied with string. It did not escape his notice that the string had an unusually long end, which seemed to be attached to something until he wrested it away. The boys felt more uncomfortable every moment.

Keeping the parcel in his hand, Mr. Peace shut the window very deliberately, drew down the blind, and lit the gas. Then he turned the packet over. Scrawled upon it in large printed letters were these words:

Bury Our Bones With Yours.

Mr. Peace read them out slowly, with a pause between each. Having done so, he looked round at the inmates of the room, surveying them one by one. Then he stooped to inspect Trevelyan's counterpane. At last he opened the parcel, and found what the boys knew only too surely he would find -- a handful of well-picked chicken bones. It was a trying moment.

"And where are your bones?" he asked presently. There was an awkward hesitation; then Cadbury, seeing there was no escape, replied meekly, "Under our pillows, sir."

"How horrible!" ejaculated the master with a shudder. He walked to a washhand-stand and selected a large sponge-dish. Depositing in it the greasy parcel he was carrying, he handed it gravely to Trevelyan.

"Put all your bones -- your chicken bones -- in this, please!" he said.

Trevelyan obeyed, and passed it to Vickers, and so the collection went the round of the room, only passing over Toppin, who was asleep, with his arm tossed above his head. Mr. Peace handed the dish to Jack, but he shook his head:

"Haven't got any, sir."

"Who cooked it?" enquired the master.

"I don't know, sir," answered Trevelyan.

"Brady?"

"Nor do I, sir."

"Vickers?"

"Honestly, I haven't the dimmest notion, sir, though it sounds funny to say so."

"I'm glad you can see the fun. I'm sorry to say it sounds to me too much like lying."

"Sir!" Escombe Trevelyan sat up in bed with flashing eyes to emphasize his indignation.

Mr. Peace turned to him, and stamped his foot angrily.

"Lie down, Trevelyan, at once! You dare to speak to me like that! Cadbury, you're the only one I haven't asked. Who cooked this fowl?"

"A woman, sir. I -- don't know her name."

"All right! We'll reserve further enquiries till the morning. If you take my advice, you'll all make up your minds to speak the truth then."

Having delivered this cutting speech, Mr. Peace left the bedroom with the bones.



Chapter V

The Storm Breaks


Ten of the Brincliffe boys passed a very bad night. The nightmare, at which Jack had jokingly hinted, was unpleasantly real; there was no dispelling it. Everybody knew that everybody around him was wide awake, but nobody felt inclined to speak.

By and by the daylight came, and brought a little more courage with it.

"After all, I don't care two straws!" exclaimed Cadbury abruptly.

"Who do you suppose does?" said Trevelyan.

Vickers raised himself on his elbow.

"I suggest, Cadbury, that you give us no more information than you have done (which is practically nothing) regarding the source of the supper."

"It should have been bread-sauce," put in Cadbury.

"This isn't the time for puns," said Vickers severely. "I was going to add that in our ignorance lies our only chance of safety. There is certain to be trouble over this affair, and there are three or four points about it which seem to aggravate our case. You see, first" -- bringing his fingers into action -- "it was Pepper who caught us, and he's a Tartar at all times. Would that it had been Andy! Second, West may take it as a reflection on his table. Third -- "

"Would you mind going on talking for an hour or two, Vick?" interrupted Cadbury in a drowsy voice. "I find it very helpful and soothing. Of course, if you could sing the words it would be a still more perfect lullaby."

Vickers, mistaking the voice for Jack's, flung a sponge at the wrong head, and relapsed into silence. Jack, roused at this injustice, dipped the sponge into his water-jug, and returned it with force. Vickers ducked, and it exploded against the wall above his head. Cadbury watched and chuckled. The shadow cast by coming events had not quite overwhelmed the boys' spirits.

When they were called, the boot-boy laid a book on Cadbury's bed as he passed. The inside of the cover was found to contain the following words in Grey's handwriting: -- 

Dear C., -- For pity's sake, dress quick, and meet me 5' before the bell in the housemaid's cupboard. There's standing-room. -- E. G.

Now, though they had been thrown together in the chicken incident, Cadbury and Grey were not bosom friends, and Cadbury did not feel particularly eager for this interview. But he good-naturedly did as he was asked, and sneaked out of his room five minutes before the bell had rung which formally permitted the boys to leave.

He found Grey already awaiting him in the chosen rendezvous among brooms, dusters, and pails. It is true there was standing-room, but it was dangerous to move. As the cupboard door opened to admit him, it let in enough light to reveal Grey's white, frightened face, and as he pulled Cadbury inside the latter noticed the clammy "frogginess" of his hands. He drew the door to very carefully.

"Good-morning!" said Cadbury. "This is a pleasant spot to meet in. So romantic!"

"Cadbury, how can you joke, when it's all up with us?" Grey's voice was quite hoarse.

"What's the good of looking forward? Seize the flying moment, and suck honey while you may. That's my motto."

"But you think with me; it is all up with us?"

"I'm afraid that's about the long and the short of it. Pepper was very hot and red last night, -- regular Cayenne, in fact; and I have noticed that Cayenne at night spells Cane in the morning."

"Cadbury, please stop making fun! I -- can't bear it. You don't care, but I do. I haven't slept a wink all night."

"Pick up your spirit, then, and pocket your fears. I'll stand by you, and take my full share. We'll brace ourselves together and face the music."

"Oh no, I can't! I can't! I'm younger than you. I never asked the woman for the chicken, and I begged you to let me off fetching it. You can call me a coward if you like; I don't care! I am afraid!"

There was silence for a moment, and then Cadbury spoke, but in an altered voice.

"Do you mean to say that you want me to leave your name out entirely?"

"Y -- yes. If I get in a row it'll be mentioned in my report, and I shall catch it at home. I don't believe you feel things like I do. And it was all your doing, wasn't it?"

"Mostly. Very well, I sha'n't mention you, Grey."

And with that Cadbury marched out of the housemaid's cupboard with his hands in his pockets.

Prayers were followed by early prep., and early prep., by breakfast, without a word on the subject uppermost in the minds of so many. The day-boys arrived, and saw at once that something was up, though what they could not make out. But at ten minutes to nine Mr. Peace entered the room with an excited air, and announced that all the boys were to stand together as at drill. Mr. West wished to speak to them.

The head appeared almost immediately, and ordered the occupants of the two rooms, headed by Hallett and Trevelyan, to stand in front.

He began with a short, studied preface about "an unpleasant duty" and "flagrant breach of rules"; then gave a brief résumé of what had taken place, and proceeded to personal enquiries.

"Where did the chicken come from? Who brought it into the house?"

Cadbury stood forward.

"So you are responsible for this, Cadbury? Anyone else?"

"No, sir."

"How did you obtain possession of the chicken?"

"It -- got run over -- and killed -- in bicycling. I mean, I was bicycling."

"Did you steal it, then, or buy it?"

"The woman it belonged to gave it to me, sir."

"After you'd run over it?"

"After it was dead, sir."

"And who cooked it?"

"She did, sir."

"Cadbury, Cadbury! how dare you put forward such a story as this? I can't believe a word of it."

"It's true, sir."

"True! that after you had killed a chicken, the owner not only presented you with it, but undertook to cook it for you?"

"Yes, sir."

Mr. West's only comment on this affirmation was a deep sigh.

Further examination failed to make Cadbury contradict himself; but to certain enquiries he politely declined to furnish an answer.

"Was any boy with you at the time who can bear witness to your story?

"Will you give me this woman's address, that I may send for her?

"How did you manage to get the chicken after it was cooked?"

Such questions as these drew forth nothing.

At length Mr. West, without expressing any opinion, passed on to the subject of the cracked window, but he could not persuade any of Hallett's room to own to the accident. He threatened, he even entreated, -- in vain. The clock ticked on; it was a quarter past nine, and everyone was very tired of standing, when the enquiry was brought to an end, and sentence pronounced.

Green and another boy named Buckland were complimented on having "wisely and most properly" kept themselves and their respective rooms entirely outside the affair. Cadbury, on his own confession -- "an extraordinary, and, I am bound to say, improbable tale" -- was to suffer first and worst, and had the doubtful distinction of accompanying Mr. West there and then to his study. Next, the inmates of Hallett's and Trevelyan's rooms were doomed to forego supper for three days, Hallett's room being sentenced in addition to pay for the mending of the cracked pane. Lastly, and this was the part of the sentence that roused the whole school, all -- boarders and day-boys alike -- were to forfeit the next half-holiday.

The day-boys looked so exceedingly blank at the news that Mr. West added that he included them because, "as long as I can obtain no full confession, I am compelled to regard you, with all your opportunities and freedom, as being as much under suspicion as the rest". He wound up by observing that no doubt it was "the old, hard case of the many suffering for the few", but this did not afford much consolation to his aggrieved pupils.

Of course there was nothing to be said at the time, but as soon as they were alone they fell into clusters, and gave vent to their opinions by storming at one another.

"Abominable!"

"Beastly unfair!"

"The meanest thing I ever heard!"

These were the kind of expressions that floated about the room.

But one small group, of which Hallett was the principal member, instead of reviling the head-master, was expending its wrath upon a fellow-boy.

"The cowardly young toad! Had to do with it, you say? I should think he had, indeed! A good deal more than we've any idea of."

"Well, we know he did the window."

"We do, and he shall have the pleasure of paying for that. He shall, if it empties his cash-box for a year following. Those members of the room who yearn to subscribe may do so."

"He was on the outlook for the chicken, you remember. Of course he must have known all about it. Cadbury can confirm that."

"Can, but you don't know Cadbury if you think he will. What I say is, ask the young sneak himself. Put it to him straight, and let's see that we get the truth. Why, we should never have lost our half if he had owned up with Cadbury."

"And it's so jolly rough on Cadbury too! Why should one be licked and not the other?"

"Oh, we'll see to the other if necessary. But let's hear what he says for himself. By the way, where is he?"

Where indeed? A careful search revealed the hapless Grey huddled up in the book-room, terrified and miserable.

"Here he is! Hoping to be taken for the Treasury of Knowledge," cried his discoverer, and straightway dragged him into the light. There was a rush to the book-room.

Grey was put to the question, failed to clear himself, found guilty -- and licked.

Jack Brady was the centre of another group, which seemed inclined to be angry with him.

"Brady's no business to have his supper stopped," said Trevelyan. "He never touched a morsel of that wretched fowl."

"He ought to have told West so."

"Such nonsense!" exclaimed Jack. "I could have eaten some if I'd wanted to. Now, Toppin's case is different. He wasn't allowed to have any. I vote we sign a petition in favour of him. It will really be hard cheese if he's made to suffer."

"Toppin, here!"

The boy was chanting over his spelling, but he hopped up promptly at his elder brother's call.

"They say they are going to get up a petition to have you let off the sentence for our room, because you didn't eat any chicken."

"Oh, I'd hate to be let off!" exclaimed Toppin. "I know it's because I'm little, and I want to be treated as if I was big like the rest. I'd heaps rather! 'Sides, I would have eaten some chicken if you'd have let me, so it's same as if I had done, isn't it?"

"You hear, Brady?" said Trevelyan with a laugh. "A nice pair of lawyers you'd make! Two exactly contrary arguments are used to persuade us of the very same fact."

"Well, it comes to this, that we want all to share and share alike. Isn't that it, Top?"

Jack tweaked the defiant tuft as he put the question, and Toppin laughed up at him and nodded.

The most unfortunate effect of the whole incident was the bitterness which it revived in the day-scholars. It had almost seemed as if time was breaking down the wall of enmity which was so strong at the beginning. But today's work strengthened it still further. The day-boys had congregated together, and were speaking their minds in tones that were the more seriously angry because they were subdued.

"This is what they wanted, to bring us into trouble; and a lot they care that they're in the same boat!" The theory was Bacon's, and he announced it with confidence.

"It's the spirit of the thing one kicks at -- the spite, the injustice! Not the loss of the half!" declaimed Mason with warmth.

"Let's pay 'em out!" said Simmons.

"How, Lew?" Hughes put the question, but all waited eagerly for the answer.

Simmons might be small, but he was brimful of bright ideas.

"Fight," he replied. "We're much fewer, but it would be mostly a matter of siege and stratagem, and if we planned it out, I bet we could give them a wipe-down."

"I mayn't fight," said Frere sadly. "They won't allow me to."

"And I'm awfully afraid I can't," added Hughes.

"What's more, you sha'n't, Ethel!" said Simmons, who was amusingly careful of his friend's health. "There'll be lots of quiet work for you and Frere -- scouting and so forth."

"I'm nuts on fighting," put in Armitage.

"As for me, I'm spoiling for the fray," laughed Mason, exhibiting the muscle of his arm with great pride.

"Oh, well, it will teach them to respect us anyway. And that will be something gained," said Simmons. "Mason, will you captain us?"

"Not much! No, I'll do my duty as a lieutenant, but I am no commander. Nor are you. You're too little."

"Napoleon -- Nelson!" muttered Simmons. He would have liked the offer of the post, and his size was a sore point with him.

"Jack Brady must be captain," said Bacon firmly, and all agreed with him.

"However could we have forgotten him?" exclaimed Hughes.

"He's the right man, if he'll consent," remarked Mason. "But I wish I felt sure about that."

"Well, I see at the present moment he's hobnobbing with the enemy," said Hughes doubtfully.

"Oh, but he's really one of us, he has been all along," cried Simmons. "Here, Brady, you're wanted."

"At your service," said Jack merrily, and, breaking off his conversation with Trevelyan and Vickers, he joined the group of day-boys.

"Brady, have you heard that they've dragged us into this row? That our half's stopped along with the boarders'? Though none of us ever saw or tasted so much as a drum-stick!"

"None of you? Ever?" put in Jack. "That's a big order, Piggy-wig."

"You know what I mean," rejoined Bacon. "They might have had a swan or a peacock for all we knew about it."

"But, my dear fellow, it's West you must blame. No one mentioned you."

"No, but not one of them had the honesty to stand out and clear us -- to assure him we'd nothing to do with it," said Mason. "Instead of that they are careful to turn it into a mystery, on purpose that we may all be suspected."

"Well, well, it's only just a single half that's lost. It'll soon be over and forgotten."

"Will it?" cried Simmons indignantly. "I fancy it will be remembered longer than you think by some. We mean to pay them in full for their mean spite. We're going to unite and fight."

"Oh, challenge them to a cricket match instead! I'll play for you. Think how much more sportive that will be! Not to say, sensible."

"Come, Brady, we're not babies. We mean to make them sorry by force."

"Take care you're not made sorry by force, Lucy!"

"Oh, never fear! The masters won't know anything at all about it if we can help it. We shall pick our opportunity. But look here, Brady, you've got to captain us!"

"Bothered if I do!" said Jack.

"Very well, don't! Go over to the boarders instead, as you want to, and repeat everything we've told you." Bacon spoke angrily.

"Piggy-wig, don't be a fool! If you want me to quarrel either with your set or with the other chaps, I say I won't, and that's flat! You must take me as you find me, and if you're all bent on fighting and making geese of yourselves, I shall just stay as I am -- once for all -- Jack of Both Sides."



Chapter VI

The March Hare's Revenge


Cling, clang -- creak! Cling, clang -- creak! So the discordant bell sounded forth in the playground, the interval between the strokes being filled by a harsh, rusty squeak that set one's teeth on edge. The message it bore to the boys was, "Come in -- quick! Come in -- quick!" For the time was ten minutes to nine, and the day that following the incident which was already known as the Chicken Row.

The monitors this week were Brady, Bacon, and Armitage, and they had already gone in to their duties. The old bell always went on ringing for two minutes, and the boys were in the habit of waiting until it was on the point of ceasing, when they obeyed it with a rush.

But on this particular morning the day-scholars seemed, for some reason best known to themselves, one and all consumed with zeal for their studies. At the first preparatory creak they made a simultaneous dash for the entrance, which caused much mirth amongst the boarders.

Cadbury waved his arm in their direction, and turned up his eyes with an air of mock tragedy, while he spouted with rolling "r's":

"How fair a sight it is to see Youth lay aside its giddy glee, Athirst for learning's boundless sea! How different from you and me!"

"My dear boys," said Vickers, with pretended solemnity, "I require obedience in you, but I desire something more -- something which you can give, but I cannot command. That something is cheerful obedience -- ready obedience -- obedience that hurries gladly at the call of duty. And now that you see a pattern of such obedience, you might do worse than copy it."

His imitation of Mr. West's emphatic voice and rather studied manner was so true to life that it was greeted with a roar of laughter, and for once Vickers had the gratification of seeing his wit appreciated. The very phrase, "you might do worse", was a favourite with the head-master, and one which the boys had long ago selected for mimicry.

But now there came the faint, irregular stroke that foretold the stopping of the bell, and the boys moved quickly towards the entrance, and began to jostle one another in their haste. On reaching the door, however, much fumbling and kicking began.

"Hi, you in front there! Look sharp and go in! We're waiting!" cried Hallett in a voice of angry authority, and pushing commenced in the rear.

"It's no good pushing; it's stuck!" was holloaed back, and the kicking and banging increased in vigour.

"What nonsense! Let me come! It must be opened! Won't Pepper wire into us in a minute!"

Green elbowed his way to the front, and turned the handle violently. Only once, and then he faced round with the exclamation, "You fools! It's locked!"

At which news much breath and a little time were wasted in furious threats towards those by whom they had been tricked.

"Won't they pay for this!"

"West shall hear if they don't let us in sharp."

"I'll knock their heads together when I do get in!"

"The impudent beggars! We'll give them such a lesson!"

But within all was glee and triumph. Simmons and Bacon fairly danced with malicious satisfaction, whilst Armitage and Mason chuckled grimly.

"What'll they do? Go round to the front?"

"They'll catch it if they do."

"We shall too if the joke once reaches West," said Jack. "Don't you think you might wind up the trick now, and let them in?"

"All in good time," said Mason coolly. The banging at the entrance grew terrific, and though separated from the first class-room by a long passage, he had to raise his voice to be heard above it. "Let's be quite sure that we're ready for them. You -- Bacon and Armitage -- have you done your job?"

"Yes, properly."

"We ought to, for we've been at it nearly half an hour."

"And you others -- Brady, Ethel, Lucy, et cetera -- you've all got your books ready?"

"Ay, ay, sir," laughed Simmons.

"What was your job, Armie?" asked Jack. He had been engrossed in inking new slates.

Armitage smothered a laugh.

"Muddling, Jack, my boy, muddling! And a truly artistic muddle have we made. It's been a game of 'General Post' with the books. The dictionaries have taken the atlases' place, the Greek grammars have deposed the Latins, and -- "

"Hist!" interrupted Jack. "I smell Pepper! We must whistle to Ethel." And without waiting for permission he did so.

"Ethel" was posted down the long passage by the school entrance, with instructions to turn the key back when he heard the signal. The sound of unlocking was drowned in the hubbub without, and, turning, he fled noiselessly up the passage and into the school-room, at the identical moment in which two others made their appearance there -- namely Mr. Peace, through the opposite door, and Norman Hallett outside the window!

"Now, then, where is everybody?" cried the fussy little master, seeing less than a dozen boys assembled for work. Then his eye fell on Hallett's pale, angry face peering through the glass. "Why, Hallett outside? What's the meaning of this? What's the meaning of this?"

"Do you think perhaps they didn't hear the bell, sir?" suggested Simmons. "They've been making rather a noise outside."

Mr. Peace was not deceived by the boy's demureness.

"You want your ears boxed, you rogue!" he began; but at that moment in surged a torrent of rather frightened, very wrathful boys, who had been unprofitably spending the last half-minute in striving with penknives to force the lock of the already unfastened door.

However, the rudiments of school honour forbade their furnishing the master with an account of the occurrence, and they had to content themselves with breathing dark threats to those day-boys who crossed their path in the frantic rush to the book-room.

At sight of that rush a few of the milder spirits, such as Hughes and Frere, held their breath in dreadful foreboding, while the unconscious Mr. Peace roared:

"Now, then, how long do you mean to stay in there? The clock's on the strike. I mark every boy who isn't in his place when it stops! Do you hear me? Do you hear me, I say?"

"No," responded Cadbury, without thinking. Then, poking his head out, "What are we to do, sir, please? We can't find our books. Everything is changed. It's worse than a spring cleaning. Won't you look and see, sir?"

Before the invitation could be answered, there was an impatient knock of authority in the school-room -- a rap of knuckles upon a desk -- and everyone knew what that meant. Mr. West had entered, and was being kept waiting.

With what books they had managed to grab -- some the right ones, many the wrong -- the boarders slunk red-faced to their places, there to realize their luck, and perchance to discover their mistakes. Cadbury had no book at all. Green found himself hugging Toppin's Little Reader instead of Elementary Physics; and Hallett might make what use he could of the March Hare's English Conversation when he came to open it.

The pages of the masters' registers fairly bristled with black marks that unhappy morning. Grey was for bringing the enemy to book, and reporting his evil devices, but his elders quashed the proposal.

"You silly duffer! As if we couldn't deal with them ourselves. Wait till lunch. There's a rod in pickle for them, and they know it."

Yes, the day-boys had a suspicion that there was a lively time approaching, but so set-up were they by their recent victory that they quite looked forward to it.

Jack was less happy. He read the resolve in the boarders' faces, and knew that they saw no joke in that morning's events. And he wondered where the war would end. It seemed the final upset of all those little efforts towards harmony and good-temper to which he had given himself from the hour of his arrival at Brincliffe.

Among the junior scholars sat a dark-complexioned boy with very white teeth. It was the March Hare. To-day there was a queer gleam in his eyes, and a flush of carmine in his sallow cheeks. His English Conversation was not to be found when wanted, and the fact called down upon him a sharp rebuke from a master, but his face expressed no regret.

"There must have been a ringleader in this," remarked another boarder in his hearing during a momentary absence of the master. "I wish to goodness we knew who it was!"

"A reng-lidder?" repeated the March Hare. "I don' know zat word. But if you mean ze boy who done ze much most -- ze baddest of all ze bads -- ah, I know him! Yes, I mark him long, long time. An' I wait."

"What d'ye mean, Harey? Who is it?"

"Nev-er mat-ter," said the March Hare mysteriously; and at that point Mr. Anderson re-entered the room.

On went the hands of the clock. At one minute to eleven all was peaceful and orderly. At eleven the masters departed for the usual brief interval. At one minute past eleven all was war and tumult!

How, where, with whom the conflict commenced it is impossible to say. There was no warning, no formal outbreak -- only in a moment the quiet room became a battle-field, filled with a seething crowd of furious, struggling lads.

An odd feature of the battle was its comparative silence. It was to everyone's interest to avoid attracting attention, and the sound of blows was louder than the sound of voices.

Here, Bacon was felled by Trevelyan; there, Vickers by Mason. The result was the same in either case. The fallen arose undaunted and without a word; only a look of keener determination settled on each face.

There was scarcely time for rallying, but, as far as was possible, the day-boys closed in together to resist the attack of their more numerous foes. Hughes and poor Frere both found themselves forced into battle, willy-nilly. Jack, whose natural instinct was to side with the weaker party, found neutrality impossible, and the part he had chosen very hard. The day-boys were prepared for his vagaries, but the boarders were perplexed and bewildered by his conduct. Was he partisan or traitor? One moment they saw him pressing his handkerchief to Green's bleeding nose; the next he was forcing a way for plucky Simmons to reach his friends: now he must needs shut Toppin up in the book-room for safety -- against his will, of course; then he was heard imparting to the tearful Frere a few hints on self-defence.

Very soon there was no doubt in which direction the tide of victory was flowing. Numbers began to tell, and the day-boys were being forced steadily backwards towards the wall, away from the class-rooms, where they had hoped, if necessary, to be able to entrench themselves.

A foolish idea of making use of the long table suggested itself to Mason. A tug and a shove, and they had pulled it round to shield them.

"You lunatics! You're giving them twenty fresh chances at once!" cried Jack desperately. "They can squeeze you into surrendering directly!"

"I believe he's right!" muttered Bacon, and they strove to get free again.

But it was not easy to rid themselves of the table when once they were ranked behind it. The boarders saw their opportunity, and a last fierce combat began.

Something -- Jack never knew what it was -- suddenly impelled him to dive under the table.

"Oh, Jack, we don't fight underground!" exclaimed Cadbury mockingly; but Jack paid no heed.

Cadbury was wrong; there was a very definite attack being made beneath cover of the table, where it was least suspected. An attack, too, of a kind that would have been thought impossible.

It was very dark under there, but Jack was at once certain that he was not the only hider from the light. A small, lithe figure was wriggling along the floor in front of him, passing one pair of legs after another, but scanning each in turn.

Jack's hand was almost upon it. The words "This isn't fair play!" were bursting from his lips, when the figure ceased to crawl. It was opposite a pair of ribbed brown stockings clothing two sturdy legs, when it stopped, and drew something forth from somewhere about its person.

At sight of this, a chill of horror seemed to freeze Jack, and for the moment he was struck dumb. Stiffly he put forward a hand which seized, as in a grip of iron, the thin right arm of the figure before him. It was the arm of the March Hare, and in its hand was an open penknife.

The sudden clutch was wholly unexpected, and the knife dropped. With his other hand Jack picked it up. As he did so, the March Hare uttered a cry. It was neither loud nor long, but there was something so startling in it that the commotion of the fight ceased suddenly, and in the midst of a strange stillness Jack emerged, dragging his captive by one hand, and holding the open penknife in the other.

If a white flag had been raised, the battle could not have ended more abruptly. For a few seconds nothing was heard but quick, short breaths on all sides. Presently Hallett's voice, hoarse and low, asked:

"What does it mean, Brady?"

Jack, white to the lips, pointed from the Hare to Armitage, then to the spot where he had found him. The Hare was shivering and sobbing.

"Hallett -- I hear you say knifes -- war wiz knifes! I on'y go to ze Toppeen-drowner. I not wasn' going to hurt -- on'y to preeck! I never hol' knife no more! I promise! I swear!" -- here he crossed himself rapidly -- "I promise 'gain! I -- "

But at this point the English language failed the Hare, who sank upon his knees, wringing his hands and gesticulating wildly, as he gabbled, nobody knew what, in Italian.

Hallett, meanwhile, was looking grave and stern as the boys had never seen him. There was not a trace of the fiery tyrant they knew so well. He was face to face with a hard duty, and it awed him.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, "but this is too serious to be covered up. I have no choice. I must take you straight to the head. Brady, hand me over the penknife! Or bring it along, and come too!"

Jack shook his head as he passed the knife, and Norman Hallett and Massimiliano Graglia left the room in company. Two masters returning met the pair, but Hallett's face wore an expression which forbade questions.

When presently he re-entered the school-room, it was alone.

And for the space of a week the March Hare was unseen by his school-fellows.



Chapter VII

Hannah The Housemaid


There was an end of open strife among the Brincliffe boys. The sight of that little glittering blade had brought them up short with an unpleasant shock. They stood astounded for a minute, making no attempt to remove the traces of the conflict, even when they heard the sound of the masters' approach. They stood convicted, all together; their disordered dress, collars unfastened and rumpled hair, the untasted luncheon, the confusion of the furniture, all told most graphically the tale of a quarrel.

Silent and ashamed they slunk back into their places when the head-master at last returned to the school-room. But, to the universal surprise, he only addressed a few short, grave sentences to them on the subject, and announced that henceforth a master would have charge of the room during the luncheon interval.

"Hitherto, boys, I have allowed you considerable liberty, regarding you, though young, as civilized and Christian gentlemen. You have shown me I was mistaken. Therefore I must treat you differently until I see you become what I hoped you already were. You might do worse than strive to attain to this. To your classes, if you please!"

"Does anyone know where Trevelyan minor is?" enquired Mr. Anderson presently, looking into the mathematical class-room.

Jack sprang from his seat.

"Yes, I know! Please, sir," turning to his master, "will you excuse me?"

"No need for you to come, Brady," interposed Mr. Anderson; "tell me where he is, that's all."

Jack hesitated; then, putting his hand in his pocket, drew out a key.

"He's in the book-room, sir. And it's locked."

Now, as the book-room opened out of the school-room, in which Mr. West was teaching, it was impossible that the door could be unlocked, and Toppin released, without the fact becoming known to him. He looked up at sound of the key, and the sight of the small, red-haired urchin, seated disconsolately on a globe within, and swinging his short legs, evoked a question.

"What has that lad been doing, Mr. Anderson? Did you lock him up?"

"No, sir; it was Brady."

"Indeed? And what business had he to take the law into his hands? What were you locked up for, Trevelyan?"

Poor Toppin was feeling very sorry for himself, and distinctly bitter against Jack. He had heard the sound of many interesting things happening, and had a strong suspicion that he had been forgotten. Aware that he had not merited such hard treatment, he now replied plaintively:

"Nuffing at all, sir!"

"Well, in any case, I have not yet given his training over to Brady," observed Mr. West dryly, and without further question Jack was sentenced to twenty minutes' detention at twelve o'clock, "to see how he liked his own treatment".

"Rough on you, Jack of Both Sides!" said Simmons, as he passed him on his way into the open air. "Your policy's fine in theory, but I'm afraid it won't pay. Jack of Both Sides, friend of neither, eh?"

Jack's reply was quite cheerful:

"Not so bad as that, thanks, Lucy. We're going to be friends all together, the whole boiling of us, before we've done!"

"Think so?" said Hughes, and shrugged his shoulders. "Not much chance of that yet, I'm afraid. I spoke to Hallett just now, and he wouldn't even answer me."

Jack seemed out of luck's way this week, for the next morning he had an accident with the ink, was fined sixpence for breaking one of the pots, and ordered upstairs to change his bespattered garments.

Just outside his bedroom, in the passage, he came upon one of the housemaids, in front of whom, on the ground, lay a pillow and a heavy overcoat.

"Hullo, Hannah! Having a pillow-fight with an overcoat, for fault of a live enemy, eh? I've caught you in the act! Now, I want you to do something for me. I've been taking an ink shower-bath, you see, and I go home to-day, and I must wear this jacket. Could you -- "

But there Jack stopped short, for Hannah had broken into his sentence with a jerky little sniff which he felt pretty sure was a stifled sob.

"Why, my good Hannah, what's up? I'm most awfully sorry if there is anything wrong. Do tell us what it is!"

"Oh, well, Master Brady, I'm sure it isn't your doing, but it's one of the young gentlemen, and I don't mind which, but I do think it's very ill-mannered and unkind, and I've always tried to do my duty by you all, and more than that sometimes; and it's turned my thumb-nail back and broken it, and the big buttons banged in my face, and dragged my hair down; and it's no pleasure to do it, but I shall 'ave to carry the tale to the master -- "

"A booby-trap, I suppose," interposed Jack, looking thoughtful.

"Well, sir, a trap -- that's certain, for I walked in through the door as innocent as a child; but I don't see on that account that I'm to be set down for a booby."

"No, no; it's only the name for the trick," Jack hastened to explain, for Hannah was looking more hurt than ever. "You balance the pillow on the door, you know -- and it needs some care, because it might fall the wrong way, don't you see, and never hit you at all; and adding the overcoat must have made it more difficult."

There was an unconscious tinge of admiration in Jack's voice, and Hannah did not seem entirely consoled. As he handed her his stained jacket, however, he added: "You know, it wasn't meant for you, Hannah. You got it by mistake. It was put up for Frere; I'm sure of that. On these mornings he always comes to this room first thing to practise his violin. Whoever set the trap never thought about you, that's certain."

"That don't matter, sir, it hurt me just as much," persisted the maid. "And they've no business, 'aven't the young gentlemen, to play pranks like this. You never know what you'll be let in for next. I shall be in a heverlasting flutter now. It's worse than living in a monkey-house."

"Have you ever tried that, Hannah? I shouldn't have thought this was actually worse; but of course when one's tried both -- "

"Master Brady, you're teasing me, and you know my meaning quite well." Hannah's voice was positively tearful, and Jack grew alarmed.

"Nonsense! I wouldn't tease you for the world. But look here, I want you to think better of what you said -- about carrying the tale to Mr. West. There's an awful lot done by passing things over; you don't know! Let's return these articles -- see, it's Cadbury's pillow and Trevelyan's coat, so neither of them set the trap -- and let's agree to forgive and forget for once. Won't you?"

Jack could be very gentle and persuasive, and Hannah's heart was not proof against his pleading.

"Well, sir, just this once, since you put it like that, and hask so particular."

"There's an angel! I knew you would. You come to me, Hannah, when you're in any fix, and see if I don't repay you for this. Hullo! here's Frere and his fiddle. I'd better scuttle."

"Yes, Brady, I think you had better," observed Frere. "I heard Mr. West asking for you."

"Ugh! I never like being asked for," remarked Jack, and straightway vanished.

"So peace isn't signed yet," he said to himself. "The campaign has only changed its character, for secret and irregular warfare. I don't seem to have accomplished much so far."

Jack went home that Saturday feeling rather discouraged. He little knew what his accidental interview with Hannah, the housemaid, would result in.

He was flinging his own and Trevelyan's muddy boots into the big basket which stood in the scullery, on Monday evening, when a low voice close at hand startled him.

"Please, Master Brady, if you have a minute to spare, I should like to speak to you."

Jack turned round in surprise, to face his friend of Saturday, the housemaid.

"Why, certainly. Fire away! I'm all attention."

"I hope you won't think me foolish, sir, but you -- you do seem sympithetic like, though you can't help me, I know; and yet you told me to come to you, and it's a relief to out with one's trouble; and Emma, she don't understand, because she's going to be married, and she don't think of nothin' else; and Cook, she says she's never 'ad nothin' to do with plants, not excep' the eatin' sorts, like cabbages and turnips -- "

"But, Hannah, you haven't given me a chance yet. Plants?" said Jack.

"Yes, sir; I'll tell you all about it if I may. You see, my 'ome's at Brickland -- that's a matter of four miles from Elmridge, -- and my father, he's steadily wastin', and doctor says there's no chance for him, not unless he gets to one of the hopen-air 'ospitals, and he's not to doddle about the green-'ouse any more."

"That's a bad business," said Jack, looking grave. "Then your father has been a gardener?"

"Yes, and a salesman in a small way, sir. But now he's to give up, and sell all the plants. Doctor says he'll never again be fit for that work. It's goin' in and out of the cold and the heat and the damp that's so tryin'. He's been holdin' on as long as he could, but now he's ready enough to part with 'em, and if only he could get a good price it'd maybe take 'im to the hopen-air, and help to keep the 'ome together till he's well."

"That sounds the wisest plan," observed Jack thoughtfully.

"Yes, sir, but the point is the sellin' of 'em. They ought to go into a good big sale, where there'll be plenty of biddin'; they aren't enough in themselves to draw buyers. And Mother says in her letter this mornin' they've heard of one that's bein' held in Elmridge on Saturday, a big one, in the Rookwood grounds. They call it a 'Nurserymen's Combine'; there's a many of them joining, and they're willin' to take in Father's little lot."

"Surely the very thing!" said Jack.

"It seems so, doesn't it, sir? Father he sent round at once to make arrangements. But what do you think? he can't get the carting of 'em done under three-and-six a load; and, as he says, he hasn't got half a guinea to lay out that way. Why, it'd pay his train to the hopen-air! So 'e'll have to let it slide, and not get such a chance again in a hurry."

"I'm sure I'm awfully sorry about it," responded Jack feelingly. "But -- but -- but keep up your spirits, and who knows what may turn up?"

And with this consoling advice, he turned on his heel.



Chapter VIII

Jack's Maiden Speech


"You really wish me to understand, Brady, that not you alone, but all the elder boys -- day-pupils and boarders alike -- desire of your own free-will to devote your next Saturday's half-holiday to conveying this poor man's plants from his house at Brickland to the Rookwood sale?"

"Yes, sir, that's what we want to do."

"H'm! Well, the proposal does you credit, and you certainly might employ your time much worse than in carrying it out. I don't think it would be right for me to refuse your request. Mr. Anderson, I feel sure, will be ready to help and advise you, if necessary, but as the idea is your own I should like you, as far as possible, to carry it out by yourselves."

"Thank you, sir!" said Jack, and withdrew.

It was evening when this dialogue took place. The day-boys had departed in an irritable frame of mind, on account of various annoyances of which they had been the victims during the past two days. Bacon had been tripped up twice by a piece of string, Hughes had found his coat-sleeves tightly sewn up with packing-thread, and Simmons's pockets had been crammed with moist, wriggling earthworms.

Knowing this, it may be wondered that they were prevailed on to agree to Jack's scheme for the coming Saturday. But our hero was wily, and he worded his suggestion so carefully that they did not for a moment imagine that their enemies the boarders were at all connected with the plan, which seemed to offer scope for fun and adventure of a new description. Was not Saturday Jack's regular day of release? Of course this was to be an "out-of-school" affair altogether. So they imagined.

"Now then, you fellows!" cried Jack, bursting into the school-room like a frolicsome whirlwind, "who said I wouldn't get leave? West and I have settled it all most comfortably, patted each other on the head, and so forth. Let you go? Why, he'd like nothing better than to let you go for good and all!"

"So you've let the whole lot of us in for it, young man?" said Trevelyan, looking amused.

"Why, nobody asked to be left out," returned Jack.

This was quite true, and there was no more to be said. Hallett had taken kindly to the idea to begin with, and set the fashion by doing so. One or two lazy lads would not have been sorry in their hearts if Mr. West had vetoed the scheme, but they had not the courage to refuse to join in it.

"Now to business!" Jack continued. "We must send Mr. Thompson himself word of our intentions; let's write a proper, tradesman-like letter! Vickers, you're the fluent, flowery one. Bottle up your metaphors and give us a page of business-like fluency! Here's some paper."

After a good deal of discussion the following letter was composed: -- 

To Mr J. Thompson Nurseryman.

Dr Sir/

Having heard of yr intention to dispose of yr stock-in-hand (Plants) we have pleasure in proposing to undertake transport of same (carriage free) on Saty next ensuing between 2 and 4 p.m. from yr house to Rookwood Elmridge Middleshire for sale advd to be held there at 6 p.m. Safety of goods guarantd. Unless we hear to contry we shall presume this meets yr views and take action accordly.

Yrs etc.

(Signed) T. Vickers N. Hallett J. Brady &c. pro) Students of Brincliffe Elmridge.

"If that isn't business-like, I don't know what is!" exclaimed Cadbury, when it was read through. "If ink was a shilling a drop, you couldn't have been more chary of it. There's not an 'a', 'an', or 'the' throughout, nor a comma, nor an adjective, and the contractions are masterly. We're all born commercial clerks, that's what we are!"

"Ethel and Lucy have undertaken the necessary barrow-borrowing," remarked Jack, casually. "We sha'n't want more than six or eight wheel-barrows, and that pair can get anything if it goes together. Lucy represents the dauntless cheek, and Ethel the irresistible charm. What more is required?"

"What do you mean, Brady? We won't have the day-boys sticking their fingers into this pie!" cried Escombe Trevelyan.

"We couldn't do the job alone," said Jack quietly. "It would take us twice as long."

A loud murmur of disapprobation ran through the room.

Jack turned rather pale, and pinched the edge of the table nervously. His eyes wandered from face to face. All were vexed, all displeased. Then, with a sudden impulse he sprang to his feet, and spoke his mind -- rapidly, earnestly.

"Look here, I can't understand it! What makes you all so beastly to the day-boys -- to my pals? You began it, not they! They came to Brincliffe without the least idea of any unfriendly feeling, and you hated them before you'd seen them or heard their names. Is that fair -- straight -- English? If it were, I'd wish to be French or German. Where's the fun in this constant worrying of each other? As boarders, it's your place to put out a hand first, and I think I can promise that the day-boys will shake it. Bah! I know I can never talk you round; it's no good attempting to. I'm not in a comic mood, and can't make you laugh, like Cadbury, and I haven't Vickers's gift of the gab. But wasn't last Friday's lesson enough? Wasn't the sight of that knife -- "

"Hush!" came from many mouths.

"Oh, we want to forget it! Yes, we don't want to talk about it, I know. But I've got to this once. If there had been an accident -- to Armitage -- it wouldn't have been wholly the March Hare's fault. It was those who first started the quarrel between boarders and day-boys, those who put the notion of ill-feeling into his silly little head. I see you're thinking of the swimming-baths, and Toppin's dive. Now I happen to know, and Toppin can bear me out, that the kid asked to be pushed, and that Armitage would have saved him next moment if the March Hare hadn't jumped in and hindered things. And everyone of you who have listened and nodded to the March Hare's tale have added coal to the fire you might have quenched in a moment. And -- and -- and -- and -- " poor Jack was shaking and stammering with excitement, "what -- what if it had -- ended in -- "

But there he sat down, leaving his sentence unfinished.

Cadbury was the first to reply, and that was not at once. Slowly he ruled a long, thick, black line in his exercise-book, then, pushing his chair away from the table, tilted it back, and spoke:

"Well, I don't know what anyone else thinks, but I'll tell you what I do. Brady's last sentence was certainly not fluent, and I shouldn't care to have to analyse it. As for the jokes in it, they were about as plentiful as wasps in January. All that's true enough. Still, nevertheless, speaking for my humble self, he thrust home. You did, Jack, you beggar! You'd no business to, but you actually had the impudence to make me feel ashamed of myself. And, of course, I don't know what you others will say, but I vote we bury the hatchet in old Thompson's biggest flower-pot. Who's with me?"

"I am!"

"I am!"

"And I!"

"Of course it's quite right to forgive," drawled Green, with a curl of the lip. "I'm more than willing."

Jack ground his teeth, but Hallett saved him the trouble of replying.

"No, no; if we do the thing at all, we'll do it properly. Don't let's have any half-measures -- kindly-forgivings, and all the rest of it! If anyone starts forgiving me, I'll lick him! We won't forgive anyone, not even ourselves. We'll go straight ahead on a new tack, and forget everything that's happened. If our friends the enemy look askance at us at first (and we needn't be surprised if they do), that mustn't affect us. Remember this: Scores are Settled. That's our motto; there is to be no more paying off. Chaff them if you like -- I fancy they'd think there was something fishy if we didn't -- but no tricks, if you please."

"What if they start them on us, Hallett?" enquired Grey, in the tone of one who merely seeks information. Hallett frowned slightly.

"Hadn't thought of that. Of course if they insist on picking a quarrel in that way -- "

"But I'm nearly sure they won't," cried Jack.

"I caught Lucy pasting the leaves of my Delectus together," murmured Grey, looking at the ceiling.

"And how many things have you done to them?" retorted Jack desperately, sighing as he felt the weakness of that argument.

"Vick, will you hand Grey your india-rubber?" put in Cadbury. "There's a bit of his memory he hasn't rubbed out yet. I did as Hallett told us, and forgot everything at once. I've even forgotten my translation for to-morrow -- it's gone entirely. Never mind: to obey is our first duty; to labour for Peace comes only second."

"Labouring for peace -- why, Brady, that's been your little task!" exclaimed Vickers. "And a noble one" -- here he put on the "West voice". "Have you thought of it in that light, my boy? To labour for peace! We might all do worse. Conceive, for instance, of working for love!"

Jack laughed noisily, and called Vickers "a silly old loony". But he blushed at the same time. And he went to sleep that night feeling uncommonly hopeful.

When, in short jerky phrases, he broke to Hannah the plan he had devised, the maid was so grateful and "took aback", as she said, as to become for the moment half-hysterical; but soon rallying her common sense, she sat down and penned a note to her father, to accompany the young gentlemen's communication. Hannah's spelling, handwriting, and grammar were all very shaky, but it is a fact that Mr. J. Thompson, Nurseryman, found her letter a help in throwing light upon the "formal, business" document.



Chapter IX

Lost -- A Name


Of course Jack's task was only half accomplished. And the second half was somewhat harder than he had anticipated. When in the morning he met the day-scholars, they were not as eager for a reconciliation as he would have liked to find them.

Mason had come armed with a handful of wild barley-grass, or "crawly", as it was better known among the boys.

"Dictée this morning," he said with a sly wink.

In Monsieur Blonde's class, dictation offered great possibilities to a quick writer, with a supply of crawly. When heads are bent, what a chance down the collar for a deft hand! And the Monsieur was very short-sighted.

"I sit between Vickers and Green," Mason added.

"But look here, you must chuck that stuff away," cried Jack. He knew that as a good-humoured joke an inch of crawly can be tolerated, but when used in malice, nothing is more irritating. "Chuck it away! We've all agreed to call Pax now, Pax for good and all."

"Oh, I dare say!" retorted Mason. "When our lives have been made a burden for the last week! Who are the 'all' who've agreed, pray?"

"The whole lot of the boarders. They're ready to chum up right away. Mason, you must agree! We've got to join forces over Saturday's job."

But Mason didn't see it. Nor did Armitage. Nor did Bacon. And the rest were doubtful, except little Frere, who declared at once that he was longing to be friends with everybody -- and to feel safe.

"But don't mind us, Brady," pursued Mason. "We aren't so sweet on shoving wheel-barrows as all that. You and your dear Green and the rest can have the whole glory and honour of the pots and the barrows to yourselves. We won't fight for them, will we? After all, there are more amusing ways of spending a half than in wheeling flower-pots round the town."

Jack's hopes sank. He did not feel equal to making a second speech, but he caught Mason by the arm, and spoke with vehement emphasis:

"It's an awful responsible thing, Mason, to refuse to patch a quarrel. The chance of making-up doesn't come every day."

"We must have a chance of getting even with them first, and then we'll talk about stopping."

"Nonsense! You know that tit-for-tat's a game without an end!"

"My dear Brady, if you knew the toil and time it has cost me to gather this bunch of crawly, you wouldn't ask me so lightly to waste it."

"If that's all," said Jack, "you can stick the whole lot down my neck. I give you free leave. Go on!"

There is no stronger influence than earnestness, and Jack was intensely in earnest. It had its effect on his listeners, who were almost won over already, while he thought his efforts were thrown away. While he spoke, Simmons had secretly released three earwigs with which he had meant mischief, and Hughes was opening his mouth to utter a word or two for Jack, when Cadbury glided up to the group with outspread arms, and a square box balanced on his head.

"Pax tea-cup! pax O biscuit!" began the flippant boy. "Dear brethren, I entreat you to join with me in smoking the calumet of peace in the shape of this humble weed."

As he bowed, the box fell from his head into his hands, and, removing the lid, he offered it round. It appeared to contain a double layer of cigars; but the Brincliffe scholars knew these cigars well, and where they came from. They were composed of almond paste, and coated with a brown sugary paper, which was always consumed with the rest.

Jack almost held his breath. Would the boys refuse or accept them?

Hughes dipped his hand in at once with a smile and a nod. "Thanks very much, Cadbury!" Simmons followed suit with a wicked little chuckle. Bacon hesitated, and then helped himself awkwardly. Frere took one with an "Oo!" of appreciation. Now it was Mason's turn. If Jack had been a recruiting sergeant, and the sugar cigar the Queen's shilling, he could scarcely have felt more anxious.

Mason put forward his thumb and finger, then hesitated and looked at Jack with a twinkle in his eye.

"Now, shall I, Brady?"

Jack nodded. He really dared not speak, for fear Mason should take it into his head to go exactly contrary to him.

Hurrah! The cigar was taken!

From that moment Cadbury and Jack turned themselves into a couple of the maddest, silliest clowns imaginable. But there was method in their madness. Though they did not even own it to each other, they were making themselves ridiculous and foolish to prevent the rest from feeling so. Boys loathe sentiment, and many a quarrel drifts on and on, simply because each party dreads "being made to feel a fool".

At Brincliffe on this particular day the two sides felt distinctly shy of each other, and it was a real boon to have a pair of "giddy lunatics" to scream at.

But when Cadbury had boxed Frere's ears for giving the dates of the royal Georges correctly, and when Simmons had sharpened his pencil with Vickers's knife without asking leave, the relations between boarders and day-pupils grew easier.

*    *    *    *    *

There were few idle wheel-barrows in Elmridge on Saturday afternoon.

If you had passed along the dusty Brickland Road between four and five o'clock, you would have encountered a droll procession. One passer-by stopped to enquire if there was going to be a Battle of Flowers.

Six barrows, laden with flowering plants, each pulled by two boys, and pushed by one, were slowly but steadily travelling towards the town, and at the rear of all was a bath-chair in charge of Hallett and Armitage, wherein sat a thin, delicate-looking man, whose bright eyes and flushed cheeks spoke eloquently of gratitude and pleasure. That bath-chair was Hallett's own idea, and he was very proud of it.

*    *    *    *    *

It was a warm and weary company of boy-labourers who gathered at eight o'clock that evening round a very tempting supper-table, spread in the Brincliffe dining-room, to which, by special invitation, the day-pupils sat down with the boarders. But every face was bright, and the meal was the merriest ever known.

By Mr. West's direction, the boys were left to enjoy it "un-mastered".

The clatter of knives and spoons had almost ceased when Vickers rose slowly to his feet, a glass of ginger-beer in his hand. He was impelled to do so by the nudges of his neighbours, Green and Mason. His rising was received with loud applause, which he acknowledged with a grave bow.

"I have been very much pressed -- elbow-pressed," he began, "to get up and say something. I scarcely see why I should be pitched on, unless it is because I have more brass than the rest of you. (Hear, hear.) Anyhow, here I am, and I'll ask three questions and then sit down. First" -- and up came one finger -- "Isn't this the jolliest supper we've ever had? (Cries of "Yes!") Very well, I'll tell you why. Reason Number One: West's in a jolly good temper, vide the groaning table and the absence of masters. Reason Number Two: We're all in a jolly good temper, and have done a jolly good day's work. Now, secondly -- (Shouts of "Thirdly, you mean, old man!") I mean what I say -- Secondly! We had two divisions under the first head. You may have got confused, but I haven't. Secondly, then, we're all pretty thoroughly fagged: is anyone sorry he's fagged? (No!) Well, the job wasn't my idea, or West's idea. But it was somebody's, and I think we all know whose. The same somebody who has annoyed us all horribly in the past by refusing to so much as do one ill-natured thing. The same somebody who has steadily prevented us from quarrelling comfortably and consistently, as we wanted to, and has finally dragged us into this unhappy state of good-fellowship. Now for my thirdly: Will you drink with me to that somebody's health?"

The question was received with shouting and banging, while the words, "Bravo, Vickers! Here's to good old Brady!" "I drink to Jack of Both Sides!" "Here's to you, Jack!" "Speech, Brady -- speech!" and similar cries filled the air.

Poor Jack felt extremely ill at ease, and not at all grateful to Vickers. He studied his plate with the closest attention, his face growing redder and redder each moment. Then Cadbury thumped him on the back, and Hallett and Bacon fairly forced him to his feet. But a speech was quite beyond Jack at that minute.

"I say, sha'n't we beg the release of the March Hare?" was all he said, and the first person he looked at was Armitage.

Armitage, too, was the first to cry back, "Yes!"

The petition, which was written and signed before they separated, was received favourably, and the following Monday saw the return of the March Hare to his place in the school, scared, penitent, and profoundly grateful to all his school-fellows, including Armitage. And he insisted on pressing Jack's hand to his lips, which made our hero feel excessively uncomfortable. But for the remainder of the term, the use of a knife, even at dinner, was denied the little Italian.

*    *    *    *    *

"Brady, have you missed anything?" asked Cadbury a few days later.

"No, I don't think so," replied Jack, feeling doubtfully in his pockets.

"Because you have certainly lost something," continued Cadbury.

"Well, give it me quick, then," said Jack, laughing. "Whatever is it?"

"I can't give it you. It's gone for ever," was the rejoinder. "You'll never have it again."

"Well, what was it, then? Nothing valuable, I hope?"

"When two things are made into one thing, you can't speak of them any longer as 'both'; can you?"

"Fetch us a grammar, Toppin," said Jack. "We're getting out of our depths. Have I lost two things, please, Cadbury, or only one?"

"Don't frivol, Jack! listen to me. We are all one-sided now, so you have lost your title. You can never again be called Jack of Both Sides."

<eob>

The Motor Girls On Waters Blue

Or

The Strange Cruise Of The Tartar

By

Margaret Penrose



Chapter I

News


With a crunching of the small stones in the gravel drive, the big car swung around to the side entrance of the house, and came to a stop, with a whining, screeching and, generally protesting sound of the brake-bands. A girl, bronzed by the summer sun, let her gloved hands fall from the steering wheel, for she had driven fast, and was tired. The motor ceased its humming, and, with a click, the girl locked the ignition switch as she descended.

"Oh, what a run! What a glorious run, and on a most glorious day!" she breathed in a half whisper, as she paused for a moment on the bottom step, and gazed back over the valley, which the high-setting house commanded, in a magnificent view.

The leaves of the forest trees had been touched, gently as yet, by the withering fingers of coming winter, and the browns, reds, golden ambers, purples and flame colors ran riot under the hazy light of an October sun, slowly sinking to rest.

"It was a shame to go alone, on this simply perfect day," murmured the autoist, as she drew off one glove to tuck back under her motoring cap a rebellious lock of hair. "But I couldn't get a single one of the girls on the wire," she continued. "Oh, I just hate to go in, while there's a moment of daylight left!"

She stood on the porch, against a background of white pillars, facing the golden west, that every moment, under the now rapidly appearing tints of the sunset, seemed like some magically growing painting.

"Well, I can't stand here admiring nature!" exclaimed Cora Kimball, with a sudden descent to the commonplace. "Mother will be wanting that worsted, and if we are to play bridge tonight, I must help Nancy get the rooms in some kind of shape."

As Cora entered the vestibule, she heard a voice from the hall inside saying:

"Oh, here she is now!"

"Bess Robinson!" murmured Cora. "And she said she couldn't come motoring with me. I wonder how she found time to run over?"

Cora Hung open the door to confront her chum Bess or, to be more correct, Elizabeth Robinson -- the brown-haired, "plump", girl -- she who was known as the "big" Robinson twin -- the said Bess being rather out of breath from her rapid exit from the parlor to the hall.

As might be surmised, it did not take much to put Bess out of breath, or, to be still more exact, to put the breath out of Bess. It was all due to her exceeding -- plumpness -- to use a "nice" word.

"Oh, Cora!" exclaimed Bess. "I've been waiting so long for you! I thought you'd never come! I -- I -- "

"There, my dear, don't excite yourself. Accidents will happen in the best of manicured families, and you simply must do something -- take more exercise -- eat less -- did you every try rolling over and over on the floor after each meal? One roll for each course, you know," and Cora smiled tantalizingly as she removed her other glove, and proceeded to complete the restoration of her hair to something approaching the modern style -- which task she had essayed while on the porch.

"Well, Cora Kimball, I like your -- !"

"No slang, Bess dear. Remember those girls we met this summer, and how we promised never, never to use it -- at least as commonly as they did! We never realized how it sounded until we heard them."

"Oh, Cora, do stop. I've such a lot to tell you!" and Bess laid a plump and rosy palm over the smiling lips of her hostess.

"So I gathered, Bess, from your manner. But you must not be in such a hurry. This is evidently going to be a mile run, and not a hundred yard dash, as Jack would say. So come in, sit down, get comf'y, wait until you and your breath -- are on speaking terms, and I'll listen. But first I want to tell you all that happen to me. Why didn't you come for a spin? It was glorious! Perfectly 'magnificent!"

"Oh, Cora, I wanted so much to come, you know I did. But I was out when you 'phoned, and mamma is so upset, and the house is in such a state -- really I was glad to run out, and come over here. We are going -- "

"My turn first, Bess dear. You should have been with me. In the first place, I had a puncture, and you'll never in the world guess who helped me take off the shoe -- "

"Your shoe, Cora!"

"No, silly! The tire shoe. But you'd never guess, so I'll tell you. It was Sid Wilcox!"

"That fellow who made so much trouble -- "

"Yes, and who do you think was with him?"

"Oh, Ida Giles, of course. That's easy."

"No, it was Angelina Mott!"

"What, sentimental Angie?"

"The same. I can't imagine how in the world she ever took up with Sid enough to go motoring."

"Say, rather, how he took up with her. Sid is much nicer than he used to be, and they say his new six-cylinder is a beautiful car."

"So it is, my dear, but I prefer to select my chauffeur -- the car doesn't so much matter. Well, anyhow, Sid was very nice. He offered to put in a new inner tube for me, and of course I wasn't going to refuse. So Angelina and I sat in the shade, while poor Sid labored. And the shoe was gummed on, so he had no easy task. But I will say this for him -- he didn't even once hint that there was a garage not far off. Wasn't that nice?"

"Brave and noble Sid!"

"Yes, wasn't he, Bess? But I don't want to exhaust all my eloquence and powers of description on a mere puncture."

"Oh, Cora! Did anything else happen?" and Bess, who had followed her chum into the library of the Kimball home, sank down, almost breathless once more, into the depths of a deep, easy chair.

"There you go again!" laughed Cora, laying aside her cap and veil. "I'll have to pull you out of that, Bess, when you want to get up. Why do you always select that particular chair, of all others?"

"It's so nice and soft, Cora. Besides, I can get up myself, thank you," and, with an assumption of dignity that did not at all accord with her plump and merry countenance and figure, Bess Robinson tried to arise.

But, as Cora had said, she needed help. The chair was of such a depth that one's center of gravity was displaced, if you wish the scientific explanation.

"Now don't you dare lean back again!" warned Cora, as her chum sat on the springy edge of the chair, in a listening attitude. "To resume, as the lecturer in chemistry says, after Sid had so obligingly fixed the puncture, I started off again, for mamma wanted some worsted and I had offered to run into town to get it for her. The next thing that happened to me, Bess dear, I saw the nicest young man, and ran right into -- "

"Not into him, Cora! Don't tell me you hurt anyone!" cried Bess, covering her face with her hands or at least, trying to, for her hands were hardly large enough for the completion of the task.

"No, I didn't run into him, Bess, though there was a dog -- but that's another story."

"Oh, Cora! I do wish you'd finish one thing at a time. And that reminds me -- "

"Wait, Bess, dear. I didn't run into the young man, but he bowed to me, and I turned around to make sure who he was, for at first I thought him a perfect stranger, and I was going to cut him. In my excitement, I ran right into a newly oiled place on the road, and, before I knew it, I was skidding something awful! Before I could reach the emergency brake, I had run sideways right against the curbing, and it's a mercy I didn't split a rim. And the young man ran over -- "

"Oh, Cora Kimball! I'll never get my news in, if I don't interrupt you right here and now!" cried Bess. "Listen, my dear! I simply must tell, you. It's what I ran over for, and I know you can't have had any serious accident, and look as sweet as you do now -- it's impossible!"

"Thanks!" murmured Cora, with a mock bow. "After that, I must yield the floor to you. Go on, Bess. What is it? Has some one stolen your car, or have you discovered a new kind of chocolate candy? I wish I had some now; I'm simply starved! You have no idea how bracing and appetizing the air is. What was I telling you about?"

"Never mind, Cora. It's my turn. You can't guess what has happened."

"And I'm not going to try, for I know you're just dying to tell me. Go on. I'm listening," and Cora sat on a stool at the feet of her chum.

"Well, it would take too long to tell it all, but what would you say, if I went on a long sea voyage this winter?"

"What would I say? Why, my dear, I'd say that it was simply perfectly magnificent! It sounds like -- like a wedding tour, almost. A sea voyage. Oh, Bess, do tell me!" and Cora leaned forward eagerly, expectantly. "Are you really going?"

"It seems so, yes. Belle and I shall have to go if papa carries out his plans, and takes mamma to the West Indies. You see it's like this. He has -- "

A knock came at the door. Cora turned her head quickly, and called: "Come in!"

A maid entered, bearing on a silver server a note, the manila envelope of which proclaimed it as a telegraph message.

"Oh, a telegram!"' gasped Cora, and her fingers trembled, in spite of her, as she opened it.

She gave a hasty glance at the written words, and then cried:

"Oh, it was for mother, but the envelope had 'Miss Kimball' on it. However, it doesn't matter, and I'm glad I opened it first. Oh, dear!"

"Bad news?" asked Bess, softly.

"It's about my brother Jack," said Cora, and there was a sob in her voice. "He has suffered a nervous breakdown, and will have to leave college at once!"



Chapter II

More News


"Oh, Cora!" murmured Bess, rising from, the chair, and it was with no easy effort that she did so, for she had allowed herself to sink back again into its luxurious depths. "Oh, Cora dear! Isn't that perfectly dreadful!"

Cora Kimball did not answer. She was staring at the fateful telegram, reading it over and over again; the words now meaningless to her. But she had grasped their import with the first swift glance. Jack was ill -- in trouble.

Bess put her arms around her chum, and slipped one plump hand up on the tresses tangled by the wind on the motor ride.

"Can I do anything to help -- your mother is she -- "

"Of course!" exclaimed Cora with a sigh. "I must tell mother at once. Yes, she's at home, Bess. Will you -- do you mind coming with me?"

"Of course not, my dear. I wouldn't think of letting you go alone to tell her. Is the telegram from jack himself?"

"No, it's from Walter Pennington. Walter says a letter follows -- special delivery."

"Oh, then you'll get it soon! Perhaps it isn't so bad as you think. Dear Walter is so good!"

"Isn't he?" agreed Cora, murmuringly. "I sha'n't worry so much about Jack, now that I know Wally is with him. Oh, but if he has to leave college -- "

Cora did not finish. Together she and Bess left the library, seeking Mrs. Kimball, to impart to her the sudden and unwelcome news. And so, when there is a moment or two, during which nothing of chronicling interest is taking place, my dear readers may be glad of a little explanation regarding Cora Kimball and her chums, and also a word or two concerning the previous books of this series.

Cora Kimball was the real leader of the motor girls. She was, by nature, destined for such a position, and the fact that she, of all her chums, was the first to possess an automobile, added to her prestige. In the first volume of this series, entitled "The Motor Girls," I had the pleasure of telling how, amid many other adventures, Cora, and her chums, Bess and Belle Robinson, helped to solve the mystery of a twenty thousand dollar loss.

Cora, Bess and Belle were real girl chums, but they never knew all, the delights of chumship until they "went in" for motoring. Living in the New England town of Chelton, on the Chelton River, life had been rather hum-drum, until the advent of the "gasoline gigs" as Jack, Cora's brother, slangily dubbed them. Jack, with whose fortunes we shall concern ourselves at more length presently, had a car of his own -- one strictly limited to two -- a low-slung red and yellow racing car, "giddy and gaudy," Cora called it.

Later on, the Robinson twins also became possessed of an automobile, and then followed many delightful trips.

"The Motor Girls on a Tour," the second volume of the series, tells in detail of many surprising happenings, which were added to, and augmented, at "Lookout Beach."

Through New England the girls went, after their rather strenuous times at the seaside, and you may be sure Cora Kimball was in the forefront of all the happenings on that rather remarkable run.

Perhaps the most romantic of all the occurrences that befell the girls were the series at Cedar Lake. There, indeed, were Cora and her chums put to a supreme test, and that they emerged, tried and true, will not be surprising news to those of you who really know the motor maids.

As another summer followed the green spring, so adventures followed our friends, and those on the coast were in no whit tamer than previous happenings. Once again did Cora prove that she could "do things," if such proof were needed.

"The Motor Girls on Crystal Bay, Or The Secret of the Red Oar," is the title of the book immediately preceding this one.

It would hardly be fair to tell you, bold-facedly, what the "secret" was. I would not like a book spoiled for me that way, and I am sure you will agree with me.

But when Cora and her friends made the acquaintance of sad little Freda Lewis, and later on of Denny Shane, the picturesque old fisherman, they had the beginnings of the mysterious secret. And in solving it, they bested the land-sharpers, and came upon the real knowledge of the value of the red oar.

Those incidents had taken place during the summer. Autumn had come, with its shorter days, its longer nights, the chill of approaching frosts and winter, and the turning of leaves, and the girls I had bidden farewell to the sad, salty sea waves, and had returned to cheerful Chelton.

Cheerful Chelton -- I believe I never thus alliteratively referred to it before, but the sound falls well upon my ear. Cheerful Chelton -- indeed it was so, and though Cora and her chums had enjoyed themselves to the utmost at Crystal Bay and in so enjoying had done it noble service still they were glad to get back.

And now -- 

I beg your pardon! I really am forgetting, the boys, and as they always have, and seem always destined to play in important part in the lives of the girls, perhaps I had better introduce them in due form.

To begin with, though not to end with, there was Cora's brother Jack. Like all other girls' brothers was Jack -- a tease at times, but of sterling worth in hours of distress and trouble.

Jack was a junior at Exmouth College, but, bless you! that is not nearly as important as it sounds, and none of my new readers need be on their dignity; or assume false society manners with Jack. For I warn them, if they do, the thin veneer will very soon be scratched off. A true boy was Jack!

So was his chum, Walter Pennington -- "Wally," the girls often called him, though it was not at all an effeminate term of endearment. Walter gave exactly the opposite impression from that. Besides, he was too athletic (which you could tell the moment you looked at him) to further such associations.

Other young men there were, Ed Foster, in particular, who often went motoring with the girls, to make the third male member which caused the little parties to "come out even."

Occasionally Paul Hastings, and his sister Hazel, would be included, but, of late, Paul had been too busy setting up an automobile business of his own, to ride with his friends.

So much for the boys -- though there were more of them, but we need not concern ourselves with them at present.

Bess and Belle Robinson were the daughters of Mr. and Mrs. Perry Robinson -- the "rich"' Mr. Robinson, as he was called, to distinguish him from another, and more humble, though none the less worthy, citizen of Chelton. Bess and Belle had nearly everything they wanted -- which list was not a small one. But mostly they wanted Cora Kimball, and they looked up to her, deferred to her and loved her, with a devotion that comes only from sweet association since early childhood.

"Cheerful Chelton!" Somehow I cannot seem to forego the temptation of using that expression again. It was a typical New England village, the nearness of it to New York not having spoiled it.

Of late, the invasion of many automobiles had threatened to turn it into a "popular" resort. There was already one garage, and another in building, and to the trained and experienced motorist, no more need be said.

It was to Chelton that Cora Kimball and her chums had returned, following their summer at Crystal Bay. Cora, after trying in vain to get some of her chums, by telephone, to come for a little motor run with her, had gone alone, coming back to find Best at her home, when the events narrated in the initial chapter took place.

Now the two girls were on their way upstairs to impart the news contained in the telegram, to Mrs. Kimball.

"Do you -- do you think she'll faint?" asked Bess.

"No -- of course not! Mother isn't of the fainting sort," replied Cora, for Mrs. Kimball, a widow since her boy and girl were little children, was used to meeting emergencies bravely and calmly.

"I wonder what could have happened to Jack?" mused Bess, as they reached the upper hall. "Do you suppose he could have been hurt playing football, Cora?"

"I don't see how. The season hasn't really opened yet, and they play only light games at first. Besides, Jack has played before, and knows how to take care of himself. I can't imagine what it is -- a nervous breakdown."

"Probably Wally's letter will tell."

"I hope so. Oh, but, Bess, I didn't hear your news. You must tell me all about it, my dear."

"I will -- when this excitement is over."

Mrs. Kimball received the news calmly -- that is, calmly after a first sharp in-taking of breath and a spasmodic motion toward her heart. For Jack was very dear to her.

"Well, my dears, we must hope for the best," she said, cheerfully, to the girls. "Fortunately, his room is in order, which is more than can be said for it when he went away. Cora, can look up trains, or, better still, ask the station agent when one might get in from Exmouth. Probably Walter will bring Jack home as soon as he can.

"It can't be so very serious, or Walter would have so specified in his telegram. I am anxious to get his letter, however. You might call up the post-office, Cora, and find out when the next mail gets in. Then you could go down in your car and get the special. That will be quicker than waiting for the boy to come up on his bicycle with it. Often he has half a dozen letters to deliver, and he might be delayed coming to us."

"I'll do that, Mother. You seem to think of everything!" and Cora threw her arms about the neck of the gray-haired lady, in whose eyes there was a troubled look, though neither in voice nor manner did she betray it.

"I can't imagine Jack ill," murmured Bess.

"Nor I," said Cora. "He has always been so strong and healthful. If only it isn't some accident -- "

"Don't suggest it!" begged Bess. "Shall I come with you to the station, Cora?"

"I'd like to have you, dear, if you can spare the time."

"As if I wouldn't make time for such a thing as this. Come, do your telephoning, and we'll go."

Cora learned that no train which Jack could possibly get would arrive until very late that afternoon, but at the post-office it was said a mail would be in within the hour, and there was a chance that the special delivery letter would be on it.

"We'll go and see," decided Cora, now again a girl of action.

"And on your way, Cora dear," requested her mother, "stop at Dr. Blake's office, and ask him to meet the train Jack comes on. While I anticipate nothing serious, it is best to be on the safe side, and Jack may be in a state of collapse after his trip. You had better explain to Dr. Blake, rather than telephone."

"Yes, mother. Now are you sure you'll be all right?"

"Oh, certainly. I am not alone, with the servants here. Besides, John is just outside, trimming the lawn paths. You won't be long."

"No longer than we can help. Come on, Bess. Oh! and now you'll have a chance to tell me what you started to."'

"Oh! It isn't so much, Cora. In fact, I don't like to mention my pleasure, after hearing of your trouble."

"Then it's pleasure?"

"Yes, Belle seems to think so."

"Did you mention the West Indies?"

"Yes, father has to go to Porto Rico on business, and we are going to make a winter cruise of it. Mamma and we girls are going, and what I came over to ask you -- "

The voice of Bess was rather lost in the throb of the motor as Cora thrust over the lever of the self-starter. As the two girls settled themselves in the seat, Bess resumed:

"I came over to ask if you couldn't go with us, Cora? Can't you come on a winter's cruise to where there is no snow or ice, and where the waters are blue -- so blue?"

"Come with you?" gasped Cora.

"Yes. Papa and mamma specially asked me to come and invite you. Oh, Cora, do say you'll go! It will be such fun!"

"I'd love to, Bess," said Cora, after a moment's thought. "But there's poor Jack, you know. I shall probably have to stay home and nurse him. I can't leave mother all alone."

"Oh, Cora!" murmured Bess, in disappointed tones.



Chapter III

The Lace Seller


Cora, Bess and Belle were sitting on the broad, long porch of the Kimball home. It was the next day. To be exact, the day following the imparting of Cora's news to Bess, of her automobile mishaps, the day of the news which Bess retailed to her friend and chum, concerning the trip to the West Indies, and the still more news, if I may be permitted the expression, of Jack's sudden illness.

Cora and Bess had gone to the post-office to get the expected special delivery letter, stopping on their way to speak to Dr. Blake, who had agreed to meet any train on which the stricken Jack might be expected. But, as it happened, his services were not required that night, for Jack did not arrive.

To go back a little bit, from the point where we have left the three girls sitting on the porch, Cora and Bess did find the special delivery letter awaiting them in the post-office.

"And I'm glad you called for it," said Harry Moss, whose duty it was to deliver the blue stamped epistles, "for I've got a lot of 'em this afternoon, and your place is out of my route, Miss Cora."

"All right, Harry," spoke Cora, half-hearing. She was already tearing open the envelope, as the messenger rode off on his wheel, certainly at a pace to justify the old proverb that he was a rolling stone, even if he had already gathered moss.

"Is it from Walter?" asked Bess.

"Yes, and it isn't as bad as we feared. Jack over-trained, trying for a new position on the football eleven, and that, with some extra studies he undertook, reduced his already tingling nerves to a condition where he was not at all himself."

"A long rest and a change will set him up again in fine style," Walter wrote. "There is no need worrying, Cora," for he had written to her, rather than to Mrs. Kimball, relying on Cora's discretion to explain matters.

"I am bringing Jack home, and we'll come on the early afternoon train, Thursday. There is no great need of haste."

It was now Thursday, just after lunch, and the girls were waiting at Cora's house to go down with her, or, rather one of them (to be decided later) to meet Jack and Walter. There was no need of a physician to help Jack home, though Dr. Blake promised his services when the sufferer should have been safely quartered in his own room.

"Isn't it good of Wally to come home with him?" ventured Belle, thoughtfully gazing at her long, thin hands, that were still tanned by the summer's sun.

"Perfectly fine!" exclaimed Cora. "Oh, you can always depend on Wally," and her eyes lightened up.

"So you can, too, on Jack, for that matter," voiced Bess, warmly. Bess was, of late, generally regarded as having more than a mere chum's sisterly feeling for Jack.

"I suppose he'll lose a term," remarked Belle.

"Too bad, I say."

"Better that than lose your health," declared Cora, as she put back a strand of hair that would persist in straying out from under her cap, for she, as well as the others, were attired for motoring, the Robinson twins, in fact, having come over in their car.

"Oh, Cora! I think you look so different with your hair in that new close formation!" declared Bess. "I wish I could get mine to lie down flat at the sides, and over my ears. How do you do it?"

"Whisper -- it's a secret," said Cora, smiling. "I found a new kind of hairpin when I was shopping the other day."

"Oh, do show us!" begged Belle. "I was going to have the permanent wave put in mine, but it costs twenty-five dollars, and it's awfully tiring, Hazel said. Besides, I think it's getting rather -- common."

"Do show us, Cora!" begged Bess.

"Come inside. I'm not going to turn the porch into a hair-dressing parlor for demonstrations," laughed Cora. "It won't take a minute to show you how to do I it, and we have plenty of time before Jack's train is due."

Cora obligingly let down her pretty hair, and then, by means of the new hairpins, she put it up again, in the latest "flat" mode, which, with its rather severe lines, is far from becoming to the average face. But, as it happened, Cora's face was not the average, and the different style was distinctly becoming to her.

"Oh, isn't it simple -- when you're shown?" cried Bess. "I wonder if I'd have time to do mine that way before -- ?"

"Before Wally sees you!" interrupted her sister. "No, and don't think it. He's probably seen plenty of that style at college, and -- "

"Thank you! I wasn't thinking of Mr. Pennington!" and Bess tried to tilt her chin up in the air with an assumption of dignity that ill sat upon her, the said chin being of the plump variety which lends itself but poorly to the said tilting.

"Cora, are you there?" asked the voice of Mrs. Kimball from the porch.

"Yes, Mother. I was just showing the girls the new hairpins. We are going to the station directly."

Cora's voice floated out of the low French windows, which opened from the library to the porch, and they were swung wide, for the fall tang in the air had vanished with the rising of the orb of day, and it was now warm and balmy.

"It will be even warmer than this when we go to the West Indies," murmured Bess. "Oh, Cora, I do wish you were going!"

"So do I, dear! But I don't see how I can."

"Hark!" said Belle, softly.

A murmur of voices came from the porch through the low, opened windows.

"It's one of those Armenian lace peddlers,"' said Cora, stooping down to look as she finished making the twist at the back of her head. "There's been a perfect swarm of them around lately. Mother is talking to her, though she seldom cares for lace -- such as they sell."

"There is some beautiful lace work to be had on some of the West Indian islands, so mamma says," spoke Belle. "I am just crazy to get there!"

"Are you going to spend all your time on Porto Rico?" asked Cora, as she finished her hair.

"Well, most of it, though we shall probably cruise about some," spoke Bess, and as she paused the murmuring of the voices of Mrs. Kimball and the lace peddler could be heard.

"She doesn't talk like an Armenian," ventured Belle. "She has a Spanish accent."

"Yes, so she has," agreed Cora. "Oh, girls! You don't know how I envy you that trip. But duty first, you know," and she sighed.

"We expect to have a perfectly gorgeous time," went on Belle, as she settled her trim jacket more snugly over her slim hips. "One trip papa has promised us is to Sea Horse Island, not far from Porto Rico. He is going there after orchids -- you know he is an enthusiastic amateur collector -- and he says some very rare ones grow on Sea Horse. I wish I could send you some, Cora."

"It's awfully sweet of you, but -- "

The girls were interrupted by the darkening of one of the low windows, by a tall, slim shadow. In surprise they looked up to see staring at them a girl whose swarthy, olive-tinted face proclaimed her for a foreigner from some sunny clime.

In her hand she field a bundle of lace, which she had evidently taken from her valise to show to Mrs. Kimball. Cora's mother had arisen from a porch chair, in some wonder, to follow the girl's movements.

"Pardon Senoritas," began the lace seller, in soft accents, "but did I hear one of you ladies mention Sea Horse Island -- in ze West Indies? I am not sure -- I -- "

She paused, painfully self-conscious.

"I spoke of it," said Belle, gently. "We are going there on a winter cruise, and -- "

"Pardon me -- but to Sea Horse Island?" and the girl's trembling voice seemed very eager.

"We are going there -- among other places," put in Bess, and her voice grew rather colder than her sister's, for the manner of the lace seller was passing strange.

" -- Oh, to Sea Horse Island -- in ze West Indies -- Oh, if I could but go zere -- my father -- he is -- he is, oh, Senoritas, I crave your pardon, but -- -but -- "

Her voice trailed off in a whisper, and swaying, she fell at the feet of Cora, who sprang forward, but too late, to catch the slim, inanimate burden. The little lace peddler lay in a crumpled up heap on the floor.



Chapter IV

Jack Arrives


"Oh, Cora!"

"The poor girl!"

Belle and Bess, with clasped hands, bent over the prostrate form of the girl, whose plain, black dress showed the dust and travel stains of the highways about Chelton. From the verandah Mrs. Kimball stepped in, through the long window.

"Get some water, Cora," she directed in a calm and self-possessed voice. "Also the aromatic ammonia on my dressing table. It is merely a faint. Poor girl! She seemed very weak while she was talking to me. I was just going to ask her to sit down, and let me have a cup of tea brought to her, when she suddenly turned away from me and came in where you girls were."

"She heard us talking," ventured Bess, a little awed by the strange happening.

"And she asked the oddest question -- about Sea Horse Island -- where papa is going -- and she spoke of her father -- I wonder what she meant?" asked Belle.

"Time enough to find out after we've revived her," suggested Cora, who, like her mother, was not at all alarmed by a mere fainting fit.

Belle, inspired by her chum's coolness, had stooped over and was raising the girl's head.

"Don't do that!" exclaimed Cora. "The trouble is all the blood has gone from her head now. Let it remain low and the circulation will become normal, after the has had a little stimulant. I'll get the ammonia," and she hurried off, stopping long enough to ring for her mother's maid.

The foreign girl opened her dark brown eyes under the reviving stimulus of the aromatic spirits of ammonia, and she tried to speak. She seemed anxious to apologize for the trouble she had caused by fainting.

"That's all right, my dear," said Mrs. Kimball, soothingly. "Don't bother your poor head about it. You may stay here until you feel better."

"But, senora -- " she protested, faintly.

"Hush!" begged Cora, touching the girl's hand gently with her own brown fingers. It was a pretty little hand, that of the lace seller -- a hand not at all roughened by heavy work. Indeed, if she had made some of the dainty lace she was exhibiting, a piece of which was even now entangled about her, she needs must keep both hands unroughened.

"Oh, but Senorita, I -- I am of ze ashamed to be so -- to be -- " Again her voice trailed off into that mere faintness, which was as weak as a whisper, yet unlike it.

"Now, not another word!" insisted Mrs. Kimball, in the tone of her daughter, and the Robinson twins well knew she meant to have her own good way. "You are in our hands, my dear child, and until you are able to leave them, you must do as we say. A little more of that ammonia, Cora, and then have Janet bring in some warm bouillon -- not too hot. I believe the poor child is just weak from hunger," she whispered over the head of the lace seller, whose brown eyes were now veiled with the olive lids.

"Oh!" gasped Bess. "Hungry!"

"Hush! She'll hear you," cautioned Belle, for somehow she sensed the proudness of those who, though they toil hard for their daily bread, yet have even greater pride than those who might, if they wished, eat from golden dishes -- the pride of the poor who are ashamed to have it known that they hunger -- and there is no more pitiful pride.

The girl did not show signs of sensing anything of that which went on around her. Even when the second spoonful of ammonia had trickled through her trembling lips, she did not again open her eyes.

"Here is the bouillon," said Janet, as she came in with some in a dainty cup, on a servette.

"We must try to get her to take a little," said Mrs. Kimball, who had her arm under the girl's neck. A dusky flush in the olive cheeks told of the returning blood, under the whip of the biting ammonia.

Some few sips of the hot broth the girl was able to take, but she did not show much life, and, after a close look at her immobile countenance, and feeling of the cold and listless hands, Cora's mother said:

"I think we had better put her to bed, and have Dr. Blake look at her when he comes for Jack."

"Oh, Jack! I had almost forgotten about him!" exclaimed Cora. "We must go to the depot. It is almost time for his train."

"You have time enough to help me," said her mother, gently. "I think we must look after her, Cora, at least -- "

"Oh, of course, Mother. We can't send her to the hospital, especially when she seems so refined. She is really -- clean!" and Cora said the word with a true delight in its meaning. She had seen so many itinerant hawkers of lace who were not and neither were their wares.

"Oh, she has such a sweet, sweet face," murmured Belle, who was fair, and who had always longed to be dark.

"Is there a bed ready," Janet asked Mrs. Kimball.

"Yes, Madam, in the blue room." The Kimball family had a habit of distinguishing chambers by the color of the wall papers.

"That will do. We'll take her there. I think a little rest and food is all she needs. She looks as though she had walked far to-day."

A glance at the worn and dusty shoes confirmed this.

"Can we carry her, or shall I call John?" asked Cora, referring to the one man of all work, who kept the Kimball place in order.

"Oh, I think we can manage," said her mother. "She is not heavy."

It was not until Cora and her mother lifted the girl, that they realized what a frail burden she was in their arms.

"She's only a girl, yet she has the face of a woman, and with traces of a woman's troubles," whispered Belle, as Cora and Mrs. Kimball, preceded by Janet to hold aside the draperies, left the room.

"Yes. And I wonder what she meant by speaking of her father and Sea Horse Island in the way she did?" spoke Bess. "It sounds almost like a mystery!"

"Oh, you and your mysteries!" scoffed Belle. "You'd scent one, if an Italian organ grinder stopped in front of the house, looked up at your window, and played the Miserere."

"I might give him something to eat, anyhow," snapped Bess -- that is, as nearly as Bess ever came to snapping, for she was so well "padded," both in mariners and by nature, that she was too much like a mental sofa cushion to hurt even the feelings of any one.

Cora came down presently, announcing:

"She is better now. She took a little of the bouillon, but she is very weak. Mother insists on her staying in bed. She really seems a very decent sort of a person -- the girl, I mean," added Cora quickly, with a little laugh. "She was so afraid of giving trouble."

"Did she tell anything of herself?" asked Bess.

"She tried to, but mother would not hear of it until she is stronger. I really think the poor thing was starving. She can't make much of a living selling lace, though some of it is very beautiful," and Cora picked up from the library door the length that had dropped from the girl's hand.

"Wasn't it strange -- that she should come in and seem so worked-up over the mention of Sea Horse Island?" spoke Belle.

"It was," admitted Cora. "We shall have to find out about it later -- she was on the verge of telling us, when she fainted. But, girls, if I am to go get Jack, it's time I started. Are you coming?"

"Suppose we go in our car," suggested Bess.

"You may want all the room you have to spare in yours, Cora, to bring back some of his luggage. And perhaps some of the boys besides Walter may come on from Exmouth with Jack. In that case -- "'

"Exactly!" laughed Cora. "And if they do you want to be in a position to offer them your hospitality. Oh, Bess! And I thought you would be true to Jack; especially when he is so ill!"

"Cora Kimball! I'll -- " but Bess, her face flaming scarlet, found no words to express her, at least pretended, indignation. "Come on, Belle," she cried. "We won't let a boy or young man ride in our car, not even if they beg us!"

"Oh, I didn't mean anything!" said Cora, contritely. But Bess simulated indignation.

The throb of motors soon told that the three girls were on their way. Cora in her powerful car, and the twins in their new one, both heading for the railroad station, though the train was not due yet for nearly half an hour, and the run would not take more than ten minutes.

"I wonder if Walter will stay on for a few days?" asked Belle of Bess, who was steering.

"I should think so -- yes. He'll probably want to see how Jack stands the trip. Poor Jack!"

"Isn't it too bad?"

"Yes, and that reminds me. I wonder if he couldn't -- "

"Look out, for that dog!" fairly screamed Bess, as one rushed barking from a house yard. It was only instinctive screaming on the part of Bess, for it was she herself who "looked-out," to the extent of steering to one side, and so sharply that Belle gasped. And, even at that, the dog was struck a glancing blow by the wheel and with barks changed to yelps of pain, ran, retreating into the yard whence he had come, limping on three feet.

"Serves him right -- for trying to bite a hole in our tires," murmured Bess, with a show of indignation.

A slatternly woman, who had come to the door of the tumble-down house at the sound of the dog's yelps, poured out a volume of vituperation at the girls, most of it, fortunately, being lost in the chugging of the motor.

Three or four other curs came out from various hiding places to commiserate with their fellow, and the girls left behind them a weird canine chorus.

"Curious, isn't it?" observed Belle, "that the poorer the people seem, the more dogs they keep."

"What were we talking of?"

"Perhaps misery loves company," quoted Bess.

"Jack?" suggested her sister.

"No, Walter," corrected the other, and they laughed.

"What's the joke?" asked Cora, who had slowed up her car to await the on-coming of her chums. "Did you try to see how near you could miss a dog?"

"Something like that, yes," answered Bess, as she related the occurrence.

There was a period of rather tedious waiting at the station, before a whistle was heard, announcing the approach of some train.

"There it is!" cried Cora, as she jumped from her car to go to the platform.

It was only a freight engine, and the girls were disappointed. But, a few minutes later, the express sounded its blast, and, amid a whirl of dust, and a nerve-racking screech of brakes, drew into the depot.

"There's Jack!" cried Bess, grasping Cora's shoulder, and directing her gaze to a certain Pullman platform.

"And Walter's right behind him!" added Belle. "Why, he isn't carrying Jack!"

"You goose! Jack isn't as ill as all that!" laughed Cora, a bit hysterically. "Oh, Jack!" she called, waving her handkerchief.

"And there's Harry Ward!" murmured Belle.

"I didn't know he was coming, and, instinctively, her hands went to her hair. For Harry, whom Belle had met during the summer, had paid rather marked attention to her -- marked even for a summer acquaintance.

"Hello, Sis!" greeted Jack, as he came slowly forward -- and in his very slowness Cora read the story of his illness, slight though it was. "It was awfully good of you to come down," he added, as he brushed her cheek in a strictly brotherly kiss.

"My! Look at the welcoming delegation!" scoffed Walter. "I say, fellows, are there any cinders on my necktie?" and he pretended to be very much exercised.

"Oh, it's a sight!" mocked Belle. "Isn't it, girls? How are you, Jack?" she asked, more warmly, as she shook hands. "Oh! Don't you dare -- not on this platform!" she cried, as Jack leaned forward, with the evident intention of repeating his oscillatory greeting to Cora.

"All right. Come on around back, I'd just as soon," offered Jack, with something of his old, joking manner. "They can't see us there."

"I guess you know Harry -- all of you -- don't you?" put in Walter.

"Oh, yes, forgetting my manners, as usual," laughed Jack, but there was little of mirth in the sound. "Harry, the girls -- the girls -- Harry. Pleased to meet you -- and all that. Come on, Cora. I guess I'm -- tired."

His eyes showed it. Poor Jack was not at all himself.

"But how did it happen -- what's the matter?" asked Cora. "Were you suddenly stricken?"

"About like that -- yes," admitted Jack. "Trying to do too much, the doc said. I oughtn't to have made an effort for the double literature. Thought I'd save a term on it. But that, and training too hard, did me up. It's a shame, too, for we have a peach of an eleven!"

"I know, Jack, it is too bad," said Cora, sympathetically.

"Oh, it isn't that I'm actually a non-combatant, Sis, but I've lost my nerve, and what I have left is frayed to a frazzle. I've just got to do nothing but look handsome for the next three months."

"It's a good time to look that way," ventured Bess.

"Look how?" asked Jack.

"Handsome. Tell me about the pretty stranger, Cora."

"What's that?" cried Walter, crowding up. "Handsome stranger? Remember, boys, I saw her first!"

"She means the lace seller," said Belle, languidly.

"Tell you later," Cora promised.



Chapter V

Inez


They were at the autos, standing near the edge of the depot platform now. The porter had set down the grips of the boys, and had departed with that touching of the cap, and the expansive smile, which betokens a fifty-cent tip. They do not touch the cap for a quarter any more.

"How'll we piece out?" asked Jack, and his tone was listless. "Who goes with whom?"

His voice was so different from his usual joking, teasing, snapping tones that Cora looked at him again. Yes, her brother was certainly ill, though outwardly it showed only in a thinness of the bronzed cheeks, and a dull, sunken look in the eyes. A desperately tired look, which comes only from mental weariness.

"You'd better ride with me, Jack," his sister said. "The car has more room."

"Walter can come with us," suggested Jack. "I've been sort of leaning on him in the train, and it eases me. So if -- "

"Of course!" interrupted Cora quickly, and Walter, hearing his name spoken, came hurrying up, from where he had stood joking and talking with the Robinson twins at their car.

"On the job, Jack, old man!" he exclaimed. "Want me to hold your hand some more?"

"Wrenched my side a little at football," Jack explained to his sister. "It sort of eases it to lean against some one. The porter wanted to get me a pillow, but I'm not an old lady yet -- not with Wally around."

"Harry, think you'll be safe with two of them?" asked Walter, as he nodded at Bess and Belle.

"Oh, sure," he answered with a laugh. "If they promise not to rock the boat."

"Perhaps he thinks we can't drive?" suggested Belle, mockingly.

"Far be it from me to so assume!" said Harry, bowing with his hand on his right side, and then quickly transferring it, after the manner of some stage comedian. "I'd go anywhere with you!" he affirmed.

"Don't be rash!" called Jack, who had taken his place in the tonneau of Cora's car. "Come on, Walter. Leave him to his own destruction. But, I say, Cora, what's this about some new girl? Has a pretty arrival struck town? If there has, I'm glad I came home."

"It's just a poor Armenian lace peddler, who fainted from lack of food as she was talking to mother," Cora explained.

"She isn't Armenian -- she's Spanish, I'm sure of it," declared Belle, for the cars had not yet started.

"Well, Spanish then," admitted Cora.

"And she's so pretty!" put in Bess.

"Pretty! I suppose you'll be at home this evening, Jack, old chap?" asked Walter, pretending to straighten his tie, and arrange his hair.

"Is her name Carmencita or Marita?" he asked.

"We don't know, yet," Cora informed him. "The poor child wasn't able to tell us much about herself."

"Child!" exclaimed Jack. "Oh, then she's a little girl! The Mater always was great on infant classes."

"Wait until you see," advised Belle, loftily.

"You make me very curious!" mocked the invalided young man. "Drive on, Cora, and let's get the suspense over with."

Walter slipped in beside his chum, and put his arm about Jack's waist, for the wrench given Jack's side in a football scrimmage was far from healed, and often pained him severely. It was this direct cause, as much as anything else, that had pulled him down.

On the way to the Kimball home, Cora driving slowly and with careful regard for Jack's weakness, the sufferer told how he had "keeled over" in a faint, while playing the last half of a hard game, and how the team physician had insisted on his being sent home.

"And the boys very kindly offered to come with me," ended Jack.

"It's very good of them to spare the time," said Cora, with a decidedly grateful look at Walter.

"As if we wouldn't!" he said, half indignantly.

And so the cars rolled on until they turned in at the gateway of the Kimball home.

"Is she any better, Mother?" asked Cora, when Jack's mother had kissed him, and held him off at arms' length to get a better look at him.

"Who, Cora? Oh, Inez Ralcanto? Yes, she is much better. A good meal was her most pressing need."

"Inez!" murmured Jack. "Charming name. Lead me to Inez!"

"Jack!" cried Cora, in shocked accents.

His mother only smiled. It sounded like the Jack of old, and she was hopefully feeling that he was not as ill as she had been led to fear.

"Did she say anything about herself?" asked Bess, who with Belle and Harry had now come in.

"Yes, she told me her story, and I think she is anxious to repeat it to you girls," said Mrs. Kimball, looking at the Robinson twins.

"Us?"' cried Belle. "Why us in particular?"

"I don't know, but she said one of you had mentioned something about a West Indian Island -- "

"Sea Horse," explained Bess, in a low voice.

"That's it -- such an odd name," went on Mrs. Kimball. "And she is anxious to know more about your plan of going there. I could not tell her -- having heard only the vaguest rumors about your trip, my dears."

"Yes, we are going there -- or, at least, father expects to get some orchids there when we are in the West Indies," explained Bess. "But we really know nothing about the island."

"There seems to be some sort of mystery," put in Belle. "Just before she fainted, she spoke of her father. Is her name Inez, Mrs. Kimball?"

"Yes, Inez Ralcanto. She is a Spaniard. But I had rather let her tell you herself, as she is anxious to do. As soon as yow are rested -- "

"Oh, we're not tired!" interrupted Walter. "That is, unless Jack feels -- "

"Oh, never too tired to listen to a pretty girl -- especially when she is called Inez," broke in the invalided hero. "Still, perhaps Sis and the twins had better have a first whack at her. I fancy we fellows would look better with some of the car grime removed," and he sank rather wearily into a chair.

"You poor boy! You are tired!" expostulated his mother, as she put her arms about him. "You had better go to your room, and lie down. We'll have a light dinner served soon. You'll stay, of course," and she included the Robinson twins as well as Walter and Harry in her invitation.

"Oh, I don't know," spoke Harry, diffidently. He had not known the "Cheerful Chelton Crowd" as long as had Walter. "Perhaps I'd better put up at the hotel -- "

"You'll do nothing of the sort!" broke in Jack. "You and Wally will bunk in here. You forget Inez is due to give a rehearsal of the 'Prisoner of Sea Horse Island,' and you want to be here."

"Don't joke, Jack! This may be serious," said Cora, in a low voice.

"Don't worry, Sis! I feel very far from joking," and Jack put his hand to his head with a weary gesture.

"You must go and lie down," his mother said. "Dr. Blake is coming, and wants to see you. I am also going to have him for Inez. Cora, if you'll show Walter and Mr. Ward -- "'

"Please call me Harry!" he pleaded.

"Harry then," and she smiled. "Show them to their rooms -- you know, the ones next to Jack's room. Then you girls can come up and see our little stranger."

Cora, with her brother and his guests, went up stairs, but soon came down, her face flaming.

"What's the matter?" asked Belle.

"Oh, Jack! I don't believe he's ill at all!" she stormed. "It's only an excuse to escape college."

"What did he do?" asked Bess, slyly.

"Said Walter and Harry might -- kiss me!" and Cora's face flushed.

"And -- er -- did they?" asked Belle.

"Belle Robinson! If you -- well!" and Cora closed her lips in a firm line.

Her mother smiled.

"Perhaps we had better go up and see Inez," suggested Mrs. Kimball.

"Yes, do!" urged Cora, eager to change the subject.

The lace seller was sitting up in bed, and the white lounging gown that had been put on her, in exchange for her simple black dress, made her seem the real Spaniard, with her deep, olive complexion. She smiled at the sight of the girls.

"Pardon, Senoritas!" she murmured, as Cora and her chums entered the room. "I am so sorry that I give you ze trouble. It is too bad -- I am confused at my poor weakness. But I -- I -- "

"You needn't apologize one bit!" burst out Cora, generously. "I'm sure you need the rest."

"Yes, Senorita, I was weary -- so very weary. It is good -- to rest."

"I think you had better have a little more broth," suggested Mrs. Kimball. "Then Dr. Blake will be here, and can say whether it would be wise to give you something more solid. You must have been quite hungry," she added, gently.

"I -- I was, Senora -- very hungry," and taking the hand of Mrs. Kimball in her own thin, brown one, the girl imprinted a warm kiss on it.

"Do you feel well enough to talk?" asked Cora. "These are my friends. They expect to go to Sea Horse Island soon. You mentioned that, just before you fainted, and -- "

"Yes, Senorita, I did. Oh! if I could find someone to take me zere -- I would do anyzing! I would serve zem all, my life -- I would work my fingers to ze bare bones -- I would -- "

A flood of emotion seemed to choke her words.

"We'll help you all we can," interrupted Cora. "Why are you so anxious to go there?"

"Because my father -- my dear father -- he is prisoner zere, and if I go zere, I can free him!" and the girl clasped her hands in an appealing gesture.



Chapter VI

The Mysterious Man


For a moment Cora and the Robinson twins looked alternately at one another, and then at the figure of the frail girl on the bed. She seemed to be weeping, but when she took her hands down from her eyes, there was no trace of tears in them -- only a wild, and rather haunting look in her face.

"Is she -- do you think she is raving -- a little out of her mind?" whispered Belle.

"Hush!" cautioned Cora, but Inez did not seem to have heard.

"I pray your pardon -- I should not inflict my emotions on you thus," the lace seller said, with a pretty foreign accent. Only now and then did she mispronounce words -- occasionally those with the hard (to her) "th" sound.

"We shall be only too glad to help you," said Cora, gently.

"I do not know zat you can help me, Senorita," the girl murmured, "and yet I need help -- so much."

She was silent a moment, as though trying to think of the most simple manner in which to tell her story.

"You said your father was a -- a prisoner," hesitated Bess, gently. "Did he -- "

"He did nozing, Senorita!" burst out the girl. "He was thrown into a vile prison for what you call 'politics.' Yet in our country politics are not what zey are here -- so open, with all ze papairs printing so much about zem. Spanish politics are more in ze dark -- what you call under the hand."

She seemed uncertain whether she had used the right word.

"Underhanded -- yes," encouraged Cora, with a smile.

"He had enemies," proceeded the girl. "Oh, zose politic -- zose intrigues -- I know nozzing of zem -- but zey are terrible!" She spread her hands before her face with a natural, tragic gesture.

"But I must not tire you, Senoritas," she resumed. "My father, he was arrested on ze political charges. We lived on Sea Horse Island-L, it is a Spanish possession of ze West Indies. We were happy zere (it is one grand, beautiful place). Ze waters of ze bay are so blue -- so blue -- ah!"

She seemed lost in a flood of happy memories, and then, as swiftly, she apologized for giving away to her feelings.

"I should not tire you," she said.

"Oh, but we just love to hear about it," said Belle, eagerly. "We are going there -- to waters blue -- "

"That I might go wiz you -- but no, it is impossible!" the lace seller sighed.

"Tell us your story -- perhaps we can help you," suggested Cora.

"I will make for you as little weariness as I can, Senoritas; and, believe me, I am truly grateful to you," she said. "I do not even dare dream zat I could go to my father," sighed Inez, "but perhaps you will be of so great kindness as to take him a message from me. I cannot mail it -- he is not allowed to receive letters zat are not read, and we have no secret cipher we might use."

"If we can get a letter to him, rest assured we shall do so," promised Belle, though her sister rather raised her eyebrows at the rashness of the pledge.

"I cannot go into all ze details of ze politics, for I know zem not," went on the Spaniard. "All I painfully know is zat my father was thrown into prison, and our family and home broken up. My mother and I came to New York -- to relatives, but alas! my poor mother died. I was left alone. I was desolate.

"I had learned to make lace, and my friends thought I could sell it, so I began to make zat my trade. I thought I could save enough to go back to my father, and the beloved island -- perhaps to free him."

"How did you hope to do that?" asked Cora.

"Because, in New York, I found one of his political party -- himself an exile, who gave me what you call documents -- I know not ze term -- "

"Evidence?" suggested Belle.

"Zat is it. Evidence! I have evidence, zat would free my father, if I could get it to him. But I fear to send it by mail, for it would be taken -- captured by his enemies."

"It's rather complicated -- isn't it?" suggested Cora.

"Yes, Senorita -- more so even zan I am telling you. Of myself I know but little, save zat if I can get ze certain papairs to my father, he might go free. But how am I to go to Sea Horse Island, when I have not even money to buy me food to keep from starving? I ask you -- how can I? And yet I should not trouble you wiz my troubles, Senoritas."

"Oh, but we want to help you!" declared Cora, warmly.

"Surely," added Belle. "Perhaps I had better speak to my father. He may know of someone on Sea Horse Island, where he is going to gather orchids."

"No, no, Senorita! If you please -- not to speak yet!" broke in the Spanish girl suddenly. "It must be a secret -- yet. I have enemies even here."

"Enemies?" echoed Cora.

"Yes. Zey followed me from New York. Listen, I haf not yet tell you all. I make ze lace in New York, but it so big a city -- and so many lace sellers -- not of my country. It is hard for me to make even a pittance. Some of my friends, zey say to go out in ze country. So I go. But I weary you -- yes?" and with a quick, bird-like glance she asked the question.

"Oh, no, indeed!" answered Cora. Then the girl told of traveling out of New York City, into the surrounding towns, plying her humble calling. She made a bare living, that was all, dwelling in the cheapest places, and subsisting on the coarsest food in order to save her money for her father's cause. Then came a sad day when she was robbed -- in one of her, stopping places, of her little horde. She told of it with tears in her eyes.

"The poor girl!" murmured Bess, with an instinctive movement toward her pretty, silver purse.

Inez Ralcanto, for such she said was her name, her father being Senor Rafael Ralcanto, was heartbroken and well nigh discouraged at her loss. But to live she must continue, and so she did. She made barely enough to live on, by selling her laces, and since reaching Chelton the day-before, she had not sold a penny's worth. Her money was exhausted, and she was nearly on the verge of fainting when she applied at the Kimball home. Cora's mother had seemed interested in the lace, which really was beautifully worked, and while showing it on the porch, the girl had overheard the mention of her home island. The rest is known to the reader.

"And so I am so silly as to faint!" said Inez, with a little tinkling laugh. "But I faint in good hands -- I am so grateful to you!" she went on, warmly, her olive checks flushing.

"And you want to go to Sea Horse Island?" asked Belle.

"I want -- Oh! so much, Senorita. But I know it is a vain hope. But you are good and kind. If you could take zese papairs wiz you -- and manage to get zem to my father -- he could tell you how to help him. For it is all politics -- he had committed no -- what you call crime -- not a soul has he wronged. Oh, my poor father!"

"And these papers?" asked Cora. "'What are they?"

"I know not, Senorita. I am not versed in such zings. A fellow patriot of my father gave them to me."

"Have you them with you?" asked Bess.

The girl started up in bed, and clutched at her breast. A wild look came over her face.

"I had zem in New York -- I bring zem away wiz me. Zat man -- he is ze enemy of my father and his party. He know I have zem, and he try to entrap me. But I am too -- what you call foxy, for him! I slip through his fingernails. Ze papairs -- in my valise -- Oh, where is it? I -- when I faint -- I have it at my feet -- "

"It was on the porch!" exclaimed Mrs. Kimball. "I forgot all about it in the excitement. It was full of lace -- Oh, if some one has taken it!"

"And my papairs -- zat could free my father!" cried the girl.

A shout came from the front of the house.

"That's Walter's voice!" exclaimed Cora, starting up.

"Here, drop that satchel!" came the call.

The girls swept to the window in time to see a small man running down the drive, closely pursued by Walter Pennington. And, as the man fled, he dropped a valise from which trailed a length of lace. The girl, Inez, caught a reflection of the scene in a mirror of the bedroom.

"Zat is him -- ze mysterious man!" she cried.

"Oh, if he has taken my papairs!" and she seemed about to leap from the bed.



Chapter VII

New Plans


"You mustn't do that!" cried Cora. "Hold her, girls!"

"But ze man -- my papairs!" fairly screamed the Spanish visitor.

"He has nothing -- Walter is after him -- he doesn't seem to have taken anything," said Belle, soothingly, as Mrs. Kimball pressed back on the pillow the frail form of the eager girl. Inez struggled for a moment, and then lay quiet.

But she murmured, over and over again:

"Oh, if he has -- if he has -- my father -- he may never see ze outside of ze prison again!"

"We will help you," said Cora's mother, softly. "If there has been a robbery, the authorities shall be notified. I will have one of the girls inquire. You say Walter is down there, Belle?"

"Yes, and a man is running off down the road. I'll go see what it all means."

"I wish you would, please."

The eager gaze of Inez followed Belle as she left the room. The little excitement had proved rather good, than otherwise, for the patient, for there was a glow and flush to her dusky cheeks and her eyes had lost that dull, hopeless look of combined hunger and fear.

Quiet now reigned in the little chamber where the lace seller had been given such a haven of rest.

"What's it all about, Wally?" asked Belle, as she encountered the chum of Cora's brother, who was coming up the side steps bearing a black valise, from which streamed lengths of lace.

"Some enterprising beggar tried to make off with this valise," he said. "I had come down from Jack's room, and was sitting in the library, when I saw him sneak up on the porch, and try to get away with it. He dropped it like a hot potato when I sang out to him. But whose is it? Doesn't look like the one Cora uses when she goes off for a week-end, that is, unless you girls have taken to wearing more lace on your dresses than you used to."

"It belongs to the lace seller -- Inez -- you know, the one we spoke of," said Belle. "She's here -- in a sort of collapse from hunger. And she has told the strangest story -- all about a political crime -- her father in prison -- secret papers and a mysterious man after them."

"Good!" cried Waker, with a short laugh. "I seem to have fitted in just right to foil the villain in getting the papers. Say, better not let Jack know about this, or he'll be on the job, too, and what he needs just now is a rest -- eh, Harry?"

"That's it," agreed the other college youth, whom Belle had not noticed since coming down stairs in such haste.

"Wally robbed me of the honors," complained Harry. "I was just going to make after the fellow."

"And was he really going to steal the papers?" asked Belle.

"I don't know as to that," Walter answered.

"I don't know anything about any papers. But Harry and I were sitting here, after seeing that Jack was comfortable in his room, waiting for the doctor, when I heard someone come up the steps. At first I thought it was Dr. Blake himself but when the footsteps became softer, and more stealthy, as the novels have it, I took a quiet observation.

"Then I saw this Italian-looking chap reaching for the valise. I let out a yell, went after him and he dropped it. Ahem! Nothing like having a first-class hero in the family!" and Walter swelled out his chest, and looked important.

"Better find out, first, whether you saved the papers, or just the empty valise," suggested Harry, with a smile. "Such things have been known to happen, you know."

"That's right!" admitted Walter. "Guess I had better look," and he was proceeding to open a valise when Belle hastily took it from him.

"You mustn't!" she exclaimed. "It isn't ours, and poor little Inez may not like it. Leave it up to her and she can tell if anything is missing."

"Just tell that I saved it for her -- I, Walter Pennington!" begged the owner of that name. "Nothing like making a good impression, from the start, on the pretty stranger," he added. "Eh?"

"Just my luck!" murmured Harry, with a tragic air.

"Oh, you silly boys!" laughed Belle. She hastened up the stairs to the room where Inez as resting, the lace trailing from the half-opened valise.

"Oh, you have it back -- my satchel!" gasped a Spanish girl. "Oh, if ze papairs are only safe!"

They were, evidently, for she gave utterance a sigh of relief when she drew a bundle of crackling documents from a side pocket of the valise, under a pile of filmy lace, at the sight of which Cora and the girls uttered exclamations of delight. Inez heard them.

"Take it -- take it all!" she begged of them, thrusting into Mrs. Kimball's hands a mass of the beautiful cob-webby stuff. "It is all yours, and too little for what you have done for me!"

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Cora's mother. "This lace is beautiful. I shall be glad to purchase some of it, and pay you well for it -- I can't get that kind in the stores. You didn't show me this at first."

"No, Senora, I was too tired. But it is all yours. I care not for it, now zat I have ze papairs safe. Zey are for my father!"

"Do you really think some man was trying to get them?" asked Cora.

"Oh, yes, Senorita," was the serious answer.

"There was a man up on the stoop -- he had the valise, Walter said," put in Belle. "He dropped it and ran."

"Who could he be?" asked Cora.

"An enemy!" fairly hissed the Spanish girl, with something of dramatic intensity. "I tried to keep secret ze fact zat I was working for my father's release. I will not tire you wiz telling you all, but some enemies know I have papairs zat prove ze innocence of Senor Ralcanto. Zis man -- Pedro Valdez he call himself -- has been trying to get zem from me. He tried in New York, and he said he would give me no rest until he had zem. He must have been following me -- no hard task since I have traveled a slow and weary way. Zen, when he saw my valise -- he must have thought it his chance."

"How dreadful!" murmured Bess. "To think that such things could happen in Chelton!"

"And perhaps we are not at the end of them yet," said Cora, softly. "The man got away, didn't he, Belle?"

"So Walter said. Oh, dear! I'm glad we're going to the West Indies!"

"Oh, zat I were going wiz you!" exclaimed Inez, clasping her thin, brown hands in an appealing gesture. "But if you will take zese papairs, Senorita, and help to free my father -- I will never be able to repay your great kindness."

"We shall have to ask papa about it," said Bess, cautiously. "Would you like to have him come and talk to you -- he would understand about the political side of it so much better than we would."

"I would gladly welcome ze senor," said Inez, with a graceful dignity. "I shall be honored if he come."

"I think he'll be glad to," spoke Belle. "He loves anything about, politics -- he's a reformer, you know."

"And so was my father -- he belong to ze reform party -- but the others -- zey of ze old regime -- zey like not reform in Sea Horse Island," chattered Inez. "Zey lose too much money zereby. So my father he is in prison, and I am here!" she finished, softly.

"Well, it's all dreadfully mixed up," sighed Cora, "and I believe it will take your father, Belle, to straighten out some of the tangle. Meanwhile, I suppose I'd better put these papers in the safe," for Inez had thrust them into Cora's rather unwilling hands.

"Keep zem safe, if you can Senora," pleaded the girl. "Zat -- zat villain, if I must call him such -- zat Valdez may come back for zem."

Mrs. Kimball started.

"Don't worry, mother," said Cora. "Jack is home now, to say nothing of Walter and Harry."

"Oh, my poor boy!" exclaimed his mother. "I must go to him. Dr. Blake ought to be here."

"There comes his car now," volunteered Belle. "I know the sound."

Several events, of no particular importance now followed each other in rapid succession. It was Dr. Blake who had arrived, and he was soon subjecting Jack to a searching medical examination, with the result of which, only, we need concern ourselves. Cora, slipping the bundle of papers the Spanish girl had given her into the house safe, begged Walter to keep a sharp lookout for the possible return of the mysterious man, and then she went back to stay with Inez until Dr. Blake should be able to see the foreign visitor. Harry and Walter talked in the library, and Bess and Belle -- after a brief chat with the other boys, went home to tell their folks the news, and consult Mr. Robinson about the Spanish prisoner.

"Rest -- rest and a change of scene -- a complete change is all he needs," had been Dr. Blake's verdict regarding Jack. "If he could go south for the winter, it would be the making of him. He'll come back in the spring a new lad. But a rest and change he must have. His nerves demand it!"

"And we shall see that he gets it," said Mrs. Kimball. "Now about that girl, Doctor."

"Nothing the matter with her -- just starved, that's all. The easiest prescription to write in the world. Feed her. You've already got a good start on it. Keep it up."

"Of course you can't advise us about her father, and the story she tells."

"No. She seems sincere, though. As you say, Mr. Robinson, with his business connections, will be the best one at that end of it."

"Poor girl," murmured Cora. "I do hope we can help her."

"She has been helped already," the physician informed her. "And, if I am any judge by the past activities of the motor girls, she is in for a great deal more of help in the future," and he laughed and pinched Cora's tanned check.

"Will you need to see Jack again?" asked his mother.

"Not until just before he goes away. The less medicine he takes the better, though I'll leave a simple bromide mixture for those shrieking nerves of his -- they will cry out once in a while -- the ends are all bare -- they need padding with new thoughts. Get him away as soon as you can."

It was a new problem for the Kimball family to solve, but they were equal to it. Fortunately, money matters did not stand in the road, and since Jack was not to keep up his studies, and since Cora had "finished," there were no ties of location to hinder.

"I guess we'll all have to go away," sighed Mrs. Kimball. "I had rather counted on a quiet winter in Chelton, but of course now we can't have it."

"Perhaps it will be all for the best," suggested Cora. "If Bess and Belle are going away, I won't have any fun here alone."

A little silence followed this remark. The Robinson twins, who had just come back for an evening call, sat looking at each other. Between them they seemed to hide some secret.

"You tell her, Bess," suggested Belle.

"You, you, dear!"

"Is there anything?" asked Cora, smiling at her chums.

"Oh, dear, it's the best thing in the world -- if you'll consent to it!" burst out Bess. "Listen! Papa and mamma want you to come with us, Cora -- to the West Indies. They'd love to have you and your mother."

"We couldn't leave Jack!" said Cora, softly.

"Bring him along!" invited Belle. "It would be just the thing for him -- wouldn't it, Dr. Blake?"

"The West Indies? Yes, I should say there couldn't be a better place."

"Oh!" gasped Cora.

"Do say yes, Mrs. Kimball!" pleaded Belle.

"What about poor little Inez?" questioned Cora. "Did you tell your father, Bess?"

"Yes, and he seems to think there may be something in it. He is going to make inquiries. Oh, but let's settle this first. Will you come with us, Mrs. Kimball -- Cora? And bring Jack! Oh, it would be just perfect to have you with us."

"Could we go, Mother?" Cora pleaded.

"Why, it is all so sudden -- and yet there is no good reason why we shouldn't."

"Good!" cried Walter. "I'm coming, too! I never could leave old Jack! Ho, for the West Indies!"



Chapter VIII

The Dream Of Inez


"Oh, Walter, are you really going?"

"Do you mean it?"

"Are you joking?"

Thus Belle, Bess and Cora questioned Jack's chum, who stood in the center of the library, one hand thrust between two buttons of his coat, and the other raised above his head like some political orator of the old school.

"Mean it? Of course I mean it!" he exclaimed, while Dr. Blake chuckled. "I need a rest and change. Anyone will tell you that -- er my appetite is not what it once was."

"No, it's on the increase," murmured Harry.

"And as for nerves -- "

"Nerve, you mean," Harry went on. "You have more than your share."

"There, you see!" declaimed Walter, triumphantly. "I simply need some change."

"Better pay back what you borrowed of me to fee the Pullman porter," went on his tormentor.

"Hush!" ordered Walter, imperiously. "I'll pay you -- when I come back from the West Indies."

"You seem to think it's all settled," laughed Cora.

"It is, as far as I'm concerned," said Walter, coolly. "If I can't go any other way I'll go as a valet to Mr. Robinson, or courier to the rest of the family. I can speak the language -- habe Espanola? Oh, you simply can't get along without me -- especially as I'll pay my own fare. And, Jack'll need me, too. It's all settled."

Mrs. Kimball looked at Dr. Blake. There was a serious and questioning look on her face.

"What do you think, Doctor?" she asked.

"Professionally, I should say it was an excellent chance," he replied. "It would do Jack a world of good, and, though neither you nor Cora seems to be in need of recuperation, I have no doubt you would enjoy the trip."

"Then you simply must come!" cried Belle. "I'll 'phone papa at once."

"Not quite so fast, my dear," said Mrs. Kimball, gently. "I must first see if Jack would like it."

"He's sure to," declared Cora, who already had visions of palm-tufted coral islands, and deep blue waters.

"Just tell him he's going," suggested Dr. Blake. "Patients, such as he, don't need much urging one way or the other. The trouble is they are too little inclined to resist."

He took up his, hat, as a signal that he was going, and once more expressing his professional opinion that the change would be the best possible medicine for Jack, took his leave.

"Let's go up and tell Jack now," suggested Cora, who, the more she thought of the new plan, more cordially welcomed it.

"It might disturb his night's rest," objected her mother. "He has had a hard day, traveling and all that -- "

"He seemed very bright," put in Walter. "I think it would give him something good to think of. He's been brooding too much over having to quit the football eleven and his favorite studies."

"Then tell him, by all means," assented Mrs. Kimball. "May we count on you, if we make up a party to go to the West Indies?" she asked of Harry.

"I'm afraid not, thank you. I'd give anything to go, but I can't spare the time from college. Some other occasion, perhaps."

As Walter had predicted, Jack took fire at once oh hearing the proposal.

"It'll be great!" he declared. "I've always wanted to go. I wonder what sort of a boat we could get down there, Wally? It would be immense to go on a cruise, among those hundreds of islands."

"Time enough to think of that when we get there, old man. Then you'd like to go?"

"I sure would. Tell Mr. Robinson thanks -- a hundred times."

"I'll save some of them for to-morrow; it's getting late. Now turn over, and go to sleep."

"Sleep! As if I could sleep with that news! Let's talk about it!"

And they did -- the girls coming up with Mrs. Kimball for a brief chat. Then the invalid was ordered to quiet down for the night.

Walter, with Harry, who was to remain at the Kimball residence for a few days, went home with the Robinson twins in their car, Cora trailing along in her automobile to bring back the boys.

The next day nothing was talked of but the prospective trip. Walter wired his people and received permission to absent himself from college, ostensibly to help look after Jack. As Harry had said, he could not go, but Mrs. Kimball and Cora fully made up their minds to make the journey with Jack, and close up the Chelton home for the winter months.

"But what about Inez and her political problem?" asked Belle, when this much had been settled. "She doesn't want to stay and be, as she says, a burden on you any longer, poor little girl."

"She's far from being a burden," spoke Cora. "Why, mother says the lace she sold us was the most wonderful bargain, even though we did give her more than she asked for it. And as for making pretty things, why she's a positive genius. My pretty lace handkerchief that was so badly torn, she mended beautifully. And she is so skillful with the needle! Mother says she never need go out peddling lace again. There are any number of shops that would be glad to have her as a worker."

"It's so good she fell into your hands," murmured Bess. "But, as you say, what about her? Papa has looked over her papers, and he says there is really enough evidence in them to free Mr. Ralcanto. Papa even cabled to some business friends in San Juan, and they confirmed enough of Inez's story to make him believe it all.

"Of course I don't understand -- I never could make head nor tail of politics, but there seems to be a conspiracy to keep Mr. Ralcanto in jail, and treat him shamefully. Inez did accidentally find the evidence to free him, and her father's enemies tried to get it away from her."

"Then that man whom Walter saw," began Cora, "was -- "

"He might have been after the papers," interrupted Bess, "and again, he might have been only a tramp, hoping to get a valise full of lace. At any rate, he hasn't been around again."'

"Mother told our man John to be on the watch for him," said Cora. "And now lets consider what we are going to do. What shall I need to take in the way of clothes?"

"Only your very lightest, my dear," suggested Belle. "Of course the trip down on the steamer will be cool -- at least the first day or so. Well start in about two weeks. That will bring us to Porto Rica about, the beginning of the dry season -- the most delightful time."

"And is your father really going to try to have the Spanish prisoner released?" asked Cora.

"He says he is, my dear. And when papa makes up his mind to do a thing, it is generally done," said Bess. "Besides, he has learned that Mr. Ralcanto did some political favors for friends of papa's. That is before the poor man was put in prison. Which brings us back to Inez -- what about her, Cora?"

"I have just thought of something," murmured Jack's sister. "As I said, she has several times suggested going, now she is practically assured that something will be attempted for her father. But I was just wondering why we couldn't take her with us?"

"Of course!" cried Belle.

"Mamma was going to take Janet for a maid," Cora resumed, "but Janet isn't very keen on going. I fancy she thinks the West Indian Islands are inhabited by cannibals."

"The idea!" laughed Bess.

"Well, I found her reading some books on African travel," Cora went on, "and she asked me if the climate wasn't about the same. She seems to think all hot countries are the homes of cannibals. So I imagine Janet will refuse to go -- at the last moment."

"Would Inez go, as a maid?" asked Belle.

"I fancy so. She says she has done so before, since the change in her fortunes. And mother and I like her very much. Besides, she speaks Spanish, and that would be a great help."

"Why, Walter said -- " began Bess, wonderingly.

"He knows just two words of Spanish, and he speaks them as though he were a German comedian," declared Cora. "Wally is all right otherwise, but as a translator of the Castilian tongue, I wouldn't trust him to ask what time it was," she laughed. "But Inez would be such a help."

"Then why don't you take her?" asked Bess. And, when it had been talked over with Mrs. Kimball, it was practically decided upon.

"Lets go tell Inez," proposed Belle, "when the decision had been reached. It will be such a surprise to her."

The Spanish girl, though not fully recovered from the long period of insufficient food and weary toil, had insisted upon taking up some of the duties, of the Kimball home. But Cora's mother required that she rest a portion of each day to recover her strength. And, as the girls sought her in her own little room (for Inez was anything but a servant), they found her just awakening from a sleep.

"Oh, Senoritas!" she exclaimed, her cheeks flushed under their olive tint. "I have had such a beautiful dream. I dreamed I was back in my own dear country -- on Sea Horse Island. Oh, but ze palms waved a welcome to me, and ze waters -- ze so blue waters -- zey sang a song to me. Ze blue waves broke on ze coral -- as I have seen it so, often. Oh, but, Senoritas, I was sorry to awaken -- so sorry -- for it was but a dream."

"No, Inez, it was not all a dream," said Cora, gently. "If you like, you may go back to Sea Horse Island. We will take you to Porto Rico with us, and from there you can easily go to your own island."

"Oh, will you -- will you take me, Senoritas?" cried Inez, kneeling at Cora's feet. "Oh, but it is magnificent of you!" and she covered Cora's hands with kisses.



Chapter IX

Off To Waters Blue


"Oh, Jack! Aren't you just wild to go?"

"I don't know, Cora. Anything for a change, I suppose," was the listless answer. "I'd go anywhere -- do anything -- just to get one good night's sleep again."

"You poor boy! Didn't you rest well?"

"A little better than usual, but I'm so dead tired when I wake up -- I don't seem to have closed my eyes."

Jack's nervous trouble had taken the turn of insomnia -- -that bugbear of physician and patient alike -- and while the others had their night hours filled with dreams, or half-dreams, of pleasant anticipation, poor Jack tumbled and tossed restlessly.

"I'm sure you will be much better when we get to San Juan," affirmed Cora. "The sea voyage will do you good, and then down there it will be such a change for you."

"I suppose it will," assented her brother. "But just now I don't feel energetic enough even to head a rescue party for Senor Ralcanto."

That remark seemed very serious to Cora, for her brother was of a lively and daring disposition, always the leader in any pranks. Now, his very listlessness told how strong a hold, or, rather, lack of hold, his nerves had on him.

"Never mind," said Cora cheerfully. "Once we get started, and with Wally, Bess and Belle to cheer you up, I'm sure you'll be much better."

"Anything for a change," again assented Jack, without enthusiasm.

Arrangements were rapidly being made. The Kimball and Robinson homes in Chelton would be closed for, the winter, for the families planned to stay in the West Indies until spring should have again brought forth the North into its green attire. Walter Pennington had agreed to stay as long as Jack did, and Mrs. Kimball, being of independent means, as were Mr. and Mrs. Robinson, could prolong their cruise indefinitely, if they so desired.

As for the girls, it was like standing on the threshold of a new wonderland. They did not know all the wonders they were about to see, nor did they dream of all the strange experiences and adventures in which they, would play an active part.

Inez had communicated with the few distant friends she had in New York, telling them of her great joy in being able to get back to Sea Horse Island. And her father, too, might find happiness in release from his political prison.

The Spanish girl would go as a maid and companion to Mrs. Kimball, and Inez rejoiced in her new duties. Cora's mother declared Inez was a jewel.

The papers that it was hoped would free Mr. Ralcanto were carefully concealed for taking with the party, for, though Jack and Walter scoffed at the idea of anyone daring to try to get them, Mr. Robinson was not so sanguine.

"Down there conditions are very different from up here," he said. "They haven't the same wholesome regard for law -- or, rather, they take it into their own hands, as suits their fancy. And if any one of the political party opposed to Mr. Ralcanto, was to see a chance, even up north here, I don't doubt but that he'd take it, and make off with the papers.

"Of course we might manage to do without them, but there is no use running unnecessary risks. So I'll just put them where they won't find them in a hurry."

A search had been made in Chelton for the mysterious man who had tried to make off with Inez's valise, but all trace of him was lost. He might have been merely a passing tramp.

The girls were in a constant flutter of excitement. There was so much to do, and so many new garments to secure. The two motor cars were kept in constant use, Bess, Belle and Cora darting back and forth in their respective houses, or to the Chelton shops. Occasionally they made a trip to New York for something which simply could not properly be had at the home stores.

As for Jack and Walter, they declared that they we're ready to start on ten minutes notice.

"All we have to do is to chuck a few things in a suit case, and buy our tickets," Walter declared. "I always carry a tooth brush with me."

"Wonderful -- marvelous!" mocked Bess.

"Superior creatures -- aren't they?" suggested Cora, smiling.

And so the preparations went on. The party was to sail in a fruit steamer from New York, and would land at San Juan, where Mr. Robinson had engaged rooms at the best hotel. He expected to do considerable business there, but future plans were not all settled.

"At any rate, we'll have a most glorious time!" declared Bess, "and I'm sure it will do Jack good."

"I think its done him some good already just thinking about it," replied Cora. "Though he declares that he doesn't care much, one way or the other. It isn't like Jack to be thus indifferent."

"He doesn't seem so very indifferent -- just now," commented. Belle, dryly. "He and Walter are trying to explain to Inez how a motor car works and I do believe Jack is holding her hand much longer than he needs, to in showing her how the gears are shifted."

The three girls -- Cora and her chums -- were in Cora's room, making a pretense at packing. They could look down to the drive at the side of the house -- where Jack's car stood after a little run. As Belle had said, Jacks indifference seemed partially to have vanished. For he was enthusiastic in imparting some information to Inez.

As I have explained, the position of the pretty Spanish girl was much different from that of an ordinary servant. She was more like a companion. And, now that a rest and good food had rounded out her hollow cheeks, she was distinctively pretty, with that rather bold and handsome type of beauty for which the southern women are so noted. Jack and Walter both seemed much impressed. The girls were not jealous -- at least not yet -- of Inez.

Inez was so delighted with the prospect of getting back to her own island, and with the chance of helping free her father, that it is doubtful if she looked upon Jack and Walter with any more seeing eyes than those which she would have directed to small boys at their play. She liked them. She liked them to show her about the automobile, and she laughed frankly with them -- but she was totally ingenuous.

"And she could be so -- so dangerous -- if she chose," murmured Belle.

"What do you mean?" asked Cora.

"I mean -- with her languorous," was the murmured reply.

Cora looked sharply at her chum, but said nothing.

The last gown had been delivered, and the trunks needed but the straps around them to close their lids. The Chelton houses had been put in readiness for their lonely winter, and already the tang of frost in the late October air had brought the advance message of Jack Frost.

Some few purchases remained for Mrs. Robinson and Mrs. Kimball to make, but these were deferred until the trip to New York to take the steamer. They would remain a day or so in the metropolis before sailing.

"One last run in our cars, and then well put them away," suggested Cora to her chums.

"We'll come along," Jack invited himself and Walter.

They had a glorious day in the open. Then the gasoline tanks were emptied, the radiators drained, and the cars put away in the garage.

"I do hope we can do some motor boating down there," said Jack, with something like a return of his former interest.

"We shall, I'm sure," said Bess. "'They say it is ideal for the sport there."

Inez had sent word to her father that an attempt would be made to free him. That is, she had sent the message. Whether it would reach him or not was another question, for his political enemies had him pretty well hedged about.

New York was no novelty to our friends, for they often ran in during the winter. The days there were busy ones, and passed quickly.

Their luggage was put aboard the steamer, the last purchases had been made, and now they were ready themselves to walk up the gang-plank.

"Well, girls, are you all ready to leave?" asked Mr. Robinson, as he came on deck.

"All ready -- for waters blue!" half chanted Cora.

"Inez," she asked, "would you mind going down and seeing if mother has everything she wants?"

"I go, Senorita," murmured the Spanish girl. As she turned to make her way to Mrs. Kimball's stateroom, Inez started and drew back at the sight of a very fat man just coming aboard. "Zat man! Here!" she gasped, and Cora turned to see Inez shrink out of sight behind one of the lifeboats.



Chapter X

The Blue Waters


"What is the matter, my dear girl?" asked Cora, when she had recovered from the little start Inez gave her. "Did that man do anything -- or speak to you?" and she looked indignantly about for a ship's officer to whom to complain.

"No! No -- not that!" cried the Spanish girl, quickly. "He did not speak -- he did not even look!"

"Then why are you so alarmed?"

"It is because I know zat man -- I know him when I am in New York before. He try to find out from me about my father," and a shivering, as if of fear, seemed to take possession of the timid girl.

"Do you mean he belonged to the political party that put your father in prison?"

"Zat is it. Oh, but zese politics! I know not what zey mean, but zey are trouble -- trouble always. Now zat man he is here -- he is looking for me, I am sure."

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Cora, determined, whether she believed it or, not, to make light of the matter, for Inez was certainly much alarmed.

"I don't believe he even knows you are on board," Jack's sister went on, "But we'll speak to Mr. Robinson about it. He'll know what to do. Do you think that man saw you?"

"I know not, Senorita Cora. But I am much afraid!"  There was no doubt of that; the girl's eyes and every movement, showed her alarm.

"Come along!" Cora forced herself to say brightly. "We'll soon settle this matter. We'll find out who that man is, and -- "

"Oh, no! No, Senorita. Do not trouble. It you should do zat, zis man would only make matters worse for my poor father. Let him alone!"

"And have you, and us, worrying all the time on this voyage? Indeed, I'll not."

This was not Cora's way. She never shrank from doing what she considered to be her duty. In this case, her duty lay in finding out whether or not there was a real, or fancied enemy, of Mr. Ralcanto's aboard.

The man who had caused this little flurry of excitement, had, by this time, gone down to his stateroom. Other belated passengers were hurrying aboard, the last consignment of freight was being brought to the dock, and preparations for leaving were multiplying.

"I might as well wait until I can see him, you can point him out to me again," said Cora, "and then I'll show him to Mr. Robinson. He can speak to the captain, and find out who the big man is."

"Very well, Senorita," assented Inez. "But I do not wish to give annoyance. I have already been such a burden -- "

"Nonsense!" Cora cried. "We've undertaken this business of getting your father out of that political prison, and we're going to do it. I think we're going to start now."

There was little doubt about it. Bells were jingling, whistles were blowing and men were hoarsely shouting. Then the gang-plank was pulled to the dock, away from the steamer's side, just after a last belated passenger had run up it.

Mooring ropes were cast off, and then with a blast from her siren, that fairly made the decks tremble, the ship was slowly pushed out into the river to drop down the harbor, and so on her way to Porto Rico.

It was just before the pilot was about to leave, that Cora got a chance to carry out her intention of drawing the attention of Mr. Robinson to the mysterious man who had so seriously alarmed Inez.

The personal baggage of our travelers had been put away in the respective staterooms, and they were all up on deck watching the scenes about the harbor. Inez, who was standing near Mrs. Kimball and Cora, suddenly gave a start, and touching Jack's sister on the arm, whispered:

"There he is!  And he is looking right at me!"

Cora turned quickly. She did behold the gaze of the fat man directed in rather scrutinizing fashion on the Spanish girl, and, as he saw that he was attracting attention, he quickly averted his eyes. In appearance he was a Cuban or Spaniard, well dressed and prosperous looking, but not of prepossessing appearance.

At that moment Mr. Robinson strolled past, talking to the captain whom he knew, for the twins' father had long been engaged in a branch of the coffee importing business, and had much to do with ships.

"Now is my chance," thought Cora. "I'll find out who that man is."

She whispered to Inez to keep the mysterious stranger in view, while she herself went to speak to Mr. Robinson and the captain. She had previously been introduced to the commander, and found him most agreeable.

Cora quickly explained to Mr. Robinson the little alarm Inez had experienced, and requested him to find out, from the captain, who the man was.

"That man?" queried the commander, in answer to Mr. Robinson's question. "Why, he is an old traveler with me. He goes up and down to Porto Rico quite often. He's a coffee merchant, Miguel Ramo by name, and very wealthy, I believe. Do you wish to meet him?"

"Oh, no!" said Cora hastily, and with a meaning look at Mr. Robinson, "I -- I just wanted to know who he was."

"He has a very interesting personality," went on the captain. "He has been through a number of revolutions in his own native country, of Venezuela, and, I believe, has mixed up, more or less, with politics in Porto Rico. He tells some queer stories."

"Perhaps I shall be glad to make his acquaintance, later," murmured Mr. Robinson, as Cora, with a meaning look, slipped away. She had found out part of what she wanted to know.

While Mr. Robinson and the captain continued their stroll along deck, Cora slipped to where Inez was waiting.

"Do you know a Senor Miguel Ramo?" asked Jack's sister.

Inez puckered her brow in thought.

"No," she said slowly, "I do not know ze name, but I am sure zat man was on Sea Horse Island when my father was taken to prison. I am fearful of him."

"Well, you needn't be," declared Cora, lightly. "Remember you're with us, and under the protection of Mr. Robinson. Besides, that man seems well known to Captain Watson, and, even if he is a revolutionist, he may not be a bad one."

Inez shook her head. The sad experiences through which she had passed had not tended to make her brave and self-reliant, as was Cora. But, even at that, Inez could not but feel the helpful influence of the motor girls, and already, from their influence, she, had gained much.

Out of seeming confusion and chaos came order and discipline, and soon matters were running smoothly aboard the vessel. Jack and Walter came up on-deck, with Bess and Belle, and the young people, including Inez, who was regarded more as a companion than as a maid, formed one of the group that watched the shores and ships slipping past, as they went through the Narrows, and out into the bay.

Cora told of the little alarm Inez had experienced, and Walter was at once anxious to establish a sort of espionage over the suspect. Jack agreed with him, and doubtless they would have constituted themselves a committee of two to "dog" the footsteps of the fat man, had not Cora firmly interfered.

"Mr. Robinson is looking after him," said Jack's sister, "and he'll do all that is necessary. Besides, I don't believe that man is the one Inez thinks he is. She isn't quite so sure as she was; are you?"

"No, Senorita. And yet -- I know not why but I am of a fear about him."

"Don't you worry -- I'll look out for you!" said Jack, taking her hand, which Inez, with a pretty blush, hastily snatched away from him.

The pilot was "dropped," and then began the real voyage of about fifteen hundred miles to San Juan. It was destined to be uneventful, so we shall not concern ourselves with it, except to say that though Mr. Robinson kept a close watch on Senor Ramo, he could detect nothing that could connect him with the imprisonment of the father of Inez. If the coffee merchant were in any way responsible, he betrayed no sign of it, not even when Mr. Robinson, in conversation with him, introduced the name of Senor Ralcanto. So, unless the fat man was an excellent actor, it was decided Inez had been mistaken.

She herself, however, would not admit this, and continued to believe the man an enemy of her family. She avoided meeting him, and when she saw him on deck, she went back to her stateroom.

The weather had been cold, sharp and rather dreary on leaving New York, and warm clothing and coats were in demand. But in a day or so the balmy winds of the south began to make themselves felt, and the travelers were glad to don lighter clothing.

Mr. Robinson had been to Cuba, though not to Porto Rico, but the islands, are much the same, and his knowledge of one sufficed for the other. Inez, too, was of service to the girls and the two ladies in telling them what to wear.

Mr. Robinson and the boys were comfortable in suits of thin Scotch tweed, once the southern limits were reached, and later they changed to linen of the kind they used during their stay. Mrs. Robinson, Mrs. Kimball, and the girls varied from brown silks to linens, and found them perfectly well suited to the climate.

The days slipped by. The sun became warmer and warmer, and then, one morning, as the party came on, deck after breakfast, Cora, going forward, called out:

"Oh, see how blue the water is!"

"Isn't it!" agreed Bess.

"How beautiful!" murmured Belle.

"Now we are coming to my country," said Inez, softly. "Off there is Porto Rico, and beyond -- beyond is Sea Horse Island -- and my father!"

There were traces of tears in her eyes. Cora softly slipped her hand into that of the pretty refugee.



Chapter XI

In San Juan


The anchor splashed into the blue waters of San Juan Bay. The ship swung around at her cable, and came to rest, and then up came the small boats with their skippers, eager to obtain fares and the transportation of baggage. Sailing craft there were, puffing tugs, old-fashioned naphtha launches and the more modern gasoline launches, all-swarming about the steamer.

"Look at that!" cried Jack, as he viewed the scene before him. "What does it all mean? Why don't we go up to the dock in regular style, and not stop away out here?"

"There aren't any really good docks in San Juan, though there may be some built soon," said Mr. Robinson. "We'll have to go ashore in some of these craft. They're all right. I'll see to our luggage."

"Well, this is some difference from New York," commented Jack.

"Yes, and that's the beauty of it," remarked his sister. "It is the change that is going to do you good, Jack dear," and she smiled at him, brightly.

"I'm beginning to feel better already, Sis," he answered, and there was a keener look in his eyes that had been so tired, while his checks were flushed with the warmth of the air, and the excitement in anticipation of new scenes.

"Well, get ready, girls!" called Mr. Robinson, "Get all your furbelows and fixings together, and we'll go ashore in one of these boats. My! but it's warm!"

It was hot, with the heat of the tropics, for the rainy season was not yet fully over, though it was approaching its end, and more pleasant weather might be expected.

Porto Rico, I might explain, nearly resembles the climate of Florida, though it is not quite so hot in summer, nor so cold in winter. It is nearly always like June in Porto Rico, the thermometer then, and in July, reaching its maximum of eighty-six, the average being seventy-two.

Mr. Robinson bargained with the skipper of a large and new motor boat to take him, his party and their baggage ashore, and when the trunks and bags had been transferred, off they started over the blue waters toward the small, docks, at which were congregated many small fishing craft.

"Oh, but it is beautiful!" exclaimed Cora, as she looked down into the waters, which were of an intense blue, even close to shore. That is characteristic of this coral land, the ocean near the coast being always that blue, except where it is colored by the inflowing of some large stream.

Before them lay the city itself, a city of many white buildings, the color of which met and blended with the tints of the mountains beyond, and those tints varied from olive green, into olive brown, indigo, and, in some places, even to the more brilliant ultramarine. The motor girls gazed at the scene with eager eyes, and into those of Inez came tears of joy, for she was, every minute, coming nearer and nearer to the land she loved -- the land where her father was a prisoner.

Up to the small dock puffed the motor boat, and when Mr. Robinson demanded to know the price, the boatman named a sum that instantly brought forth a voluble protest from the Spanish girl. At once she and the boatman engaged in a verbal duel.

"Mercy!" exclaimed Bess. "What can have happened? Is he some brigand who wants to carry us off?"

"Or a pirate?" suggest Jack. "He looks like one. Wally, have you a revolver with you?"

"Don't you dare!" cried Belle, covering her ears with her hands.

"He want to charge two pesos too much!" explained Inez, when she had her breath. "It is not lawful!" and once more she expostulated in Spanish.

The boatman, with a shrug of his shoulders, as much as to ask, "How can one quarrel with a woman?" accepted the amount Inez picked out from the change Mr. Robinson held out, and then they went ashore, their luggage being put on the pier.

The boatman was sullen about the failure of his trick, until Mr. Robinson, who was an experienced traveler, slipped him a coin, which must have been large enough to make up for the disappointment, for the man murmured: "Muchas gracias!" and fell to with a will to help the travelers get their belongings into a carriage.

"What did he say to papa?" asked Bess, of Inez.

"Many thanks," translated the Spanish girl.

"I must practice that!" spoke Jack. "What else do you say in this country, Inez?"

"Oh, many zings, Senor," and she blushed prettily. "It all depends on what you want. But many here speak ze English as you do. Zere is little trouble."

"What would I do if I wanted a glass of ice cream soda water?" asked Walter. "And I feel like one now."

"Zere is not so much of your ice-cream soda here," went on Inez, "but ozer drinks are of a goodness. Cocoanut milk is much nice. If in a store you go, say 'Quiero' (ke-a-ro), which means 'I want.' And zen name zat which you desire. You will of a soon learn ze Spanish for many zings."

"And how shall we know what to pay?" asked Bess.

"Say 'Cuanto?'" directed Inez. "Cuanto (koo-ahn-to) means 'how much,' and the man will soon tell you -- if, indeed, he does not tell you too much. But you will soon learn."

"I have a better way than all this cuanto and piero business," spoke Walter.

"How?" asked Jack. "Show me."

"Go in the place, make a noise like the article you want, or, better still, go pick it out from the shelves, hold out a handful of money, and let the fellow help himself," was Walter's way out of the difficulty. "He'll probably leave you enough for carfare."

"Well, that is a good way, too," agreed Jack.

"We'll try both."

The travelers were distributed in two carriages, their heavy luggage being put in a wagon to follow them to the hotel. On the way to their stopping place, Cora and her chums were much interested in the various sights. They had come to a typical tropical Spanish city, though it was under the dominion of the United States.

No one seemed in a hurry, and, though there were many whites, including Spaniards, to be seen, the majority of the inhabitants were of negro blood, the gradations being from very black to a mulatto, with a curious reddish tinge, in hair and skin, showing Spanish blood.

It was quite a different hotel from the one they had stopped at in New York, there being none of that smartness of service one looks for in the metropolis.

But the rooms were comfortable, and the travelers were assured of good cooking, Inez said. However, there was a penetrating odor of onion and garlic from the direction of the kitchen, that made Jack say to his mother, apprehensively:

"I say, Mater, you know I can't go onions, especially since I am down on my feed. What'll I do? I can stand their red pepper, but onions never!"

"You shall but ask zat none be put in your food, and none will," said Inez. "Many travelers do so. I, myself, do not like onions any more."

"I'm glad of it!" said Jack. "You can sit next to me at table, Inez," whereat she blushed under her olive hue.

Mr. Robinson, seeing that the ladies, girls and youths were comfortably settled in their new quarters, went off to see some business associates, promising to come back in time for an afternoon drive, following the siesta.

"For everyone takes a siesta," explained Inez, speaking of the "afternoon nap."

The drive about the city, and out a distance into the country, was enjoyed by all. Jack seemed to be improving hourly, and his mother and sister assured each other that no mistake had been made in bringing him to Porto Rico.

"And, now that we have him in a fair way to getting better, we must see what we can do to help Inez," said Cora. "I am sure she will never be happy until she is on her way to Sea Horse Island, and is able to start measures for freeing her father."

"I fancy we had better let Mr. Robinson attend to those matters," Mrs. Kimball said. "He knows best what moves to make. Poor girl! I know just how she feels."

The party stopped for a while to look at the statue of Columbus, who discovered Porto Rico on his second voyage. From there, they drove about the city, admiring the various buildings of Spanish architecture, and, as a finish to the drive, went to the old morro -- fort or castle -- of San Juan. All signs of the bombardment by Admiral Sampson's fleet, during the Spanish-American War, had been done away with. It was a place of interest to them all, for it was very old, and had withstood many attacks. They went through the watch-tower and also the lighthouse.

"Well, I think we've done enough for one day," announced Cora, as they started back for the hotel. "I'm quite done out, and I'm sure Jack must be tired."

"A little," he admitted.

A concert in the evening, a stroll about the plaza, watching the pretty Spanish girls, and the homely duennas, brought the day to a close.

"And now for bed," sighed Cora. "I wonder if one dreams in San Juan any differently than in Chelton?"

"Cheerful Chelton!" cried Bess. "Doesn't it seem far away!"

All the rooms of our party were near together on the same corridor, Bess, Belle and Cora having connecting apartments. They left the doors open between, and it was due to this that Cora heard, soon after falling into a light doze, the voice of Belle calling her.

"Cora! Cora!" came the entreaty.

"Yes -- what is it?" asked Cora, sleepily.

"Some one is in my room!" hissed Belle, in a stage whisper.

"Oh!" cried Cora, and she sat up suddenly, and pulled the cord of the electric light.



Chapter XII

Left Alone


The flood of radiance from the electric light shone from Cora's room, into that where Belle was, and with the gleam of the modern illumination, Cora's bravery grew apace.

"What did you say, Belle?" she asked, now quite wide awake. "Are you ill?"

"No, but, oh! I'm so frightened. There's some one in my room! I'm sure of it!"

"Nonsense!"

"I tell you I can hear some one walking around!" insisted Belle.

"Did you get up and look?" asked Cora.

"Did I get up? Indeed I did not!" was the indignant answer. "I'm scared stiff as it is."

"And you want me to look?" murmured Cora.

"Oh, but you have your light lit, Cora dear. And really I am afraid to get up. Do come and see what it is. Perhaps it's only one of those large fruit bats that Inez told us about."

"A bat! Indeed I'll not come in and have it get tangled in my hair!" objected Cora. "I'm going to call some one of the hotel help."

But there was no need, for Jack, whose room was across the corridor from that of his sister, heard the talking, and, getting into a dressing gown and slippers, he knocked at Cora's door.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Belle thinks she hears something in her room."

"It's in mine, now," called out Bess, whose apartment was beyond that of her sister.

"Open the door, and I'll have a look," suggested Jack, good-naturedly.

"Wait a minute," Cora said, and, slipping into a robe, she admitted her brother.

"Now we'll see what's going on," he promised.

"Cover up your heads, girls," he called to Bess and Belle, as he and Cora went into the room of the latter. "If it's a villain, you won't get nervous when you see me squelch him."

"Oh!" faintly murmured Belle, as she pulled the covers over her head. Jack groped for the electric switch and found it, making light Belle's room.

"I don't see a thing," he announced, looking carefully about.

"It is in here!" said Bess, faintly. "I can hear it walking about. It's rattling some papers in a corner of my room."

Jack and Cora went on through to the farther apartment, and Jack, turning on the light there, approached a pile of paper Bess had tossed in one corner after unwrapping some purchases made during the day.

"Look out!" warned Cora, while Bess adopted the same protective measures as had her sister. "It may be a rat -- or -- or something!"

"Most likely -- something," said Jack. He began picking up piece after piece of paper, and then he suddenly uttered an exclamation.

"Ah! Would you!" he snapped, and, standing on one foot, he took the slipper from the other, holding his bare member carefully off the floor, while he slapped viciously at the pile of papers with his bedroom weapon.

"Got him!" he announced triumphantly, after two or three blows.

"What was it -- a bat?" asked Bess, in muffled tones.

"A centipede," answered Jack. "A big one, too. About seven inches long."

"And their bite is -- death!" murmured Bess, in awe-stricken tones.

"Nothing of the sort, though it's very painful" said Jack, shortly. "Just as well to keep clear of them, however. I'll throw this defunct specimen out of the window."

"Please do, and be sure my screen is down," begged Bess. "I wonder how he got in?"

"Oh, there are more or less of them in all hotels, I guess," said Jack, cheerfully enough.

"Don't you dare say so!" cried Belle. "Please look around my room, and leave the light burning. I know I'll never sleep a wink."

Jack tossed out the centipede he had killed, and then looked among the waste paper for more, standing with his bare foot raised, and with ready slipper, for the bite of this insect, which grows to a large size in Porto Rico, is anything but pleasant, though it is said never to cause death, except perhaps in the case of some person whose blood is very much impoverished.

Both Bess and Belle insisted on their lights being left aglow, though Jack made a careful search and could discover no more of the unpleasant visitors. How Belle had heard the one in her room, if it really had been that which she said made the noise, was a mystery, but the creature might have rattled paper as it did in the room of Bess.

"Call me if you want anything more, Sis," said Jack to his sister, as he started back to his own apartment. And then, as he was about to close, Cora's door Jack looked fixedly at a place on the floor near her bureau, and with a muttered exclamation hurried toward it.

"Oh! what is it?" his sister begged, alarmed at the look on his face.

"Another one -- trying to hide," he murmured.

Off came his slipper again and there followed a resounding whack on the floor.

"Got that one, too!" Jack announced, and then, as Coral made brave by the declaration of the death, came closer, she uttered a cry.

"Jack Kimball!" she gasped, accusingly, "you've broken my best barrette," and she picked up from the floor the shattered fragments of a dark celluloid hair comb, which had fallen from the bureau.

"Barrette," murmured Jack, in dazed tones.

"Yes -- a sort of side comb, only it goes in the back."

"Well, it looked just like a centipede trying to hide under the bureau," Jack defended himself. "Is it much damaged?"

"Damaged? It's utterly ruined," sighed Cora. "Never mind, Jack, you meant all right," and she smiled at her brother.

"Oh, dear! I don't believe I'm going to like it here, even if the waters are such a heavenly blue."

"What was it -- another?" demanded Belle.

"It was my barrette, my dear," laughed Cora.

"Come, young folks! You must quiet down," came the voice of Cora's mother from the next room. "What's all the excitement about?"

"Just -- insects," said Jack, with a chuckle. "We are hunting the deadly barretted side comb!"

"You'll have to get me another," said Cora, as she bade Jack good-night.

There was no further disturbance, and the hotel clerk said, next morning, that the presence of one or two scorpions, or centipedes, could be accounted for from the fact that the rooms occupied by our friends had not recently been used. He promised to see to it that all undesirable visitors were hunted out during the day.

For a week or more, life in San Juan was an experience of delight for the motor girls. They visited points of interest in and about the city, taking Inez with them. Of course Jack and Walter also went, and the change was doing the former a world of good.

The mysterious "fat man," as Jack insisted on calling Senor Ramo, had not come ashore at San Juan, going on with the steamer. His destination was another of the many West Indian islands.

As yet, Mr. Robinson had had no chance to communicate with, or make arrangements for rescuing the father of Inez. But he was making careful plans to do this, and now, being on the ground, he could confirm some information difficult to get at in New York.

The motor girls, and their party, soon accustomed themselves to the changed conditions. They learned to eat as the Porto Ricans do -- little meat making eggs take the place, and they never knew before what a variety of ways eggs could e served.

The weather was growing more pleasant each day, and with the gradual passing of the hurricane season, they were allowed to take longer trips in one of the many motor boats with which the harbor abounded.

Sometimes they spent whole days on the water, their dusky captain keeping a sharp watch out for hurricanes. These can be detected some hours off, and a run made for safety. Some of the whirling storms are very dangerous, and others merely squalls.

It was when they had been in San Juan about a month, and Mr. Robinson had promised, in the next few days, to take some measures regarding the liberation of Senor Ralcanto, that something occurred which changed the whole aspect of the visit of the motor girls to waters blue.

Mr. Robinson found that he would have to go on business to a coffee plantation near Basse Terre, on the French island of Guadeloupe, and as he had heard there were also rare orchids to be obtained them, he wanted to stay a few days after his trade matters had been attended to.

"But I did want to start for Sea Horse Island, and begin my plan to liberate your father," he said to Inez.

"It can wait, Senor,"' she said, softly. "A few days more will not make much of ze difference, as long as he is to be rescued anyhow. I would not have you disappointed in ze orchids."

"Then I'll go when we come back," said Mr. Robinson. "I'll go to Guadeloupe, and take my wife and Mrs. Kimball with me. I want them to see the place."

"And leave us here alone?" asked Bess.

"Certainly, why not? You are in good hands at the hotel, especially as the boys are with you. And Inez is as good as a guide and European courier made into one."

The weather, which had been fine on the evening when Mr. Robinson and the two ladies went aboard the steamer, underwent a sudden change before morning, and when Cora and her chums awoke in the hotel, and looked out, they found raging a storm that, in its fury, was little short of a hurricane.

"Oh, Jack!" his sister exclaimed, as she listened to the roar of the wind and the sharp swish of the rain, "I'm so afraid!"

"What about? This hotel is a good one."

"I know. But mamma on that ship -- they're out at sea now, and -- "

She did not finish.

"That's so," spoke Jack, and a troubled look came over his face.



Chapter XIII

The Hurricane


How the wind howled, and how the rain beat down! Outside the window of Cora's room, the gutters were flush, and running over with seething water. In the street below there was a river, along which bedraggled pedestrians forded their way, envying the patient donkeys drawing the market venders' carts.

At times the wind rose to a fury that rattled the casements, and fairly shook the solid structure of the hotel. Then Cora, who, with Jack, had come up from the breakfast room, clung to her brother, and a look of fear came into her eyes. Nor were Jack's altogether calm.

"What a storm!" murmured the girl.

The door, leading into the next room, opened, and Bess came out.

"Oh, Cora!" she gasped, putting the last touches to her hair, which she had arranged in a new Spanish way she had seen, and then, tiring of it, had gone to her room to put it back in its accustomed form. "Isn't this just awful!"

"Terrible, I say!" came from Belle, who now entered from her apartment.

"It certainly does rain," agreed Jack. "Five minutes ago there wasn't a drop in the street, and now you could float your motor boat there, if you had it, Cora."

"And we may wish we had it, before we're through," chimed in the voice of Walter. They had made of Cora's room, which was the largest of the suite, a sort of gathering place.

"Why so, Wally?" demanded Jack.

"It looks as though we'd be flooded," was his answer.

"Oh, these storms are common down here" put in Bess. "I spoke to Inez about it, and she said the natives here were used to them."

"Such storms as this?" asked Cora, as a fiercer dash of rain, and a sudden blast of wind, seemed about to tear away the windows and let the fury of the elements into the room.

"Well, I suppose that's what she meant," said Bess. "But it is awful, isn't it? And mamma and papa, and your mother, Cora, out on that steamer."

"Oh, they'll be all right," declared Jack. "It's a big steamer, and the captain and crew must be used to the weather down here. They'll know what to do. Probably they ran for harbor when they saw the storm coining. They say skippers in the West Indies can tell when a storm's due hours ahead."

But that brought little comfort to the girls, and even Walter looked worried as the day wore on and the fury of the storm did not abate. Inez, as one who had lived in the region, was appealed to rather often to say whether this was not the worst she had ever seen.

"Oh, I have seen zem much worse," was her ready answer, "but zey did terrible damage. Terrible!"

And, on talking with some of the old residents of San Juan, and with the hotel people, Jack and Walter learned that the storm was a most unusual one.

It was of the nature of a hurricane, but it did not have the sudden sharpness and shortness of attack of those devastating storms. The real hurricane season, due to a change of climatic conditions, was supposed to have passed, and this storm was entirely unlooked for, and unexpected.

It did not blow steadily, as hurricanes did, but in fits and gusts, more disconcerting than a steady blow of more power. The rain, also, came in showers. Now there would not be a drop filling, and again there would be a deluge, blinding in its intensity.

For want of a better name the storm was called a hurricane, though many of the real characteristics were lacking. And, as the dreary day wore on, the motor girls, and the boys, too, felt themselves coming under the spell of fear -- not so much for themselves, as for their loved ones aboard the Ramona, which was the name of the steamer on, which Mr. and Mrs. Robinson and Mrs. Kimball had sailed.

"Oh, if anything has happened to them!" sighed Cora.

"Can't we get some news?" asked Bess, faintly.

"Surely there are telegraph lines and cables," spoke Belle.

"There are," the hotel clerk informed them, "but there are so many small islands hereabouts, into the harbor of any one of which the ship may have put, that it would be impossible to say where it was. And not all the islands have means of communication. So I beg of you not to worry, Senoritas. Surely they are safe."

Yet even the clerk, sophisticated as he was, did not believe all he himself said. For the storm, as the girls learned afterward, was almost unprecedented in the West Indies.

There was nothing they could do save to wait until it was over -- until it had blown itself out, and then to wait, perhaps longer and with an ever increasing anxiety, for some news of those who had sailed.

"Oh, if Senor Robinson should be lost!" half sobbed Inez, on the third day of the storm, when it showed no signs of abating. "If he should be lost, my father would be doomed forever to zat prison."

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Jack, for it was in talking to Jack and Walter that the Spanish girl gave utterance to these sentiments. "Don't go saying such things around Cora and Bess and Belle, or you'll give them the fidgets. There's no sign the steamer is lost just because it has run into a storm."

"I know, Senor Jack," -- for so she called him, "but zere is so much danger. And my father -- he is languishing in prison."

"Yes, but we'll have him out. Mr. Robinson didn't take those papers with him; did he -- those papers that contain the evidence?"

"No, I have them -- he has only ze copies."

"Well, then you needn't worry. When this storm blows over, we'll all get busy on this rescue business!" and Jack spoke with a return of his old energy. He was becoming more like himself every day now, and even the stress and danger of the storm had no hampering effects on him.

"Oh, you Americans!" exclaimed Inez, with a pretty pathetic gesture. "You speak of such queer English -- to rescue is no business -- it demands intrigue -- secrecy."

"Well, we'll make it our business," said Walter, grimly, "But, Inez, don't scare the other girls. We have troubles enough without that, you know, with Mr. Robinson away. Just make a bluff at feeling all right."

"A bluff, Senor -- a bluff -- a high hill -- I am to make a high hill of feeling good?" and she looked puzzled.

"Translate, Jack," begged Walter, hopelessly, and Jack, nothing loath, took Inez off into a corner of the hotel parlor to explain.

But with all their assumed right-heartedness, the boys were finally genuinely alarmed. Indefinite reports came to the hotel of much danger and damage to shipping, and several large steamers were said to have gone on the reefs which abounded in that region of islands. No direct news came of the Ramona. In fact, she had not been sighted, or spoken to, since leaving San Juan.

"Oh, if anything has happened to her!" sighed Cora.

"There's just as much chance that nothing has happened, as that there has," declared Jack. "She might have gone into any one of a dozen harbors."

"I suppose so, but, somehow, I can't help worrying, Jack."

"I know, little girl," he said, sympathetically.

"But I oughtn't to trouble you," Cora went on.

"Are you really feeling any better, Jack?"

"Heaps; yes. Water and I are going out to have a look at the water to-day. We're tired of being cooped up here."

"Oh, I wish I could go!"

"Why not? Come along. It will do you girls good."

So it was arranged. The girls, including Inez, donned rubber coats, and, well wrapped up for it was chilling with the advent of rain, they set forth from the hotel.

They made a struggling way to the sea wall, and there looked out over a foaming waste of waters. In one place where a sunken reef of coral came close to the surface the waves beat and tore at it as though to wrench it up, and cast it ashore. There the sea boiled and seethed in fury.

"A ship wouldn't last long' out there," said Walter, quietly.

"I should say not," agreed Jack.

On the beach the waves pounded with sullen fury, making a roar that drowned the voices of the motor girls. Cora and her chums clung to one another as they leaned their bodies against the blast, and peered through the mist.

"Isn't it awful," said Cora, with a shudder.

"Yes -- for -- for those who have to be out in it," spoke Bess, and, though she mentioned no names, they all knew what she meant.



Chapter XIV

News Of Shipwreck


Cora, with an impatient, nervous gesture, laid aside the piece of lace upon which she was engaged. The long, breathing sigh which followed her rising from the chair, was audible across the room.

"What's the matter?" asked Bess, who, seated near a window, where the light was best, was industriously engaged in mending a hole in one of her silk stockings. She held it off at arm's length, on her spread-out hand, as if to judge whether the repair would show when the article was worn.

"I just can't do another stitch!" Cora said. "It makes me so -- nervous."

"It's beautiful lace -- a lovely pattern," spoke Belle, as she picked it up from the table. "I don't see how Inez carries them all in her head," for Cora was working out a model set for her by the Spanish girl.

"Nor I," said did Bess, "It's perfectly wonderful."

She glanced at Cora, who had gone to stand by another window to watch for signs of clearing weather, that, of late, had come with more certain promise.

"There! I think that will do!" announced Bess, as she cut off the silk thread. "I wonder if we shall ever get to the point where we can go without stockings, as the Spanish ladies do here."

"Do they?" asked Cora, absently. "I hadn't noticed."

"They do indeed, my dear," answered her chum. "I read about it, but I didn't believe it until Inez took us to call on Senora Malachita the other day -- Belle and I -- you didn't come, you know."

"I remember."

"Well, my dear, positively she didn't have any stockings on -- only slippers, and she received us that way. Belle and I had all we could do not to laugh, and I wondered if she could be so poor that she couldn't afford them, though her, house, was beautiful, and the plaza, with its fountain and flowers, a perfect dream.

"But Inez told me that often even the well-to-do Spanish ladies here don't wear stockings, unless they go to church or to a dance. Even then they don't put them on, sometimes, until just before they go into the church. We saw one, riding in on a donkey. She stopped just outside the church, and put on her stockings as calmly as though they were gloves."

"Fancy!" cried Cora.

"Then you aren't going to follow that fashion?" asked Belle.

"No, indeed!" exclaimed the plump Bess, as she carefully inspected the other stocking for a possible worn place. She did not find it, and sighed in content.

"Aren't you going to finish that lace, Cora?" asked Belle.

"Not now, at any rate. I just can't sit here and -- wait! I want to be doing something."

"But there's nothing to do, dear," objected Belle. "We can't do anything but wait for news of them. And no news is always good news, you know."

"Just because it has to be!" retorted Cora.

"But, girls, positively, I believe the weather is clearing! Yes, there's a blue patch of sky. Oh, if this storm should be over!"

Her two chums came and stood by her at the casement. Off to the west the dark and sullen sky did seem to be clearing. The rain had ceased some time ago, but the wind was still blowing half a gale, and the boys, who had come back from the docks a short while before, reported that the sea was still very high, and that no ships had ventured to leave the harbor. Then Jack and Walter went out again, saying they were going to the marina, the water plaza.

"Oh, but it is going to clear!" cried Cora, in delight, an hour or so later. "Now we shall hear some news of them!"

"Won't it be lovely!" exclaimed Bess. "Oh, I have been so worried!"

"So have I," admitted her sister. "But of course they are safe!"

"Of course," echoed Cora, and yet there was a vague fear within her -- a fear that, somehow or other, in spite of her effort for self-control, communicated itself to her voice.

"Let's go out,"' suggested Belle. "I'm tired of being cooped up here."

"Where are the boys?" asked Cora. "Really we oughtn't to go out so much without them. We'll become talked about!"

"Never!" laughed Bess. "We are Americans, and everything is possible to us."

The others laughed. Before coming to Porto Rico, they had read books about the island, in which stress was laid on Spanish customs, especially about ladies going about without a male member of their family, or some one to serve as a duenna. But our friends were too sensible to be hampered by that custom, save at night.

"The boys are probably off enjoying themselves," said Cora. "Jack is so much better. It has done him a world of good down here. We may meet them. Come on, let's go out. Oh, there's the sun!"

It was shining for the first time since the storm began, and the girls hastened to take advantage of it.

"Where's Inez?" asked Belle.

"Lying down, she had a little headache," explained Bess. "We won't disturb her, and we won't be gone long."

There was a great outpouring of the inhabitants, all anxious to take advantage of the clearing of the storm, and the streets were soon crowded. The girls went down to the sea wall, at a point where Jack and Walter had made a habit of taking observations from time to time, and there they found the chums.

"Welcome to our city!" laughed Walter, as he greeted the girls. "Won't you come and have something cool to drink? It's going to be insufferably hot!"

And so it promised after the storm, for the sun, coming out with almost tropical warmth, after all the moisture, was fairly sizzling now.

"It sounds nice," spoke Cora. "Oh, Jack, do you think we can get any news of the steamer soon?"

"I think so, Sis. Let's go round by the Morro, and see what the semaphore says."

At the ancient Spanish fort flags were displayed to signal the expected arrival of steamers.

The little party found a refreshment booth and enjoyed the iced and flavored cocoanut milk, which made a most delightful beverage. Then, going on to the fort, they saw, fluttering in the breeze that had succeeded the hurricane, the flags that told of the approach of a steamer.

"I -- I hope it brings news," said Cora, softly.

"Good news," supplemented Belie.

"Of course," added her sister.

They strolled back to the marina, the business quarter of the town, fronting directly on the water. There, in the activities of the owners of several motor launches, was read the further news of the approach of the first steamer since the storm. The lighters were getting ready to go out to bring ashore the passengers and freight.

As it would probably be some time before the ship came to anchor out in the harbor, the boys and girls went back to the hotel, for it was approaching the dinner hour.

In spite of their anxiety to receive any possible news of the Ramona, which the incoming steamer might bring, the girls went to their rooms for a siesta after the meal -- a habit that had really been forced on them, not only by the customs, but by the climate of the place. It was actually too warm to go about in the middle of the day, and especially now, since the sun had come out exceedingly hot after the storm. Jack and Walter, however, declared that they were going down to the marina to get the earliest possible news.

As it chanced, the girls remaining at the hotel were the first to hear that which made so great a difference to them.

Cora, Bess and Belle, with Inez, whose head had stopped aching, came down about four o'clock, dressed for a stroll. There was to be a band concert in one of the public park -- the first in several days.

As they went up to the desk to leave their keys, they saw standing talking to the clerk a very stout man, at the sight of whom Inez drew back behind Cora.

"It is him -- him again," she whispered.

"Who?"

"Zat man -- Senor Ramo -- I do not like zat he should see me."

"Oh, you mustn't be so timid," declared Jack's sister. "He won't harm you."

"No, but my father -- "

"I think you are mistaken, Inez!" went on Cora. "At any rate, he has seen us -- he remembers us as from having come out on the same steamer with us," for Senor Ramo was now bowing, and is smile spread itself over his oily and expansive countenance.

"Ah, Senorita Kembull!" he mispronounced. "I am charmed to see you again. Also the Senoritas Sparrow -- er -- I am so forget -- I know it is some kind of one of your charming birds -- ah! -- Robinson -- a thousand pardons! I am charmed!" and he bowed low to the twins.

Then his eyes sought the face of Inez, but he showed no recognition, though the significant pause indicated that he expected also to address her. Clearly, if he had seen her on the steamer coming from New York, he did not remember her. There was a questioning look in his eyes.

Inez pinched Cora's arm, and murmured something in her ear. Cora understood at once. Inez did not wish to meet this man, for reasons of her own. He might, or might not, be of the political party opposed to her father, and he might, or might not, have had a hand in placing Senor Ralcanto in prison. Of this Cora could only guess, but there was no mistaking the fear of Inez.

Cora thought of the easiest way out of it. This was to allow Inez to assume the character she had been given -- that of a maid.

"Inez, I think I left my fan in my room -- will you please get it for me?" requested Cora, at the same time giving the Spanish girl a meaning look.

"Yes, Senorita," was the low-voiced answer, as Inez glided from the foyer.

Senor Ramo seemed to understand. He turned, once more, with a smile to Cora.

"And when may I have the pleasure of paying my respects to your honored mother?" he asked, "and to Senora -- er -- Robinson, and your father?" he inquired of the twins. "I have but just arrived, after a most stormy passage, from Barbados. Truly I thought we were lost, but we managed to weather the hurricane."

"And we are hoping our folks did, too," said Cora. "We have heard nothing of them since they sailed on the Ramona, nearly a week ago. Did your steamer hear of that vessel, Senor Ramo?" she asked, eagerly.

"The Ramona did you say?" he inquired, and there was that in his manner which sent a cold chill of fear to the hearts of the motor girls.

"Yes," answered Cora, huskily. "Oh, has anything happened? Have you heard any news? Tell me! Oh!" and she clutched at her wildly beating heart.

"The Ramona -- a thousand pardons that I am the bearer of ill-tidings -- the Ramona was shipwrecked!" said Senor Ramo. "We picked up some of the sailors from it! Ah, deeply do I regret to have to tell you such news!"



Chapter XV

A Search Proposed


"Cora, what's the matter? Has this man -- ?"

It was Jack who spoke, as he suddenly entered the rotunda of the hotel, with Walter, and saw his sister faintly recoiling from the shock of the news brought by Senor Ramo. Jack had a bit of fiery temper, and it had not lessened by his recent nervousness. Then, too, he seemed to have caught some of the Spanish impetuosity since coming to Porto Rico.

"Hush, Jack!" begged Belie. "It is bad news," and there was a trace of tears in her voice.

"Bad news?" chorused Jack and Walter together.

"Yes, Senor Kembull," again mispronounced the Spaniard, "I deeply regret to be the bearer of ill-tidings. I was just telling your sister, and her friends, that the Ramona has been wrecked."

"The Ramona -- the steamer mother sailed on -- wrecked?" cried Jack. "How did it happen -- where?"

"As to where, I know not, but it happened, I assume, in the recent hurricane. Indeed, we barely escaped ourselves. I am just in from the Boldero. We picked up some refugees near St. Kitts. I did not hear their story in detail, but they said the Ramona had foundered with all on board!"

"Oh!" gasped Belle, as she sank against Cora. The latter, meanwhile, had somewhat recovered from the shock. Again she was the quick-thinking, emergency-acting Cora Kimball.

"We must find out exactly what happened," she said. "Belle, pull yourself together. Don't you dare faint -- everyone is looking at you!"

Perhaps this information, as much as the bottle of ammonia smelling salts, which Cora thrust beneath the nose of her chum, brought Belle to a realization of what part she must play.

"I -- I'm all right now," she faltered. "But, oh! It is so awful -- terrible. Oh -- dear!"

"Hope for the best," said Walter kindly, leading her to the ladies' parlor, which was screened, by a grill, from the public foyer. "Often, now a days, in shipwreck, nearly all are saved, even if the vessel does founder."

"Of a surety -- yes!" Senor Ramo hastened to put in. "I am a stupid to blurt out my news so, but I did not think! I ask a thousand and one pardons."

"It doesn't matter," said Jack. "We had to know sometime. The sooner the better. We must get busy."

"Always busy -- you Americans!" murmured the Spaniard. "If I can be of any service, Senor Kembull -- "

"You can take us, to where those sailors are that were picked up by your vessel, if you will," interrupted Jack. "I'd like to hear their story, and find out exactly where the Ramona went down. That is, if it is true that she completely foundered."

"Why, if I may ask?"

"Because, this is only the beginning. There may be a chance of saving some -- our folks -- if, by any possibility they reached some of the smaller islands. I must see those sailors."

"They will most likely remain aboard the Boldero -- the vessel on which I arrived," spoke Senor Ramo. "They lost everything but the clothes they wore. Doubtless you could see them on the steamer."

"Then I'm going with you!" cried Cora. "I can't wait, Jack!" she pleaded, as he looked a refusal at her. "I must go!"

"Oh, poor mamma and papa!" half sobbed Bess, for they were now in the seclusion of the ladies' parlor. "Oh, what will become of us?"

"You mustn't give way like this!" objected Jack. "Now, if ever, is the time to be brave. There is lots to be done!"

Jack was coming into his own again. The trip had worked wonders, but just this touch and spice of danger was needed to bring out his old energetic qualities.

"What can be done?" asked Cora.

"I don't know, yet. I'm going to find out. Maybe it isn't so bad as it sounds after all," replied Jack.

"It sounds bad enough," sighed Cora. "But, Jack, I am with you in this. I simply won't be left out."

"And no one wants to leave you out, Sis. Walter, just see if we can get a carriage, or a motor, to the marina. We'll take a boat from there out to the Boldero."

"I will give you a letter to the captain," said Senor Ramo. "He knows me well, and he will show you every courtesy."

"Surely," thought Cora, "this man cannot be a political plotter, who would put innocent men in prison. Inez must be mistaken about him. He is very kind."

Some little excitement was caused by the advent of the bad news to our party of friends, and it quickly spread through the hotel. A number of the guests, whose acquaintance the motorgirls had made, offered their services, but there was little they could do. What was most needed was information concerning the wreck.

Inez, who had made the getting of Cora's fan an excuse to go to her room, to escape Senor Ramo, heard the sad tidings, and came down. By this time the "fat suspect," as Jack had nicknamed him, had gone, having scribbled a note of introduction to the captain of the Boldero.

"Oh, what is it, Senoritas?" gasped Inez. "Is it zat you are in sorrow?"

"Yes," said Cora, sadly. "Great sorrow, Inez. We have had very bad news," and there were tears in her eyes.

"I sorrow with you," said the impulsive Spanish girl, as she put her arm about Cora. "I was in sorrow myself, and you aided me. Now I must do ze same for you. Command me."

"There is little that can be done until we learn more," Cora made answer. "The steamer has been wrecked."

"With Senor Robinson, and with the Senoras Kimball and Robinson?" gasped Inez.

"So we hear."

"Ah, zat is indeed of great sorrow. I weep for you. My own little troubles are a nothing. My father may be in prison, but what of zat -- he is living -- and your mother -- "

She did not finish. Walter came in to announce that he had secured a large auto that would take them to the marina, whence they could get a boat to go out to the steamer.

"I only hope those sailors haven't disappeared," murmured Jack. "Now then, are you girls ready?"

"Yes," answered Belle. She, as well as Cora and Bess, had somewhat recovered their composure, after the first sudden shock. Hope had sprung up again, though they were presently to learn on what a slender thread that hope hung. Jack had regained some of his former commanding manner in the emergency.

Inez went with her new friends to the docks. She seemed to have forgotten her own grief in ministering to the girls, and much of her former timid and shrinking manner had disappeared.

They found a large and powerful motor boat that would take them out to the ship, and, indeed, a staunch craft was needed, since there was still a heavy swell on, from the recent storm.

"Are there many boats like this in San Juan?" asked Jack of the man at the wheel, who spoke very good English.

"Not many. There's only one as good, and that's much larger. She's the Tartar -- and she's a beauty!"

"For charter?"

"Well, maybe. The same man owns her as owns this one, but only large parties engage her."

"Fast and seaworthy?"

"None better."

"That's good," Jack said.

"What are you thinking of?" asked his sister.

"Tell you later," he announced briefly.

"Oh, if it wasn't for the terrible news, how lovely this trip would be!" exclaimed Bess.

They were gliding over the deep, blue waters of the bay, and the golden setting sun now shone aslant the harbor, pouring its beams over the tops of the distant mountains, and through the palm branches. A promise of fair weather followed on the wings of the storm.

Whatever Senor Ramo might, or might not be, he certainly procured a welcome for our friends at the Boldero. Or, rather, the note Jack presented to the captain did.

"Ah, yes, you desire news of the shipwrecked sailors. Well, they are still here on board. One of them is hurt, but the other can talk. But they speak no English -- I had better translate for you."

"First tell us what you know yourself, Captain," begged Cora.

"I know little, except what I have heard, of the foundering of the Ramona," was the answer.

"Then you think she did go down?" asked Bess.

"I fear so -- the sailors we picked up so affirm. All I can tell you is that, a day or so ago, as we were staggering along through the stress of the storm, the lookout sighted a small boat. No signs of life aboard were seen, but we stopped and picked it up. In the craft, which was one of the lifeboats from the Ramona, were two sailors, nearly dead from exposure, and one from hurts received."

"How was he hurt?"' asked Jack.

"He was shot, Senor."

"Shot!"

"Yes, it appears there was mutiny aboard the Ramona, as well as the horrors of the storm and shipwreck."

"Mutiny!" murmured Cora, a look of horror in her eyes. "Poor, poor mother!"

"You had better hear the story directly from the sailors," suggested Captain Ponchero. "I will summon the unwounded one. You will find that more satisfactory."

He came, a sorry and unfortunate specimen of a Spanish sailor. There followed a rapid talk, in the Castilian tongue, between him and the captain, and the latter then said:

"His story is this. They ran into the storm soon after leaving San Juan, and could not find, or, rather, did not dare to try, for the nearest harbor, as the seas were running too high to make it safe to go through the narrow entrance. They had to keep on, and this caused discontent among some of the crew.

"There was an uprising -- a mutiny, and some of them tried to leave in the boats. The brave captain would not let them, but he was overpowered, and the mutineers, in the face of certain danger, turned the ship to put back to a harbor which the captain had passed because of the danger of trying to enter it in the storm."

"But how did the sailor get shot?" asked Jack.

"He worked against the mutineers -- he and his comrade here," the captain answered. "Then those who had revolted, and seized the ship, ordered into small boats all who would not throw in their lot with them. So these two, with only a little food and water, were put adrift in the storm.  It was almost certain death, but the boat lived through it, and we saved them."

"But what of the ship -- the passengers?" asked Cora.

"The ship most certainly foundered," declared the captain. "The next morning bits of wreckage were found by these two survivors."

"Then all are lost?" half-sobbed Belle.

"I fear so, Senorita," was the answer of the captain, "unless some few reached islands in small boats."

"Is there a chance of that?" asked Jack.

"A slight chance, yes, Senor."

"Then it's a chance I'm going to take!" cried Jack.

"What do you mean?" asked his sister, wonderingly.

"I mean that we can go in search!" Jack went on, eagerly. "It's worth trying, isn't it, Walter?"

"I should say so -- yes, by all means! But what sort of a craft can we get to cruise in?"

"I just heard of one!" said Jack, eagerly. "The Tartar. She's a big motor boat, and will be just the thing for us. I'm going to see about it right away. Who's with me for a cruise in the Tartar?"

"I am!" came from Cora.

"We're not going to be left behind," said Bess.

"Count on me, of course," spoke Walter, quietly.

"And, Senor Jack -- may -- may I go?" faltered Inez.

"Of course!"

"Senor -- Senor Jack," she spoke in a tremulous whisper. "If you are successful -- if you find ze lost ones, and we are near Sea Horse Island, would you leave me zere -- wiz my father?"

"Leave you there?" cried Jack. "We'll bring your father away from there, if we get the chance! Now come on! We have lots to do!"



Chapter XVI

Senor Ramo Missing


Jack's eyes glowed with the brightness of renewed health, and determination, as he looked at his sister, at Bess and Belle, and at Walter. It was like old times, when the motor girls had proposed some novel or daring plan, and the boys had fallen in with it. This time it had been Jack's privilege to make the suggestion, and the others were only too ready to agree.

"Oh, Jack, do you think we can do it?" asked Cora.

"Of course we can!" her brother cried, with a growing, instead of lessening, enthusiasm. "We'll just have to do something, and I can't think of anything better to do -- can you? than going off in search of the folks."

"We simply must find them -- if they're alive," spoke Bess, rather solemnly.

"We'll find them -- alive!" predicted Walter, joining his cheerful efforts to those of his college chum.

"Oh, you Americans -- you are so wonderful, so amazing!" whispered Inez. "I am so glad I am wiz you," and she divided her affectionate looks impartially between Jack and his sister.

"What do you think of it, Captain?" asked Walter of the skipper of the steamship. "Is it possible to go about down among these islands in a big motor boat?"

"Yes, if the boat be large enough, and seaworthy."

"I'm thinking of the Tartar," said Jack. "I heard of her from the engineer of the boat we came out in just now."

"Oh, the Tartar. Yes, she is a very fine boat, and quite safe, except in a very bad storm."

"Oh!" gasped Bess.

"But you are not likely to have bad blows now," the captain went on, "especially after this one we've just passed through. It is the last of the hurricane season, I hope. In fact, this was most unusual. Yes, I should say it would be very safe to make a cruise in the Tartar. I know the craft well."

"And what are the chances of success?" asked Walter in a low voice of the commander, as Jack, with his sister and the Robinson twins withdrew a little apart to discuss the important question of the coming cruise.

Captain Ponchero shrugged his shoulders in truly foreign fashion.

"One cannot tell, Senor," he said in a low voice. "Certainly it is a dubious tale the sailors told -- a tale of mutiny and shipwreck. But the sea is a strange place. Many unforeseen things happen on it and in it. I have seen shipwrecked ones come back from almost certain death, and again -- "

He hesitated.

"Well?" asked Walter, a bit impatiently. "Might as well hear the worst with the best."

"And again," resumed the captain, "I have seen what would appear to be the safest voyage result in terrible tragedy. So one who knows much of the sea, hesitates to speak with certainty about it. I should say, Senor, that the chance was worth taking."

"Then we may find some of them alive?"

"You may, and again -- you may not. But it is worth trying. If you will come below with me, I will give you the exact longitude and latitude where we picked up the two sailors in the open boat. Then you can put for there, and make it the starting point of your search."

"Good idea," commented Walter.

By this time Jack and the others had finished their little discussion, and were eager to further question the captain concerning all the details he could give about the foundering of the Ramona. But there was little else that could be told.

The sailors had given all the information they possessed. They repeated again how the ship had suddenly run into a storm, and how the refusal of the captain to put into a port, hard to navigate in a storm, brought on the mutiny.

"But did they see any of our folks -- either Mr. and Mrs. Robinson, or Mrs. Kimball?" asked Jack, while his sister and the twins hung breathless on the answer.

The sailors had not especially noticed any passengers. They had been in hard enough straits themselves, not having joined the mutineers.

"But they are certain the ship foundered? asked Cora.

"There seems to be little doubt of it, Senorita," said the captain. "It was a fearful storm. We had three boats carried away, as well as part of our port rail."

The weather was calm enough now, save for a heavy ground swell. The waters were marvelously blue, and overhead was the blue sky. Seen against the background of the wonderfully tinted hills of palms, the city of San Juan presented a most beautiful picture.

"Well, let's get busy," suggested Jack, and it was only by keeping thus occupied, mentally and physically, that he and his sister, as well as the twins, were enabled not to succumb to the grief that racked them. Belle, rather more nervous and temperamental than her sister, did give way to a little hysterical crying spell, as they were on their way back to the marina from the steamer, but this was due merely to a reaction.

"Don't, dear," said Cora, softly. "We'll find them, never fear!"

She put her arms about her chum, and Inez slipped a slim brown hand into one of Belles. Then the wave of emotion passed, and the girl was herself again.

"Are you going out for a long cruise?" asked Walter, "or shall you come back to San Juan from time to time? I ask, because I want to send word to my folks not to worry, if they don't hear from me very often."

"I think we'll cruise as long as we can," said Cora, who had assumed as much of the burden of the search as had her brother. "If the Tartar is large enough to allow us to take a big enough supply -- of provisions and stores, we'll cruise until we -- well, until we find out for certain what has happened."

Her voice faltered a little.

"Oh, the Tartar's big enough, Senorita," said the engineer of the motor boat in which they were making their way to shore. "You could go for a long cruise in her."

"Then we'll plan that," declared Jack. "Notify your folks accordingly, Wally."

"I shall. But you'll have to have help along, if she's as big as all that, won't you?"

"I suppose so," agreed Jack. "I'm not altogether up to the mark, if it comes to tinkering with a big, balky motor."

"I'd like to go as engineer," said the man at the wheel. "I've often run her, and I know her ways. If you were to ask the owner, Senor Hendos, he'd let me go."

The young people had taken a liking to Joe Alcandor, the obliging young engineer of the motor boat they had engaged to go out to the steamer, and Jack made up his mind, since he had to have help aboard the Tartar, to get this individual.

"This is a strange ending to our happy holiday," said Cora, with a sigh, as they left the boat and walked up the steps at the water's edge of the marina. The outing, up to now, had been a most happy one, once Jack's improvement in health was noticed.

"It hasn't ended yet," said Jack, significantly. "There's more ahead of us than behind us."

"I hope more happiness," said Cora, softly.

"Of course," whispered Jack.

They told Joe they would see Senor Hendos, and arrange with him for chartering the Tartar. Then, in two hacks, they made their way back to the hotel. All of them were anxious to get started on the cruise that might mean so much. "Do you really mean you'll take me wiz you?" asked Inez, of Cora, as they entered the hotel.

"Of course, my dear! I wouldn't think of leaving you," was the warm answer. "And we need you with us. Besides, you heard what Jack said about your father."

"Oh, will he try to rescue him?"

"I'm sure he will, if it's at all possible."

Something of the news concerning the young Americans was soon current in the hotel, and Cora and her friends were favored with many strange glances, as they walked through the foyer.

"We must thank Senor Ramo for his kindness in giving us the note to the captain,"' said Cora, ever thoughtful of the nice little courtesies of life.

"Indeed we must," agreed Belle, who had quite recovered her composure, and, save for a suspicious redness of the eyes, showed little of the grief at her heart.

Indeed, they were all rather stunned by the suddenness of the news, and only for the fact that under it lay a great hope, they would not have been able to hear up as well as they did.

The blow was a terrible one -- to think that their loved ones were lost in a shipwreck! But there was that merciful hope -- that eternal hope, ever springing up to take away the bitterness of death or despair.

There was, too, the necessity of work -- hard work, if they were to go off on an unknown and uncertain cruise. And work is, perhaps, even better than hope, to mitigate grief.

So, though the sorrow would have been a terrible one, and almost unbearable, were it not for the ray of light and hope, they were able to hold themselves well together -- these young Americans in a strange land.

"Jack, perhaps you had better go and thank Senor Ramo at once," suggested Cora. "He may be able to give you some good advice, too, about fitting up the Tartar for the cruise. He seems to know a great deal about these islands."

"I'll see him at once," agreed her brother. "Just send up my card to him, please," he requested the hotel clerk.

"To whom, Senor?"

"To Mr. Ramo."

"But he is not here -- he is gone!"

"Gone?" Jack looked at the clerk blankly.

"Yes. He left, Senor, soon after you went away. He said business called him."

"That is strange," murmured Jack.

Inez, who had heard what was said, looked curiously at Cora, and then exclaimed:

"Ze papairs -- for my father's release!"

A look of alarm showed in her face, as she hurried toward the stairway that led to her room.



Chapter XVII

Off In The "Tartar"


"What's the matter?" asked Walter, quickly, as he saw Inez hurrying away. "She see alarmed about something."

"She is -- or fancies she is," answered Cora. "It's about those papers which she hopes will free her father of that political charge which keeps him locked up -- poor man."

"Did she lose them?"

"No, but as soon as she heard that Senor Ramo had left suddenly, she associated it with the taking of her documents, evidently."

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Walter.

"That's what I say," added Cora. "But we mustn't make fun of Inez -- she can't bear it."

"Of course not. Besides, I guess none of us feel very much like making fun," went on Walter.

"Our thanks to Senor Ramo will have to wait," said Jack, as he turned away from the hotel desk to rejoin his party. "And now let's get together, see what we have to take with us, and plan our cruise. I'll look up this man Hendos, who owns the Tartar, and see what arrangements I can make with him. Where's Inez?"

"Gone to her room," answered Cora. "I fancy we'd all better get ready for dinner. It's getting late."

They went up stairs, leaving the buzz of much talk behind them, for many of the hotel guests were speaking of the news concerning our friends.

As Cora was entering her apartment, Inez came out into the corridor in front of her room.

"Zey are gone, Senorita!" she gasped.

"Gone!"

"What?" asked Cora, half forgetting, in her own grief and anxiety, what the Spanish girl had gone to ascertain.

"My papairs -- for my father! Oh, Senorita, what shall I do?"

"Gone?" echoed Cora. "Do you mean taken -- stolen?"

"I fear so -- yes. See, my room has been entered."

There was no doubt of it. A hasty glance showed Cora that, in the absence of Inez, her hotel room had been gone over quickly, but thoroughly. A small, empty valise, which Inez had trustingly hidden under the mattress of the bed lay on the floor, open. It had contained the papers which were so precious to her. Now they were gone -- that was evident.

"Oh, Inez!" cried Cora, and in such a voice that Jack, who was just coming along with Walter, hurried up, inquiring:

"What is it? What's the matter?"

"Those papers Inez had, have been stolen!" cried Cora. "And Senor Ramo is missing -- has fled -- "

"Hold on!" exclaimed Jack, laying a cautioning finger on his sister's lips. "It won't do to make such rash statements, and draw such damaging conclusions -- in such a loud voice, Sis," and he whispered the last words. "These walls are very thin, you know, and these Spanish gentlemen are very punctilious on points of honor. I don't want to be called on to fight a duel on your behalf."

"Oh, Jack, how can you! Such a poor joke!"

"Not a joke at all, I assure you. Now let's have the whole story -- but in here," and Jack drew his sister and Inez into the room of the Spanish girl, Walter following. Bess and Belle had gone into their own apartments a little before, and had not heard, the talk.

"Just in time," murmured Jack, as he closed the door, having a glimpse of a servant coming along the corridor. "Now, what is it, Inez?" and, after a quick glance about the ransacked apartment, he gazed at the girl.

"My papairs -- for my father -- zey are gone!" With a tragic gesture she pointed to the opened valise.

"Was your room this way when you came in?" asked Walter, who rather imagined he was gifted with amateur detective abilities.

"Just like this -- yes, Senor Jack."

"Never mind the senor. Just plain Jack will do. And where were the papers?"

"In the valise -- in my bed. But they are gone."

There was no doubt of that -- also no doubt of the fact that Senor Ramo -- the man who was suspected by Inez of being in the plot to keep her father in the political prison -- was likewise missing.

"Hum," mused Jack. "It may be merely a coincidence -- or it may not."

"I should say it was not!" declared Walter, positively.

"And get into trouble saying it, Wally," remarked Jack. "No, the best thing to do in this case is to keep quiet about it."

"But my papairs!" cried Inez. "My father -- in prison. I must get him out."

"Yes, and I think you can best do it by not letting it be known that you have discovered the theft," Jack said.

"I think that's silly," declared Cora. "Whoever took those papers can't help but know, that their loss would be discovered at once. The condition the room was left in would make that certain. I can't see what good it is to keep quiet about it."

"I'll explain," Jack went on. "The person who did the robbery of course knows he, or she, did it, and knows that we won't be long in finding it out. But the hotel people don't know it yet, nor the guests, and it's possible to keep it from them. They're the ones who will do the talking. Fortunately, the newspapers here aren't like those up home. There won't be any reporters after us, if we keep still."

"But what's the advantage of it?" asked Cora.

"To puzzle and alarm the thief," was Jack's answer. "No doubt he -- for I'll assume for the sake of argument that it was a man -- will be looking for a hue and cry. He'll expect it, and when it doesn't come, he'll begin to imagine all sort of things."

"I see!" cried Walter. "He'll believe we are on his trail, have a clue and -- "

"Exactly!" interrupted Jack. "You're a regular 'deteckertiff,' Wally. That's my game, to puzzle the thief, make him think all sort of things, and so worry him by our very quietness, that he may betray himself."

"Well, maybe that's the best plan," agreed Cora, rather doubtfully.

"But how shall I get my papairs back?" asked Inez, falteringly. "Ze papairs are needed to get my poor father from prison."

"Maybe not," said Jack, hopefully. "Anyhow, there are copies to be had, aren't there?"

"Yes, but zese were ze originals. I need zem!"

"And we'll get them back for you, if we can," broke in Jack. "We may be able to work without them, if we have a chance to get to Sea Horse Island on our cruise. I think our first duty is to try to find the missing ones."

"Oh, of course, yes, Senor!" cried Inez, quickly. "I should not intrude my poor troubles on you."

"Oh, that's all right," said Jack, good-naturedly. "We have a pretty big contract on our hands, and one trouble more or less isn't going to make much difference. Now don't forget -- every body mum on this robbery. We'll puzzle the thief!"

"Do you think it, was Ramo?" asked Cora.

"I don't know. If he had any object in getting those papers we gave him the very chance he needed by all being away from the hotel," answered Jack. "And, if it wasn't he, it was some one else who has an object in keeping Mr. Ralcanto in jail. He'd have the same chance as Ramo had to get the documents. So the person we must look for is some one who really needed the papers. But, above all, we'll have to be cautious in making inquiries."

"Yes," agreed Cora. "Could you find out when Ramo left, and if he was near this section of the hotel?"

"I'll try," agreed Jack. "Now you girls begin to sort out the things you want to take along on the cruise. Cora, speak to Bess and Belle about it."

"Why, aren't we going to take all our baggage?"

"What! Fill the Tartar up with trunks full of fancy dresses, when we'll need every inch of room? I guess not! We'll all get down to light marching equipment. Just take what you can put in a suit-case. That's what Wally and I are going to do."

"Oh, but boys are so different; aren't they, Inez?"

"It matters not to me. A few things are all I have."

The Spanish girl looked helplessly and almost hopelessly at the opened valise. And then, as Jack and Walter went out to and what they could learn by cautious questions, the two girls "tidied up" the room, and went to tell Bess and Belle the news.

Jack and Walter could learn but little. Senor Ramo had departed suddenly, alleging a business call as an excuse for leaving the island on a steamer that sailed soon after the arrival of the one he had come in on. That was about all that could be safely learned.

Little else could be done, now, toward making plans for the rescue of the father of Inez. When Mr. Robinson was located, he might have something to suggest, but now all energies must be bent on the rescue work.

The news soon spread through the hotel that the "amazing Americans" were about to undertake a most desperate venture -- that of cruising about in the blue waters of the Caribbean Sea, in search of their relatives who might have been able to save themselves from the wrecked ship. After a first glance at the map, and a consideration of the situation, Jack had voted for the inside, or Caribbean route, as being less likely to offer danger from storms.

Satisfactory arrangements for chartering the Tartar were made, and the engineer, Joe Alcandor, was engaged to look after the machinery, which, on the Tartar, was not a little complicated.

"With him along we can be more at ease," said Cora.

"Yes, we won't always have to be worrying that one of the cylinders is missing, or that a new spark plug is needed," added Bess.

"Oh, I do hope we can soon start!" sighed Belle. "This suspense is terrible!"

Indeed, it was not easy for any of them, but perhaps Walter and Jack found it less irksome, for they were very busy preparing for the cruise.

Plans were made to leave some of their baggage at the hotel in San Juan, and the rest would be taken with them. A goodly supply of provisions and stores were put aboard, and a complete account of the events leading up to the cruise, including the story of the missing Ralcanto papers, was written out and forwarded to Mr. Robinson's lawyers in New York.

"That's in case of accident to us," said Jack.

"Oh, don't speak of accidents!" cried Cora.

The last arrangements were completed. Jack made final and guarded inquiries, concerning Ramo, but learned nothing. Then, one fine, sunny morning in December, the little party of motor girls and their friends, who had so often made motor boat trips on the lakes or streams of their own country, set off in the Tartar for a cruise on waters blue.

"All aboard!" cried Jack, with an assumption of gaiety he did not feel.

"Oh, I wonder what lies before us?" murmured Cora.

"Courage, Senorita! Perhaps -- happiness," said Inez, softly.



Chapter XVIII

The Shark


Looking at a map of the West Indies, the reader, if he or she will take that little trouble, will see that the many islands lay in a sort of curved hook, extending from Cuba, the largest, down to Tobago, one of the smallest, just off Trinidad. In fact, Trinidad is a little off-set of the end of the hook, and, for the purpose of this illustration, need not be considered.

The problem, then, that confronted the motor girls, and, no less, Jack and Walter, was to cruise in among these islands, in the hope of finding, on one of them, Mrs. Kimball, and Mr. and Mrs. Robinson, who, by great good fortune, might have been able to save themselves from the wreck of the Ramona.

Looking at the map again, which is the last time I shall trouble you to do so, the problem might not seem so hard, for there are not so many islands shown. The difficulty is that few maps show all of them, and even on the best of navigating maps there may be one or two that are not charted. The shipwrecked ones, providing they lived to get off on a life raft, or in a boat, might as likely have been driven to one of these little islands, as to a larger one.

"But we can cut out a lot of them," said Jack, when they were in the cozy cabin of the Tartar, and he and his sister, with the others, were bending over the charts.

"It's like this," Jack went on, pointing with a pencil to where Porto Rico was shown, in shape and proportion not unlike a building brick. "Our folks started for Guadeloupe -- that's here," and he indicated the island which bears not a little resemblance to an hour-glass on the map. Guadeloupe, in fact, consists of two islands, separated by a narrow arm of the sea -- Riviere Salee -- which divides it by a channel of from one hundred to four hundred feet in width.

"Whether they arrived is of course open to question," said Jack. "I'm inclined to think they didn't, or we'd have heard from them. The storm came before the ship got anywhere near there. Now, then, I think we shall have to look for them somewhere between Porto Rico and Guadeloupe."

"Why not near St. Kitts?" asked Walter, covering with his finger the little island that is included in the discoveries of Columbus. "That's near where the two sailors were picked up," Walter went on.

"Yes -- I think we ought to go there," agreed Jack. "But it's only one of many possible places where our folks may be. It's going to be a long cruise, I'm afraid."

"Where is Sea Horse Island?" asked Cora, as Inez flashed an appealing look at her.

"Here," replied Jack, indicating a rather lonesome spot in the watery waste, where no other islands showed. "It's about half way between Guadeloupe and Aves, or Bird Island. Speaking sailor fashion, its latitude is about sixteen degrees north of the equator, and the longitude about sixty-two degrees, fifty-one minutes west."

"Oh, don't!" begged Bess. "It reminds me of my school days. I never could tell the difference between latitude and longitude."

"Well, there's where Sea Horse Island is," went on Jack, "and if all had gone well, Mr. Robinson hoped to gather orchids there. Now -- ?" he hesitated.

"And do you think we'll touch near there, Jack?" asked his sister.

"I'm going to try."

"Oh, it is so good of you!" murmured Inez. "Perhaps we can save my father."

"At any rate, they ought to allow you to see him," put in Walter. "Political prisoners aren't supposed to be kept in solitary confinement. We'll have a try at him, anyhow; eh, Jack?"

"Sure. Well, that's our problem -- to search among these islands, and I think we have the very boat to do it."

Indeed the Tartar was just what they could have desired. It was a powerful motor boat, and had been in commission only a short time. It could weather a fairly big sea, or a heavy blow. It had a powerful motor, many comforts, and even some luxuries, including a bathroom.

The engine was located forward, where there was a sleeping room for the engineer, who could steer from a small pilot house. Or the craft could also be guided from the after deck, which was open.

There was a large enclosed space, variously divided into cabins and staterooms. A kitchen provided for ample meals, the cooking being done by the exhausted and heated gases from the motor, which also warmed the boat on the few days when the weather was rainy and chilly. When the motor was not running, a gasoline stove could be used.

Adjoining the kitchen was the dining cabin, which had folding seats that could be used for berths when more than could be accommodated in the regular sleeping spaces were aboard.

There were two other cabins, fitted with folding berths, and the smaller of these was apportioned to Jack and Walter, while the girls took possession of the larger one. In addition, there were ample lockers and spaces for storing away food, and the other things they had brought with them. A considerable supply of gasoline had to be carried, but there were several islands where more could be purchased.

"Isn't it just the dearest boat!" murmured Belle, as she made a tour of it, and had peeped into the engine compartment.

"It is," agreed her sister. "Oh, Cora, wouldn't you just fairly love to run that splendid motor?"

"I would, if I didn't have to start it too often," replied Jack's sister, as she looked at the heavy flywheel, which was now moving about as noiselessly as a shaft of light. The propeller was not in clutch, however.

"It has a self-starter," Joe informed the girls. "It's the smoothest engine ever handled. No trouble at all."

"Better knock wood," suggested Jack.

"Eh? Knock wood?" asked the engineer, evidently puzzled.

"Oh, Jack means to do that to take away any bad luck that might follow your boast," laughed Cora.

"Oh, I see. But I carry a charm," and Joe showed a queer black pebble. "I always have it with me."

"One superstition isn't much worse than the other," said Bess, with a laugh. "Now let's get settled. Oh, Cora, did you bring any safety-pins? I meant to get a paper, but -- "

"I have them," interrupted Belle. "I fancy we won't have much time to sew buttons on -- or room to do it, either," she added, as she squeezed herself into a corner of the tiny stateroom.

Suitcases had been stowed away, the boys had gotten their possessions into what they called "ship-shape" order, and the Tartar was soon chugging her way over the blue waters of the bay.

The route was to be around the eastern end of the island, taking the narrow channel between Porto Rico and Vieques, and thus into the Caribbean. St. Croix was to be their first stop, though they did not hope for much news from that Danish possession.

"Why don't you boys do some fishing?" asked Cora, as she and the other girls came from their stateroom, where they had been putting their things to rights. "We won't have much but canned stuff to eat, if you don't," she went on, addressing Jack and Walter, who sat on the open after deck, under an awning that shaded them from the hot December sun.

"That's so, we might," assented Jack. "A nice tarpon now wouldn't go bad."

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Walter. "We haven't the outfit for tarpon fishing. If we get some red snappers, we'll be doing well."

The boys had brought along a fishing outfit, one of the simple sort used in those waters, and as they baited their hooks, Jack said:

"Well, maybe I haven't the rod to catch a tarpon, but I can rig up a line and hook that will do the business, maybe."

Accordingly he picked out what Joe said was a regular shark hook, and, baiting it with a piece of canned meat, tossed it over the side, fastening the line to the rail.

Then Jack forgot about it, for Walter had a bite almost as soon as he cast in, and the two boys were soon pulling in red snappers abundantly enough to insure several meals.

"Why don't you try your hand line," suggested Cora, as she went to where it was tied to the rail. "May be you'll get-a bite, Jack."

As she spoke, she felt on the heavy string, and, an instant later, uttered a cry, for it was jerked from her hand with such force as to skin her knuckles, and at the same time she cried:

"Jack! Jack! You've hooked a big shark! Oh, what a monster!"



Chapter XIX

Cruising Days


There was a sudden rush to see the tiger of the deep, of which Cora had had a glimpse. Walter, who was at the wheel, cried to Joe to steer while he, too, ran to the rail.

"I don't see him," said Bess, as she peered down into the deep, blue water.

"You'll see him in a minute," was Cora's opinion. "He had just taken the hook, I think, and he didn't like it. He'll come into view pretty soon."

Hardly had she spoken, than, while the others were looking at the line, which was now unreeling from a spool on which it was wound, the shark came suddenly to the surface, its big triangular fin appearing first.

"There it is!" cried Cora. "See it, Bess!"

"Oh, the monster! I don't want to look at the horrible thing!" screamed Bess, as she covered her eyes with her hands.

The shark swam close to the motor boat, and then with a threshing of the water, and by wild leaps and bounds, sought to free himself from the sharp hook. But it had gone in too deep.

"No, you don't, old chap," cried Jack, as he took hold of the slack of the line.

He regretted it the next instant, for the shark darted away with a speed that made the tough string cut deep into Jack's palm.

"Oh!" he murmured, as he sprang back from the rail.

"Better be careful!" warned Joe. "They're mighty strong."

"Oh, cut him loose!" urged Cora. "Do, Walter! We don't want him aboard here."

"He'd be quite a curiosity," observed Jack's chum, as he helped Cora's brother tie a rag around his cut and bleeding hand. "We could sell the fins to the Chinese for soup, and you might have a fan made from the tail."

"No, thank you! It's too horrible!" and Cora could not repress a shudder as the big fish, once more, made a leap partly out of the water, showing its immense size.

"Whew!" whistled Walter, for this was the first good view he had had of the sea-tiger. "We never can get him aboard, Jack. Better do as Cora says, and let him go."

"Oh, I didn't intend to have him as a pet," was the rueful answer of Jack. "I just wanted to see if I could catch one. I'm satisfied to let him go," and he looked down at his bandaged hand.

"Too bad to lose all that good line," mused Walter, "but we probably won't want to do any more shark-fishing, so I'll cut it."

"I've seen enough of sharks," murmured Belle, who, with Inez, had taken one glance, and then retreated to the cabin.

"These aren't regular man-eating sharks," affirmed Jack, after Walter, with a blow from a heavy knife, had severed the line, letting the shark swim away with the hook.

"Ah, but zey are, Senor!" exclaimed the Spanish girl. "You should hear the stories the natives tell of them."

"But I saw a bigger one not far from the harbor," insisted Jack, "and it seemed almost tame."

"They are, near harbors," explained Cora. "One of the ladies at the hotel explained about that. The harbor sharks live on what they get near shore, stuff thrown overboard from boats, and they grow very large and lazy. But, farther out to sea, they don't get so much to eat, and they'll take a hook and bait almost as soon as it's thrown into the water. The men sometimes go shark-fishing for sport."

"It might be sport, under the right circumstances," said Jack, with a rueful laugh. "Next time I'll know better, than to, handle a shark line without gloves."

"So shall I," agreed Cora, as she looked at her skinned knuckles.

They had made a good catch of food fishes and the boys now proceeded to get these ready for their first meal aboard, the girls agreeing to cook them, and to set the table.

The meal was rather a merry one, in spite of the grief that hung over the party -- a grief occasioned by the fear of what might have befallen Mrs. Kimball, as well as Mr. and Mrs. Robinson.

And yet, with all their sorrow, there was that never-failing ray of hope. Without it, the days would have been dismal indeed.

Joe ran the boat while the others were eating, and presently he called into the dining compartment.

"Cape San Juan!" was his announcement.

"Have we sighted it?" asked Jack, referring to the north easternmost point of Porto Rico.

"Just ahead of us," replied Joe, who was a skillful navigator of the West Indian waters. "You said you were going to change the course there."

"Oh, yes. We'll round the cape and go south, I think," went on Jack. "A little more of that red snapper, Cora. Whoever cooked it knew how to do it," and he looked at Ben, while the others laughed.

"What's the joke?" Jack demanded, as he ate on, seemingly unperturbed, though his cut hand made it rather awkward to handle his knife and fork.

"Honor to whom honor is due," quoted Cora.

"It was Inez who cooked the fish. It's in Spanish style."

"Good!" exclaimed Jack, as he flashed another look at Bess, with whom he seemed to have some understanding. "Whatever style it is, I'm for it. I don't care whether it has gores down the side, and plaits up the middle, with frills around the ruffles, or whatever you call them -- it's good."

The others laughed, while Inez looked very much puzzled at Jack's juggling of dressmaking terms.

"Is it zat I have put too much paprika on ze fith?" asked the Spanish girl.

"No, Jack is just trying to be funny," explained Cora. "He thinks it's great -- don't you, Jack?"

"What, to be funny?"

"No, to eat the fish," said Walter.

There was more laughter. Little enough cause for it, perhaps, and yet there seemed to come a sudden relaxation of the strain under which they had all been laboring the last few days, and even a slight excuse for merriment was welcomed.

So the meal went on, and a good one it was. The motor girls, from having gone on many outings, and from having done much camping, were able to cook to satisfy even the sea-ravenous appetites of two young men, although Jack was not exactly "up to the mark."

Then, too, the novelty of shifting for themselves, after being used to the rather indolent luxury of a tropical hotel, made a welcome change to them. Joe had his meal after the others had finished, as it was necessary for some one to stay at the wheel, for the Tartar was slipping along through the blue water at a good rate of speed.

Cape San Juan was rounded, and then the prow of the powerful motor boat was turned south, to navigate the often perilous passage between Porto Rico and Vieques.

"Do you think we'll find any news at St. Croix?" asked Cora, of Jack, in a low voice, when, after the meal, they found themselves for the moment by themselves.

"Hard to say, Sis," he answered. "I'm always living in hope, you know."

"Yes, I suppose we must hope, Jack. And yet, when I think of all they may be suffering -- starving, perhaps, on some uninhabited island, it -- it makes me shiver," and Cora glanced apprehensively across the stretch of blue water as though she might, at any moment, sight the lonely isle that served as a refuge for her mother, and for Mr. and Mrs. Robinson.

"Don't think about it," advised the practical Jack. "There are just as many chances that the folks have been picked up, and taken to some good island, as that they're on some bad one."

By the course they had laid, it was rather more than a hundred miles from San Juan harbor to St. Croix, the Danish island, and as they were going to make a careful search, and husband their supply of gasoline as much as possible, they had set their average speed at ten miles an hour.

"That will bring us to St. Croix early this evening," said Jack, for they had started in the morning. "We'll stay there all night, for I don't much fancy motoring after dark in unknown waters."

"Neither do I," said Cora.

"And then there are the sharks!" murmured Belle.

"I won't let them get you!" said Walter, it such soothing tones as one might use to a child. "The bad sharks sha'n't get little Belle," and he pretended to slip an arm about her.

"Stop it!" commanded the blonde twin, with a deep blush as she fairly squirmed out of reach.



Chapter XX

Anxious Nights


Dusk had begun to settle over the harbor of Christianstad, or Bassin, as the capital of St. Croix is locally known, when the anchor of the Tartar was dropped into the mud. The boat had threaded its way through a rather treacherous channel, caused by the then shallow parts of the basin, and had come to rest not far from shore.

"What's the program?" asked Walter, as the motor ceased its throbbing.

"We'll go ashore," said Jack, "and see what news we can learn. I'm not very hopeful, but we may pick up something."

"Back here to sleep?" Walter went on, questioningly.

"Oh, sure. We want to start early in the morning. And from now on, we'll have plenty of stopping places, for there are many small islands where survivors from the wreck might have landed."

"Is there anything to see here ashore?" asked Bess. "If there is, you might take us girls. We don't want to be left alone."

"Well, I suppose it could be done," Jack assented. "Only we'll have to do it in two trips, for the small boat won't hold us all. Too risky, and there might be sharks here, Bess," and he made a motion toward the waters of the harbor.

"Oh, how horrible!" she screamed.

A small rowboat was carried as part of the equipment of the Tartar, but, at best, it could hold only four. However, the boys and girls were saved the necessity of making two trips from the motor boat to shore, for a large launch, the pilot of which scented business, put out to them from the landing wharf, and soon bargained to land them, and bring them off again when they desired to come. Joe would stay aboard the Tartar.

The travelers found Christianstad to be a picturesque town, and in certain parts of it there were many old buildings. The Danish governor was "in residence" then, and affairs were rather more lively than usual.

"What's that queer smell?" asked Cora, as they were on their way to the best hotel in the place, for there they intended making their inquiries.

"Sugar factory," answered Jack. "It's about all the business done here -- making sugar."

"How'd you know?" asked Belle.

"Oh, ask Little Willie whenever you want to know anything," laughed Jack. "Listen, my children!

"St. Croix is twenty-two miles long, and from one to six miles in width. It is inhabited by whites and blacks, the former sugar planters, and the latter un-planters -- that is, they gather the sugar cane.

"St. Croix was discovered by Columbus in 1493, and at times the Dutch, British and Spanish owned it. In 1733 Denmark bought it, and has owned it since. The average temperature is -- "

"That'll do you!" interrupted Walter. "We can read a guide book as well as you can. Come again, Jack."

"Well, I thought you'd be wanting to know something about it, so I primed myself," chuckled Jack.

Curious eyes regarded our friends as they reached the hotel. Walter and Jack left the girls in the parlor while they, themselves, went to make inquiries at the office. And more curious were the looks, when it became known that Jack and the others were seeking traces of those wrecked on the Ramona.

Curious looks, indeed, were about all the satisfaction that was had. For no news -- not the most vague rumor -- had come in regarding the ill-fated vessel. The wreck had not even been heard of, for news from the outside world sometimes filtered slowly to St. Croix.

"Well, that's our first failure," announced Jack, as, with Walter, he rejoined the girls. "We must expect that. If we found them at our first call, it would be too much like a story in a book. We have a long search ahead of us, I'm thinking."

"That's right," agreed Walter. "But, Jack, if this island is twenty-two miles long, might not the refugees have come ashore somewhere else than on this particular part of the coast?"

"Yes, I suppose so. But, if they did, they'd know enough to make their way to civilization by this time. It's over a week since the hurricane."

"I know. But suppose they couldn't make their way -- if they were hurt, or something like that?"

"That's so," was the hesitating answer. "Well, we might make a circuit of the island to-morrow."

"Oh, let's do it -- by all means!" exclaimed Cora, catching at any stray straw of hope. "We -- we might find them -- Jack!"

"All right, Sis!" he agreed.

"You look tired," she said to him, as they sat in a little refreshment room, for Walter had offered to "stand treat" to such as there was to be had.

"I am a bit tuckered out," confessed Jack, putting his hand to his head. "It was quite a strain getting things ready for the start. But, now we're at sea, I'm going to take a good rest -- that is, as much as I can, under the circumstances."

"You mustn't overdo it," cautioned Cora. "Remember that we came down here for your health, but we didn't expect to have such a time of it. Poor little mother!" she sighed. "I wonder where she is to-night?"

"I'd like to know," said Jack, softly, and again his hand went to his head with a puzzled sort of gesture.

"Does it ache?" asked Cora, solicitously.

"No, not exactly," answered Jack slowly, uncertainly.

They finished their little refreshment, being, about the only stranger-guests at the hotel, and then went out to view what they could of the town by lamp-light. Some of the shops displayed wares that, under other circumstances, would have been attractive to the girls, but now they did not feel like purchasing. They were under too much of a strain.

"Well, no news is good news," quoted Walter.

Alas! how often has that been said as a last resort to buoy up a sinking hope. No one else spoke, as they made their way to the dock where the little ferry boat awaited them.

"What's the matter, Jack?" asked Walter, as he sat beside his chum on the return trip.

"Matter! What do you mean?"

"You're so quiet."

"He doesn't feel well," put In Cora.

"Oh, I'm all right!" insisted Jack, with brotherly brusqueness. "Let me alone!"

"Well, this place seems nice and cozy," commented Belle, as they reached the Tartar, and stepped into the cabin, which Joe had illuminated from the incandescents, operated by a storage battery when the motor was not whirling the magneto.

"Yes, it is almost like home," said Bess, softly.

Jack and Walter looked carefully to the anchor rope, for though the harbor was a safe one, there were muddy flats in places, and while there was no wind at present to drag them, it might spring up in the night.

"Might as well turn in, I guess," suggested Jack, with a weary yawn.

"Why -- yes -- old man -- if you -- feel that way about it!" mocked Walter, pretending to gape.

"Oh, cut it out!" and Jack's voice was almost snarling. Cora looked at him in some surprise, and, catching Walter's eye, made him a signal not to take any notice.

Walter nodded in acquiescence, and the incident passed.

As an anchor light was hoisted, and as there was no need for any particular caution, no watch was kept, every one retiring by eleven o'clock. Often, when the young people had been on outings together, Cora and her girl friends had had a "giggling-spell" after retiring to their rooms. But now none of them felt like making fun. It was rather a solemn little party aboard the Tartar.

The hope and plan of the young travelers to leave early in the morning, and make a circuit of the island, for a possible sight of the refugees, was not destined to be carried out. For somewhere around two o'clock, when bodily functions are said to be at their lowest ebb, Walter heard Jack calling to him.

"I say, old man, I wish, you would come here. Something's the matter with me," came in a hoarse whisper.

"Eh? What's that? Something the matter?" murmured Walter, sleepily.

"Yes, I feel pretty rocky,", was Jack's answer. "Would you mind getting me a little of that nerve stuff the doctor put up for me? It might quiet me so I could go to sleep."

"Great Scott, man! Haven't you been asleep yet?"

"No," was Jack's miserable answer. "I've just been lying here on my back, staring up at the darkness, and now I'm seeing things."

"Seeing things!" faltered Walter.

"Yes, blue centipedes and red sharks. It's like the time I keeled over at college, you know."

"Ugh!" half grunted Walter, with no very cheerful heart, for the prospect before him, if Jack were to be ill. Jack was far from well, when the lights were turned aglow, and Cora came in to see him. It seemed to be a return of his old malady, brought on by an excess of work and worry.

There was little sleep for any of them the rest of the night, for Cora insisted upon sitting up to look after Jack, and Walter made himself up a bunk in the dining compartment, being ready on call.

Toward morning Cora's brother sank into an uneasy slumber under the influence of a sedative, but he awoke at seven o'clock and seemed feverish.

"We must have a doctor from the island," decided Cora, as she saw her brother's condition. "We can't take any chances."

The Danish physician who came out in the boat heartened them up a little by saying it was merely a relapse, and that Jack would be much better after a few days' rest.

"Just stay here with him, or anchor a little farther out," was his suggestion. "The sea breezes will be the best medicine for him. I can't give him any better. Just let him rest until he gets back his nerve."

This advice they followed. But there were anxious nights, and for three of them Walter and Cora divided the task of sitting up with Jack. Joe generously offered to do his share, as did Bess, Belle and Inez, but Cora would not let them relieve her.

So they lingered off the coast of St. Croix until the fever left Jack, departing from his weakened body, but making his mind at rest. Then he began to mend.



Chapter XXI

A Strange Tale


"Well, Sis, I don't see what's to keep us here any longer. We might as well get under way again."

"Do you really feel equal to it, Jack?"

"Surely," and the heir of the Kimball family rose from the deck chair and stretched himself. The paleness of his cheeks for the past week was beginning to give way again to the faint glow of health.

"Sorry to get myself knocked out in that fashion," apologized Jack.

"You couldn't help it, old man," said Walter, sympathetically. "The rest has done you good, anyhow."

"Yes, I guess I needed it," confessed Jack. "All my nerves seemed to be on the raw edge." There was no need for him to admit this, since it had been very evident since reaching St. Croix. The Danish physician had given good advice, and now Jack was even better than when he received the news of the foundering of the Ramona.

The balmy sea breezes, the lack of necessity for any hard work, the ministrations of Cora, and, occasionally, the other girls, set Jack in a fair way to recovery. Inez Ralcanto made many dainty Spanish dishes for the invalid, from the stock of provisions aboard the Tartar, and with what she could get from the island. Nothing gave her more delight than to know that Jack had gone to the bottom of each receptacle in which she served her concoctions.

"It is so good to see you smile again, Senor Jack," she said to him, as she looked at him, on deck.

"And it's good to smile again, Inez," he said to her.

"You'd better look out, Bess," warned Walter. "First thing you know, she'll cut you out."

"Silly!" was all the answer Bess vouchsafed. But there was a tell-tale blush on her cheeks.

The anchor of the Tartar was hoisted, and once more she sailed away, this time on the cruise about St. Croix. That it would result in any news of the lost ones being obtained no one really believed, but they felt that no chance, not even the slightest, should be overlooked.

So they motored around the Danish island, stopping aft little bays or inlets where it seemed likely a raft or boat from a shipwrecked vessel might most likely put in. They found no traces, however, and what few natives they were able to converse with had heard of no refugees coming ashore.

"Where next?" asked Walter, when they Had completed the circuit of St. Croix, and come to anchor once more off Christianstad, to lay aboard some supplies.

"St. Kitts," decided Jack, who was again able to take his part in the councils. "At least we'll head for there, and stop at any little two-by-four islands we pick up on the way. Isn't that your opinion, Cora?"

"Yes, Jack. Anything to find those for whom we are looking. Oh, I wonder if we shall ever find them?"

"Of course!" said Jack quickly, but, even as he spoke, he wondered if he were not deceiving himself. For when all was said and done, it seemed such a remote hope -- and might be so long deferred, as, not only to make the heart sick, but to stop it's beating altogether. It was such a very slender thread that the beads of hope were strung on -- it was so easy to snap. And yet they hoped on!

From St. Croix to St. Kitts is about one hundred and twenty miles, measured on the most accurate charts, and while it could have easily been made in a day's sail by the Tartar, it was decided not to try for any time limit, but to cruise back and forth in a rather zig-zag fashion.

"For that's the only way we'll have of picking up any small islands that might possibly be uncharted," explained Jack. "Most of the coral reefs here are noted on the maps, but there's a bare chance that we might strike an unknown one, or an island, that would serve as a haven of refuge for shipwrecked ones."

His friends agreed with him, and Joe said it was probably the best plan that could be adopted.

So they were once more under way.

It was near St. Kitts that the two sailors from the Ramona had been picked up, to tell their story of the stressful hurricane and mutiny. And, other things being equal, as Jack put it, it was near St. Kitts that some news might be expected to be had of those for whom the search was being made.

As the capital, Basseterre, was a town of more than ten thousand population, it might reasonably be expected that some news of the foundering of the Ramona would be received there. It was in that vicinity, as was evident from the rescue of the two sailors, that the ship had been torn by the wind and waves.

A week was occupied in making the journey to St. Kitts from St. Croix, a week of cruising back and forth, and of stopping at many mere dots of islands. Some of these were seen at once to be not worth searching, since their entire extent could almost be seen at a single glance. They were merely collections of coral rocks, submerged at high water. Others were larger, and these were visited in the small boat which the Tartar carried with her.

It was on some of these trips, over comparatively shallow water, that the beauties and mysteries of the ocean bottom were made plain to our friends.

Joe, the engineer, made for them a "water glass," by the simple process of knocking the bottom out of a pail, and putting in puttied glass, instead. This, when put into the water, glass side somewhat below the surface, enabled one to see with startling clearness the bottom of the ocean, in depths from seventy-five to one hundred feet.

Most wonderful was the sight.

"Why, it looks like a forest, or a wonderful green-house down there," said Cora, after her first view.

"Those are the coral and the sponges," explained Joe. Our friends were surprised to see that coral, instead of being stiff and hard, as it had seemed to them when they handled specimens of it on land, was, under the water, as graceful and waving as the leaves of palm trees in a gentle wind. The ocean currents waved and undulated, it, until it seemed alive.

Branch coral they saw, like miniature trees, and great "fans," some nearly ten feet across. Then there were great rocks of the coral-living rocks, formed of millions and millions of the bodies of the polyps, insects who build up such marvelous formations.

Sponges there were, too, though not in great enough abundance to warrant the sponge-gathering fleets coming to this section.

Through the water glass, our friends could see fish swimming around under the water, darting here and there between the waving coral and under the growing sponges.

It was all very wonderful and beautiful, but it is doubtful if any of the young people really appreciated it as they might have done, had their hearts been lighter. Inez did not care to look at the sea sights, for she said she had seen them too often as a child in the islands.

In spite of her anxiety concerning her father und his possible fate, she did not obtrude her desires on her friends. She seldom spoke of the hope she had of going to Sea Horse Island, either to help rescue her father, or to learn some news of him, so that others might set him free.

"But we'll go there, just the same!" Jack had said. "And if we can get him out of prison, we will. There must be some sort of authority there to appeal to."

"You are very lucky, Senor Jack," whispered Inez, with a grateful look.

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Jack, who did not like praise.

They reached St. Kitts, or St. Christopher, as it is often called, from the immortal Columbus who found it in 1493, when he did so much to bring unknown lands to notice.

"Now we'll see what sort of luck we'll have," spoke Walter.

They anchored off Basseterre, and, going ashore, had little difficulty in confirming the story of the two shipwrecked sailors being picked up. That much as current news, since another vessel than the Boldero had been near, when the latter's captain stopped for the two unfortunates.

That was all that really was learned, save that some fishing boats, later, had seen pieces of wreckage.

Diligent inquiry in Old Road, and Sandy Point, the two other principal towns, failed to gain further information, and our friends were considering continuing their cruise, when, most unexpectedly, they heard a curious tale that set them, eventually, on the right course.

They were coming down to the dock, one evening to take a boat out to their own craft, when an aged colored man, who spoke fairly good English, accosted them. At first Jack took him for a beggar, and gruffly ordered him away, but the fellow insisted.

"I've got news for you, boss," he said, with a curious British cockney accent. "You lookin' for shipwrecked parties, ain't you?"

"Yes," said Jack, a bit shortly. But that was common news.

"Well, there's an island about fifty miles from here," the black went on, "and there's somethin' bloomin' stringe about it;" for so he pronounced "strange."

"Strange -- what do you mean?" asked Walter.

"Just what I says, boss, stringe. If you was to say it'd be worth arf a crown now -- "

"Oh, I haven't time to bother with curiosities!" exclaimed Jack, impatiently.

"Let us hear his story, Jack," insisted Cora. "What is it?" she asked, giving him a coin, though not as much as he had asked for.

"'Thank ye kindly, Miss. It's this way," said, the colored Englishman. "I works on a fishin' boat, and a few days ago, comin' back, we sighted this island. We needed water, and we went ashore to get it, but -- well, we comes away without it."

"Why was that?" asked Walter, curiously.

"Because, boss, there's a strange creature on that island, that's what there is," said the negro. "He scared all of us stiff. He was all in rage and titters, and when he found we was sheering off, without coming ashore, he went wild, and flung his cap at us. It floated off shore, and I picked it up, bein' on that side of the boat."

"But how does this concern us?" asked Jack, rousing a little.

"I could show you that cap, boss," the Negro went on. "I've got it here. It's dark, but maybe you can make out the letters on it. I can't read very good."

Jack held the cap up in the gleam of a light on the water-front. His startled eyes saw a cap, such as sailors wear, while in faded gilt letters on the band was the name: "RAMONA."



Chapter XXII

The Lonely Island


Walter, looking over Jack's shoulder, rubbed his eyes as though to clear them from a mist, and then, as he saw the faded gilt letters, he closed both eyes, opening them again quickly to make sure of a perfect vision.

"Jack!" he murmured. "Do I really see it?"

"I -- I guess so," was the faltering answer.

"Cora, look here!"

The girls, who had drawn a little aside at the close approach of the negro, came up by twos, Cora and Belle walking together.

"What is it?" asked Jack's sister, thinking perhaps the man had made a second charity appeal to her brother, and that he wanted her advice on it.

"Look," said Jack simply, and he extended the cap.

As Walter had done, Cora was at first unable to believe the word she saw there.

"The -- Ramona," she faltered.

"The steamer mother and father sailed on?" asked Belle, her face pale in the lamp-light.

"The same name, at any rate," remarked Walter, in a low voice. "And there would hardly be two alike in these waters."

"But what does it mean? Where did he get the cap?" asked Cora, her voice rising with her excitement. "Tell me, Jack!"

"He says it was flung to him by some sort of an insane sailor, I take it, on a lonely island."

"That's it, Missie," broke in the man, his tone sufficiently respectful. "Me and my mates, as I was tellin' the boss here," and he nodded at Jack, "started to fill our water casks, but we didn't stay to do it arter we saw this chap. Fair a wild man, I'd call 'im, Missie. That's what I would. Fair a wild man!"

"And he flung you this cap?"

"That's what he done, Missie. Chucked it right into the tea, Missie, jest like it didn't cost nothin', and it was a good cap once."

It was not now, whatever it had been, for it bore evidence of long sea immersion, and the band had been broken and cracked by the manner in which the negro fisherman had crammed it into his pocket.

"Jack!" exclaimed Cora, in a strangely agitated voice. "We must hear more of this story. It may be -- it may be a clue!"

"That's what I'm thinking."

A little knot of idlers had gathered at seeing the negro talking to the group of white 'young people, and Walter and Jack, exchanging glances mutually decided that the rest of the affair might better be concluded in seclusion. Jack gave the negro a hasty but comprehensive glance.

"Shall we take him aboard, Cora?" he asked his sister. Jack was very willing to defer to Cora's opinion, for he had, more than once, found her judgment sound. And, in a great measure, this was her affair, since she had been invited first by the Robinsons, and Jack himself was only a sort accidental after-thought.

"I think it would be better to take him to the Tartar," Cora said. "We can question him there, and, if necessary, we can -- "

She hesitated, and Jack asked:

"Well, what? Go on!"

"No, I want to think about it first," she made reply. "Wait until we girls hear his story."

"Will you come to our motor boat?" asked Jack of the sailor, who said he was known by the name of Slim Jim, which indeed, as far as his physical characteristics were concerned, fitted him perfectly. He was indeed slim, though of rather a pleasant cast of features.

"Sure, boss, I'll go," he answered. "Of course I might git a job by hangin' around here, but -- "

"Oh, we'll pay you for your time -- you won't lose anything." Jack interrupted. Indeed the man had, from the first, it seemed, accosted him with the idea of getting a little "spare-change" for, like most of the negro population of the Antilles, he was very poor.

"But what's it all about?" asked Bess, who had not heard all the talk, and who, in consequence, had not followed the significance of the encounter.

"Zey have found a man, who says a sailor on some island near here, wore a cap with ze name of your mozer's steamer," put in Inez, who, with the quickness of her race, had gathered those important facts.

"Oh!" gasped Bess.

"Don't build too much on it," interposed Jack.

"It may be only a sailor's yarn."

"It's all true, what I'm tellin' you, boss!" exclaimed the negro.

"Oh, I don't doubt your word," said Jack, quickly. "But let's get aboard the boat before we talk any further."

Aboard the Tartar, seated in her cozy cabin, the story of Slim Jim seemed to take on added significance. He told it, too, with a due regard for its importance -- especially to him -- in the matter of what money it might bring to him.

In brief, his "yarn" was about as I have indicated, in the brief talk with Jack. Jim and his mates had been on a protracted fishing trip, and had run short of water. One of the number knew of a lonely and uninhabited island near where they were then cruising -- an island that contained a spring of good water.

They were headed for the place, but when they were about to land, they had been alarmed by the appearance of what at first was supposed to be some wild beast.

"He crawled on all fours, Missie," said Slim Jim, addressing Cora with such earnestness that she could not repress a shiver. "He crawled on all fours like some bloomin' beastie, begging your pardon, Missie. We was all fair scared, an' sheered orf."

"Then how did you get the cap?" asked Walter.

"He chucked the blessed cap to us, sir!" Jim appeared to have a different appellation for each member of the party. "Chucked it right into the water, sir. I picked it up."

"What else did he do?" asked Cora.

"He behaved somethin' queer, Missie. Runnin' up and down, not on four legs -- meanin' his hands, Missie -- and now on two. Fair nutty I'd call him."

"Poor fellow," murmured Bess.

"And is that all that happened?" demanded Walter.

"Well, about all, sir. I picked up the cap, and we rowed away. We thought we'd better go dry, sir, in the manner of speakin', instead of facin' that chap. He was fair crazy, sir."

"Did he look like a sailor?" Jack wanted to know.

"Well, no, boss, you couldn't rightly say so, boss. He took on somethin' terrible when we sheered off an' left 'im."

"And that's all?" inquired Belle, in a low voice.

"Yes -- er -- little lady," answered Slim Jim, finding a new title for fair Belle. "That's all, little lady, 'cept that I kept th' cap, not thinkin' much about it, until I heard you gentlemen inquirin' for news of the Ramona. I heard some one spell out that there name in these letters for me," and he indicated the name on the cap. "Then I spoke to you, boss."

"Yes, and I'm glad you did," said Jack.

"'Why?" began Cora. "Do you think -- "

"I think it's barely possible that one of the sailors from the Ramona is marooned on that lonely island," interrupted Jack. "He may be the only one, or there may be more. We'll have to find out. Can you take us to this island?" he asked Slim Jim.

"The lonely island?"

"Yes."

"I rackon so, boss, if you was to hire me, in the manner of speakin'"

"Of course."

"Then I'll go."

"Off for the lonely, isle," murmured Coral softly. "I wonder what we'll find there?"



Chapter XXIII

The Lonely Sailor


Once more the Tartar was off on her strange cruise. This time she carried an added passenger, or, rather a second member of the crew, for Slim Jim bunked with Joe, and was made assistant engineer, since the negro proved to know something of gasoline motors.

After hearing the story told by the colored fisherman, and confirming it by inquiries in St. Kitts, Jack, Cora and the others decided that there was but one thing to do. That was to head at once for the lonely island where the sailor, probably maddened by his loneliness and hardship, was marooned.

As to the location of the island, Slim Jim could give a fair idea as to where it rose sullenly from the sea, a mass of coral rock, with a little vegetation. The truth of this was also established by cautious inquiries before the Tartar tripped her anchor.

Lonely Island, as they called it, was about a day's run from St. Kitts in fair weather, and now, though the weather had taken a little turn, as though indicating another storm, it was fair enough to warrant the try.

More gasoline was put aboard, with additional stores, for Slim Jim, in spite of his attenuation, was a hearty eater. Then they were on their way.

Aside from a slight excitement caused when Walter hooked a big fish, and was nearly taken overboard by it -- being in fact pulled back just in time by Bess, little of moment occurred on the trip to Lonely Island.

Toward evening, after a day's hard pushing of the Tartar, Slim Jim, who had taken his position in the bows, called out:

"There she lies, boss!"

"Lonely Island?" asked Jack.

"That's her."

"Since you've been there, where had we better anchor?" asked Joe, with a due regard for the craft he was piloting.

"Around on the other side is a good bay, with deep enough water and good holding ground," said the negro. "If it comes on to blow, an' it looks as if it might, we'll ride easy there."

Accordingly, they passed by the place where the negro fishermen had been frightened away with their empty water casks, and made for the other side of the island. Recalling the story of the queer and probably crazed man, Jack and the others, including Slim Jim, gazed eagerly for a sight of him. But the island seemed deserted and lonely.

"What if he shouldn't be there?" whispered Belle to Cora.

"Don't suggest it, my dear. It's the best chance we've yet had of finding them, and it mustn't fail -- it simply mustn't!"

It was very quiet in the little bay where they dropped anchor, though a flock of birds, with harsh cries, flew from the palm trees at the sound of the "mud hook" splashing into the water.

"Now for the sailor!" exclaimed Walter.

"Hush! He'll hear you," cautioned Belle.

"Well, we want him to, don't we?" and he smiled at her.

Eagerly they gazed toward shore, but there was no sign of a human being around there. Lonely indeed was the little island in the midst of that blue sea, over which the setting sun cast golden shadows.

"Are you going ashore?" asked Walter of Jack, in a low voice. Somehow it seemed necessary to speak in hushed tones in that silent place.

"Indeed we're not -- until morning!" put in Cora. "And don't you boys dare go and leave us alone," and she grasped her brother's arm in a determined clasp.

"I guess it will be better to wait until morning," agreed Jack.

Supper -- or dinner, as you prefer -- was served aboard, and then the searchers sat about and talked of the strange turn of events, while Jim and Joe, in the motor compartment, tinkered with the engine, which had not been running as smoothly, of late, as could be desired.

"I hope it doesn't go back on us," remarked Jack, half dubiously.

"Don't suggest such a thing," exclaimed his sister.

They agreed to go ashore in the morning, and search for the marooned sailor supposed to be on Lonely Island. The night passed quietly, though there were strange noises from the direction of the island. Jack, and the others aboard the Tartar, which swung at anchor in the little coral encircled lagoon, said they were the noises of birds in the palm trees. But Slim Jim shook his head.

"That crazy sailor makes queer noises," he said.

"If he's there," suggested Walter.

In the morning they found him, after a short search. It was not at all difficult, for they came upon the unfortunate man in a clump of trees, under which he was huddled, eating something in almost animal fashion.

With Jack and Walter in the lead, the girls behind them, and Joe and Jim in the rear, they had set off on their man-hunt. They had not gone far from the shore before an agitation in the bushes just ahead of them attracted the attention of the two boys.

"Did you see something?" asked Walter.

"Something -- yes," admitted Jack. "A bird, I think."

"But I didn't hear the flutter of wings."

"I don't know as to that. Anyhow, there are birds enough here. Come on."

They glanced back to where Bess had stopped to look at a beautiful orchid, in shape itself not unlike some bird of most brilliant plumage.

"Oh, if father could only see that!" she sighed. "It is too beautiful to pick."

Cora and her chums closed up to the boys, and then, as they made their way down a little grassy hill, into a sort of glade, Cora uttered a sudden and startled cry.

"Look!" she gasped, clutching Jack's arm in such a grip that he winced.

"Where?" he asked.

"Right under those trees."

And there they saw him -- the lonely sailor, crouched down, eating something as -- yes, as a dog might eat it! So far had he fallen back to the original scale -- if ever there was one.

Some one of the party trod on a stick, that broke with a loud snap-almost like a rifle shot in that stillness. The lone sailor looked up, startled, as a dog might, when disturbed at gnawing a bone. Then he remained as still and quiet as some stone.

"That's him," said the negro sailor, and though he meant to speak softly, his voice seemed fairly to boom out. At the sound of it, the hermit was galvanized into life. He dropped what he had been eating, and slowly rose from his crouching attitude. Then he turned slowly, so as to face the group of intruders on his island fastness. He seemed to fear they would vanish, if he moved too suddenly -- vanish as the figment of some dream.

"Poor fellow," murmured Cora. "Speak to him, Jack. Say something."

"I'm afraid of' frightening him more. Wait until he wakes up a bit."

"He does act like some one just disturbed from a sleep," spoke Walter. "Maybe you girls -- "

"Oh, we're not afraid," put in Bess, quickly.

Not with all this protection, and she looked from the boys to the two sturdy men.

Now the lonely sailor was moving more quickly. He straightened up, more like the likeness and image of man as he was created, and took a step forward. Finding, evidently, that this did not dissipate the images, he passed his hand in front of his face, as though brushing away unseen cobwebs. Then he fairly ran toward the group.

"Look out!" warned Joe. But there was nothing to fear. When yet a little distance off, the man fell on his knees, and, holding up his hands, in an attitude of supplication cried out in a hoarse voice:

"Don't say you're not real. Oh, dear God, don't let 'em say that! Don't let 'em be visions of a dream! Don't, dear God!"

"Oh, speak to him, Jack!" begged Cora. "He thinks it's a vision. Tell him we are real -- that we've come to take him away -- to find out about our own dear ones -- speak to him!"

There was no need. Her own clear voice had carried to the lonely sailor, and had told him what he wanted to know.

"They speak! I hear them! They are real. And now, dear God, don't let them go away!" he pleaded.

"We're not going away!" Jack called. "At least not until we help you -- if we can. Come over here and tell us all about it. Are you from the Ramona?"

"The Ramona, yes. But if -- if you're from her -- if you've come to take me back to her, I'm not going! I'd rather die first. I won't go back! I won't be a pirate! You sha'n't make me! I'll stay here and die first."



Chapter XXIV

The Revenue Cutter


The story told by Ben Wrensch -- for such proved to be the name of the lonely sailor-cannot be set down as he told it. In the first place, there was little of chronological order about it, and in the second place he was interrupted so often by Cora, or one of the others, asking questions, or he interrupted himself so frequently, that it would be but a disjointed narrative at best. So, I have seen fit to abridge it, and tell it in my own.

As a matter of fact, the questions Cora, her girl chums, or the boys asked, only tended to throw more light on the strange affair, whereas the interruptions of Ben himself were more dramatic. He was so afraid that it was all a dream that, he would awaken from it only to find himself alone again.

"But you are real, aren't you, now?" he would ask, pathetically.

"Of course," said Cora, with a gentle smile.

"And you won't go away and leave me, as the others did?" he begged, but he did not couple Slim Jim with one of those. In fact, he did not pay much attention to the negro, for which Jim, a rather superstitious chap, was very grateful.

"Certainly we won't leave you here," Jack said. "We'll take you wherever you want to go, Ben."

"That's good. Well, as I was saying -- " and then he would resume his interrupted narrative.

So, instead of telling his "yarn" in that fashion, I have sought to save your time and interest by condensing it.

Up to the time of the hurricane, which caught the Ramona in rather a bad stretch of water, there was nothing that need be set down. The vessel bearing the mother of Jack and Cora, and the parents of the Robinson twins, had gone on her way, until the sudden bursting of the storm, with unusual tropical fury, had thrown the seas against and over the craft with smashing fury. Boats and parts of the railing and netting, had been carried away, and one or two sailors washed overboard.

Then had come the mutiny, if such it could be called -- an uprising of some of the sailors, driven to almost insane anger because of the refusal of the captain to put into a port, the harbor of which could not be made in such a sea as was running, nor in the teeth of such furious wind. The only thing to do was to scud before the gale, with the engines and crew doing what they could.

There had been an incipient panic, and a rush for the boats quelled hardly in time, for some had been lowered, and swamped and others had gotten away.

There was an exchange of shots between the captain and some of the mutineers, and, as our friends knew, one sailor, at least, was wounded, though whether by the captain or by the mutineers was uncertain.

Ben Wrensch, who appeared of better character than the usual run of West Indian sailors, had his share in the mutiny -- that is, he refused to take sides with the small part of the crew who berated the captain for something he could not do. He had sided with the small part of the crew who remained loyal.

"And what did they do to you?" asked Jack. For the man had come to a pause, after describing how many shouted that the ship was foundering.

"The rascals drove me and some of the other to a boat, and lowered us away," was the answer. "They said they didn't want us aboard. I guess they was afraid we'd give evidence against them, if we ever got the chance, and so I would."

"And did you land here?" asked Cora, indicating the lonely isle.

"Not at first, Miss. We tossed about in the boat and the sea got higher and the wind stronger. And how it did rain! It seemed to beat right through your skin. The rain helped to keep the seas down, but not much. It was fearful!"

He then went on to tell how, after laboring hard in the darkness of the night, the boat he was in (five other sailors being his companions) was swamped by a huge wave. He was tossed into the sea, and must have been rendered unconscious by a blow on the head, for he remembered nothing more until he found himself being washed back and forth on the beach by the waves, and at last had understanding and strength enough to crawl up beyond the reach of the water.

So he had come to Lonely Island. And there he had existed ever since.

Some few things -- including the cap that had been of such value to our friends -- had been washed ashore from the boat, or otherwise Ben might have starved at first, for he was too weak to hunt for food. Gradually he regained the power to help himself.

He found mussels clinging to the rocks, he gathered some turtles eggs, and was lucky enough to kill a bird with a stone. On such food he lived. For shelter he made himself a hut of bark and vines, and so the days passed in loneliness.

It had not taken him long to find that he was the only inhabitant of Lonely Island. He alone, of the company in the boat, had come ashore to be saved.

Of the time he spent on the island you would not be interested to hear. One day was like another, save as he had better or worse luck in providing food. His great anxiety was to be taken off and to this end he made a signal, but it was a small one, and it is doubtful it would ever have been seen.

Gradually his hardships, his exposure and the loneliness preyed on him until he was well-nigh insane. He became almost like an animal in his fight against nature.

He was on the verge of madness when he saw the boat load of fishermen approaching for water, and it was his queer actions that drove them off.  In his despair he threw his cap at them, the most fortunate thing he could have done.

"And now you come to me!" he said, simply.

"Yes, we're here," admitted Jack. "But can you give us any more news of the Ramona? That is what we want to know. Which way was she headed when you were forced to leave her? Have you any idea where she is now?"

"She was headed southeast," was the answer.

"And how long would you say she could keep afloat?" Walter wanted to know.

"She ought to be afloat now!" was the startling reply.

"Now!" cried Jack. "What do you mean?"

"Why, she was in no danger of sinking," Ben went on, and Cora and the girls felt new hope springing up in their hearts.

"Are you sure of this?" demanded Jack.

"Very sure; yes. I was below just before I was forced into the small boat, and there wasn't a plate sprung. The engines were in good order and if the mutineers hadn't raised a hue and cry, everything would have been all right. But they wanted their way, for their own ends, I fancy."

"Meaning what?" asked Jack.

"That they were glad of any excuse to seize the ship. I overheard some of their plans. They would have done it, storm or no storm. There was a plot to take the Ramona, put off all who would be in the way, take her to some port, change her name and engage her in what amounted to piracy."

"The plotters were going to do this?" cried Walter, aghast.

"Yes, and the storm only egged them on. It was their opportunity."

"Then the Ramona may be afloat now?" demanded Cora.

"She very likely is, Miss, I should say. A little damaged perhaps, but not more than could be."

"And what of the passengers?" asked Bess.

"Well, they're either aboard her, as prisoners, or have thrown their lot in with the mutineers, or -- "

He did not go on.

"Well?" asked Jack, grimly.

"Or they were put adrift, as I was," went on Ben.

"But you did not see that happen?" asked Cora, for the story was nearing its end now.

"No, Miss, I didn't see that. When I was put overboard, all the passengers -- and there weren't many of them -- were still aboard."

"Did you see any of them?" asked Bess.

"Oh, yes, Miss. All of 'em, I fancy."

"My father and mother -- "

Ben described, as well as he could, the various characteristics and appearances of the Ramona's passengers, and Mrs. Kimball and Mr. and Mrs. Robinson were easily recognized.

"Then we must still keep on searching for them," decided Jack, at the conclusion of the narrative. "We'll just have to keep on!"

"It looks so," admitted Cora.

"Oh, we mustn't think of giving up!" cried Bess. "I know my father. He just wouldn't give in to those horrid mutineers, and he wouldn't throw in his fortunes with them, either. I can't explain it, but, somehow I feel more hopeful than at any time yet, that they are all right -- Papa and Mamma, and your mother, too, Cora."

"I am glad you think so, dear. I haven't given up either. But let's get away from here, Jack."

"That's what I say!" murmured Belle, with a little nervous shiver. "This place gives me such a creepy feeling."

"You might well say so, Miss," put in Ben. "That is, if you had to stay here all along, as I did, with nothing but them parrot birds screeching at you all day long. It was awful!"

There was no use in staying longer on Lonely Island, and Ben Wrensch was only too glad to be taken from it. At first the motor girls talked of taking him with them, on the remainder of the cruise, but, as Jack pointed out, there was no need of this.

He could give no further information as to the location of the Ramona, providing the steamer still was afloat. And he would only be an added, and comparatively useless, passenger. He was not exactly the sort of personage one would desire in the rather cramped quarters of the Tartar, though he was kind and obliging. He would be better off ashore, for the time being, where he could get medical treatment.

So the big motor boat swept out of the blue lagoon, and headed for St. Kitts, for it was planned to leave Ben, and once more take up the search.

They had not been under way more than an hour, however, before Jack, who was steering, uttered a cry.

"There's a boat cording toward us!" he said. "She seems to be a small launch."

"Yes, and she's signaling to us!" added Walter. "She wants to speak with us!"

Joe came up from the motor room, and looked long and earnestly at the approaching craft.

"That's an English revenue cutter," he said, "and she's in a hurry, too."

"I wonder what she can want with us," mused Jack, as he ordered a signal to be run up on the small mast, indicating that they would speak to the approaching craft.



Chapter XXV

News Of The "Ramona"


Over the slowly heaving swell of the blue waters the swift revenue cutter came on. Those aboard the Tartar watched her with eager eyes. Did she have some news for them? This was the question in the mind of the motor girls.

"Oh, perhaps they have mother aboard!" breathed Cora, her hopes running thus high.

"And they might have our mother and father!" added Bess, taking bold heart as she heard Cora speak.

Inez said nothing. It was too much for her to dare to think that her father might be released from his political prison. She could only wait and hope.

"Some speed to her," observed Jack, admiringly, as he watched the white foam piled up in front of the bow of the oncoming craft.

"But she's not very big," spoke Walter.

"She's built for speed," remarked Engineer Joe. "She doesn't usually come out this far to sea; just hangs around the harbors, and tries to catch small smugglers. She couldn't stand much of a blow, and it's my opinion we're going to get one."

"Oh, I hope not soon!" exclaimed Cora, with a little nervous glance up at the sky.

"Well, within a day or so," went on Joe. "It's making up for a storm all right, and I guess that cutter is trying to get her job done -- whatever it is -- and scoot back into harbor."

"But why should she want to speak to us?" asked Bess. "Of course it's interesting, and all that -- almost like a story, in fact -- but what does she want?"

"Tell you better when she gets here," said Walter with a laugh. "Perhaps there are some ladies aboard, and they want to learn the latest styles from the United States-seeing how recently you girls came from there."

"Silly!" murmured Belle, but it was noticed that she glanced at her brown linen dress, relieved with little touches of flame-colored velvet here and there -- in which costume she made a most attractive picture. At least, Walter thought so.

"Perhaps zey are in search of him," suggested Inez, pointing to Sailor Ben, who was lying on a coil of rope in the bow.

"That's right!" exclaimed Jack, with a look of admiration at the Spanish girl. "They may have heard a story of his being on the island, and come out to rescue him. They could tell we came from that direction."

"It's possible," admitted Walter.

Whoever was in charge of the revenue cutter, seeing that their signals to speak the Tartar had been observed and answered, cut down the speed somewhat, so that the government vessel came on more slowly. In a short time, however, she was near enough for a hail, through a megaphone, to be heard.

"What boat is that?" was the demand.

"The Tartar, from San Juan," was Jack's reply.

"Where bound?"

"It's too long a story to yell this way," was Jack's answer. "Shall we come aboard?"

"No, I'll send a boat," came back. Presently a small boat, containing three men, was lowered, for the sea was very smooth, and in a little while a trim-looking lieutenant was at the accommodation ladder of the Tartar.

"Why, it's just like a play!" murmured Bess, as she saw the sword at the officer's side. "I wonder if he's going to put us all under arrest?"

"Would you mind?" asked Cora.

"I don't know. He has nice eyes, hasn't he?"

"Hopeless!" sighed. Cora, with a little smile at her chum.

A quick glance on the part of the lieutenant seemed to give him an idea of the nature of the cruise of the Tartar.

"Oh! a pleasure party!" he exclaimed. "I am sorry we had to stop you, but -- "

"That's all right," said Cora, for she thought it would be less embarrassing if one of the feminine members gave some assurance. "It doesn't happen to be a pleasure trip."

"No? You astonish me, really! I should say -- "

His eyes caught sight of the ragged and un-kempt figure of the marooned sailor.

"Has there been a wreck? Did you save some one?" the lieutenant asked, quickly. His practiced eye told him at once that some tragedy had occurred.

"Something like that -- yes," Cora assented. "But the rescue is not over yet. My brother will tell you all about it," and she nodded to Jack. The lieutenant, with a courteous lifting of his cap, turned to face Walter's chum.

"We rescued him from a little island back there," Jack said. "We thought you might be on the same errand."

"No," the officer said, "though we would have gone if we had heard of it. But we are after bigger game. Are you going back to St. Kitts?"

"Yes, and then on again. We're trying to find the Ramona, or some -- "

"The Ramona!" cried the lieutenant, and there was wonder in his tones. "Do you, by any possible chance, mean the Ramona of the Royal Line?"

"That's the one," said Jack, something of the other's excitement 'communicating itself to him. "Why, do you know anything about her?"

"I only wish we knew more of her!" snapped the lieutenant, with a grim tightening of his lips, while the girls looked on in wonder at the strange scene. "We're after her, too," the officer continued. "She's in the hands of a mutinous crew, and she's been trying to do some smuggling. We've orders to take her if we can, but first we have to find her, and that's the errand we're on now. We stopped you to ask if you had had a sight of her. But why are you interested in finding her, if I may ask?"

"We're looking for my mother, who sailed on her," said Cora, quickly, "and for Mr. and Mrs. Perry Robinson, the parents of these girls," and she nodded toward the twins.

"Is it possible!" exclaimed the lieutenant. "This is indeed a coincidence."

"Have you sighted the Ramona?" asked Cora.

"No, Miss, and I wish we would -- soon," spoke the lieutenant. "We're going to have a storm, if I'm any judge, and our cutter isn't any too sea-worthy. But it's all in the line of business," and he shrugged his shapely shoulders as though preparing for the worst. He would not shirk his duty.

"Well, I'm sorry we can't give you any information," Cora said. "We, too, are very anxious to find the steamer, for we are not even sure that our parents are aboard. There was a terrible storm, you know, and she may have foundered."

"No, she did not. We have good evidence of that," was the officer's answer. "She had a hard time in the hurricane, and suffered some damage, Miss, but she's sound and able to navigate. We heard that some of the crew, who would not join with the mutineers, were marooned -- I am glad to get confirmation of that," and he nodded at Ben, whose story had been briefly told.

"But what of the passengers?" asked Bess, anxiously. "Oh, did you hear anything of father and mother?"

"Not personally, I am sorry to say," was the answer of the lieutenant as he touched his cap, and smiled at the eager girl.

"But did you hear anything?" asked, Cora, for somehow she fancied she detected a tone as though the officer would have been glad to answer no further.

"Well, Yes, Miss, I did," he was the somewhat reluctant reply. "The story goes that all the passengers are still aboard."

"Still on board!" echoed Jack. "Why, I thought they were also marooned."

"Evidently not," said the lieutenant. "Either the storm must have made them change their plans, or the mutineers were afraid of evidence being given against them by the passengers, for they kept them aboard, according to the latest reports we have had.

"After living through the hurricane, the Ramona was headed for a quiet harbor, where the smugglers have their headquarters, and there repairs were made. Since then the ship, under another name, has been engaged in running contraband goods. We were ordered to get after her, but, so far, we have had our trouble for our pains. We hoped you might have sighted her."

"We're going to keep on trying," said Cora. "We are going back to St. Kitts, to land him," and she nodded at the sailor they had rescued.

"Well, then we may see you again," the lieutenant said, with a bow, that took in the motor girls impartially. He shot a quick glance at Inez, but Cora did not think it wise to speak of the Spanish girl, nor mention her father.

After some further talk, in the course of which the lieutenant said the mutineers and smugglers would be harshly dealt with when caught, he returned to the cutter, which was soon under way again. She sheered off on a new tack, while the Tartar resumed her journey to St. Kitts.

"Wasn't that remarkable?" asked Bess.

"Very strange," agreed Cora.

"And it gave us news," spoke Belle. "We know now that your mother, Cora, and that our folks are all right."

"All right?" cried Jack, questioningly.

"Well, I mean they are safe on board, and not suffering on some little island," went on Belle.

"They might better off on some island," murmured Jack, but only Walter heard him, and he cautioned his chum quickly.

"Don't let the girls hear you say that," he whispered. "I agree with you that they might be better off on an island, than on the steamer, with the mutineers and smugglers. But if the girls hear that, they'll have all kinds of fits. Keep still about it."

"Oh, I intend to. But this complicates matters doesn't it? We'll have to find a constantly moving steamer, instead of a stationary island."

"It's about six of one and a half dozen of the other," spoke Walter. "But we have help in our search now," and he nodded toward the cutter, only the smoke of which could now be seen.

St. Kitts was reached without further incident, and Sailor Ben was taken ashore, Cora insisting on leaving him a sufficient sum of money to insure his care until he could find another berth. Then the pursuit of the Ramona was again taken up.

For two days the Tartar cruised about on her strange quest, and when the third evening came, with the sun setting behind a bank of slate-colored clouds, Cora said to Jack:

"It looks like a storm."

"You're right, Sis," he agreed. And, I even as he spoke, there came a strange moaning of the wind, which sprang up suddenly, whipping feathers of foam from the crests of the oily waves.

At the same moment, Joe, who had come up from the motor room for a breath of fresh air, cried out:

"Sail ho!"



Chapter XXVI

The Pursuit


"What is it?" cried Cora, as she came up from the little dining cabin, where she and the other girls had been "doing" the dishes.

"A small steamer, Miss," answered the engineer of the Tartar. "I can't just make out what she is -- sort of misty and hazy just now."

"She seems to be headed this way, too," spoke Bess, who had joined Cora on the little deck. "Oh, but doesn't the weather look queer?"

She turned a questioning and rather frightened gaze at her chum.

"I think we're in for a storm," Cora spoke.

"But we're too good sailors to mind that -- aren't we?"

"I hope so," faltered Bess.

It was not so much a question of sea-sickness with the motor girls, as it was a fear of damage in a comparatively small craft. They had been on the water enough, and in stressful times, too, so that they suffered no qualms. But a storm at sea is ever a frightful sensation, to even the seasoned traveler.

"Why, that boat is headed right for us," observed Belle, who had also come out of the dining cabin. As for Inez, she frankly did not like the water except when the sky was blue and the sun shining, though she was far from being cowardly about it. So she remained below.

"Jack! Jack!" called Cora, for Walter and her brother had gone down to their stateroom to don "sea togs," as Jack called them -- meaning thereby clothes that salt water would not damage.

"What is it, Sis?" he asked.

"There's another boat headed for us, perhaps she wants help?" Cora suggested.

"We'll give them all we can," Jack called, as he came hurrying up. Then, as he steadied himself at the rail, and looked off through the mist toward the on-coming boat, he uttered an exclamation.

"Why -- that's the revenue cutter again!" he cried. "I'm sure of it! How about that, Joe?"

The engineer, who had left his machinery in charge of Slim Jim, for the time, cleared his eyes of the salty spray.

"I guess you're right," he agreed. "Couldn't make her out at first, but that's who she is. Guess she wants to ask us if we have any more information. Shall I heave to?"

"Better, I think," advised Cora, following Jack's questioning glance. For, be it known, Jack deferred more than usual to his sister on this cruise, since he had been under her direction, rather than she under his.

That it was the desire of the on-coming craft to have the Tartar slow up was evident a moment later. For, as the powerful motors revolved with less speed, a hail came over the heaving blue waters, that now had turned to a sickly green under the strange hue of the setting sun.

"On board the Tartar!" came the cry. Evidently the boat of our voyagers had not been forgotten.

"Ahoy!" shouted Jack, using a megaphone Cora handed him.

"Stand by!" was the next command. "We want to send" -- there came an undistinguishable word -- "aboard."

"They're going to send some one aboard!" cried Bess. "Oh, if it should be our folks -- mother and father-your mother, Cora dear!"

A flush of excitement gathered on Cora's cheeks. Belle, too, felt that something was impending. Jack, and Walter exchanged glances.

The sea was running higher now, under the influence of an ever-increasing wind, and it was no easy matter to lower a small boat from the cutter -- a small boat containing three men.

"It's just as it was before -- when they came to us for news," exclaimed Bess. "I wonder if they bring us news, now."

"They certainly aren't bringing any of our people," said Cora with a sigh, for, though she had discounted the hope that Bess had expressed, yet she could not altogether free herself from it. It was evident that none save sailors were coming toward the Tartar.

And, when the small boat drew nearer, those aboard the gasoline craft saw that they were to receive the same Lieutenant Walling who had before paid them a visit.

"What is it, please?" asked Cora, leaning over the rail. She was unable to withhold her question longer.

"We have news for you!" exclaimed the lieutenant, the pause coming as he made an ineffectual grasp for the rail as his boat rose on the swell.

"News!" gasped Cora. Her heart was beating wildly now.

"Oh, we haven't rescued your people," Lieutenant Walling hastened to assure her, as this time he managed to grasp the rail of the motor boat, swinging himself over on the deck. The swells were so high that no accommodation ladder was needed. "That's all -- you may go back, and say to Captain Decker that I will look after matters," he said to the sailors in the small boat.

One of them fended off from the side of the Tartar, while the other pulled on the oars. Soon they were on their way back, crossing the stretch of now sullenly heaving water between the two craft.

"I find myself, under the direction of my commanding officer, Captain Decker, obliged to ask for help," said Lieutenant Walling, with a smile.

"Help?" repeated Jack, who, with Walter, had joined the group of girls about the officer.

"Yes. We have had news that the Ramona has been seen in this vicinity, and we were after her. But there was an accident to our machinery, and we can't go on in the storm. The cutter was obliged to put back when we sighted you.

"I suggested to Captain Decker that possibly you could give us the very help we needed. You have an object in finding the Ramona, not the same object as ourselves, but stronger, if anything," and the lieutenant looked at Cora. She nodded her head in assent.

"So it occurred to me," Lieutenant Walling went on, "that I might continue the chase in the Tartar. It is doubtful if our cutter could manage to navigate in the storm we seem about to have, so we should have been obliged to put back in any case, even if we had not had the accident. But you can stand a pretty good blow,"' he said, referring to the Tartar.

"She's a good little boat, all right," said Jack, who knew something of motor craft.

"So I perceive. And now, if you will allow me to use it on behalf of the government, we will try to catch the Ramona."

"Is there really a chance of doing that?" asked Cora, in her eagerness laying her hand on the sleeve of the young officer.

"There really is," was his answer. "She has been sighted by a fishing schooner -- we had word from the captain of it. And the Ramona seems to be crippled. She was going slowly. We ought to catch her soon -- if this storm holds off long enough."

"Oh, isn't it exciting, Cora!" whispered Bess. "Almost like the time when you saved the papers in the red oar at Denny Shane's cabin!"

"Only I hope there are no physical encounters," spoke Cora, with a shudder, as she recalled the strenuous days spent on Crystal Bay.

"I fancy you need not be alarmed," the lieutenant said. "From what we can learn, the mutineers and smugglers are rather sick of their bargain. There have been dissentions and part of the crew is ready to give up. But the others are afraid of the punishment that will be meted out."

"Will it be heavy?" asked Belle. "Heavy enough," was the significant answer. "It is a high crime to mutiny on the ocean, especially in time of storm and trouble."

"Then you have a good chance of catching them?" asked Jack.

"We think so -- yes."

"'But isn't this a rather -- er -- small force to capture a large steamer, in possession of desperate men?" Walter wanted to know.

"It isn't as risky as you might think," answered Lieutenant Walling, with a smile. "As I said, the smugglers are now divided. One-half is already to turn on the other half. Once they are commanded to surrender, in the name of the government, I fancy they'll be only too glad to."

"And what of the passengers -- our folks?" asked Cora.

"Well, they are still aboard, as far as can be learned," was the revenue officer's reply. "If we have luck, you may be with them before another day passes. But we need luck," and as he said this, he glanced around the horizon, as if to judge how much the elements might figure in the odds against him.

Truly they seemed likely to make the chances anything but easy. The wind was constantly increasing in force, and from a low moan had changed to a threatening whine and growl. The seas were running high and the swells were breaking into foam. As yet the Tartar rode easily, being now under way again, but though she might stand even heavier waves than those now rolling after her, it would not be very comfortable for those aboard.

"Will you take command?" asked Jack in answer to a look from his sister. "We'll turn this boat over to you, though we're United States subjects and you're -- "

"British -- you needn't be afraid to say it," frankly laughed the lieutenant. "But I fancy we can strike up a friendly alliance. No, I don't wish to take command. This is merely asking you for an accommodation on your part. You are after the Ramona, as I understand it, and so am I. I merely ask to be allowed to go along and help you find her. Once I get aboard I shall put under arrest all the mutineers. And you will be with your people."

"Oh, if we ever are again!"

"Which way was she headed when you last had information?" asked Walter.

"Southeast," was the reply, "and she isn't far ahead of us now. By crowding on speed we can overtake her by morning."

"Hear that, Joe?" cried Jack. "Do your best now!"

"Aye, aye, sir!" was the reply.

"Have you gasoline for a long run?" asked the lieutenant.

"Yes," Jack answered. "We filled the tanks at St. Kitts. But won't you come below, and we'll arrange for your comfort."

"And do let me make you a cup of tea!" begged Cora. "I know you Englishmen are so fond of it -- "

"Well, we get rather out of the habitat sea," was the reply, "but I should be glad of some -- if it isn't too much trouble."

Through the gathering dusk, the advent of which was hastened by the coming storm, the Tartar heaved her way over the tumbling waters. Night came, and still the storm did not break. The lieutenant proved a good seaman, and, under his direction the motor boat kept on through the hours of darkness. The motor girls did not rest much, nor did Walter or Jack.

As morning came, the storm broke in all its fury -- being little short, in violence, of a West Indian hurricane. On through the mist, through the smother of foam, over the big greenish-blue waves scudded the Tartar, the lieutenant, in oilskins, standing in the bows, peering ahead for a sight of the steamer.

And, at noon, following a fierce burst of wind, he give a cry.

"What is it?" asked Jack, struggling toward.

"Ship ahead! I think it is the Ramona!" was the answer.



Chapter XXVII

Senor Ramo


Clinging to the life-lines that had been stretched along the deck, Jack made his way to a partly-sheltered spot near which the lieutenant stood.

"Where is she?" asked Jack, fairly shouting the words into the officer's ear, for the noise of the storm was such as to make this necessary.

"Right ahead!" was the answer. "Look when we go up on the next crest."

One moment the Tartar was down in the hollow of the waves, and the next on the top of the swell, and it was only on the latter occasion that a glimpse ahead could be had.

"Now's your chance!" cried Lieutenant Walling to Jack. "Look!"

Eagerly Cora's brother peered through the mist, wiping the salty spray from his eyes. Just ahead, wallowing in the trough of the sea, as though she were only partly under control, was a steamer.

"I see her!" Jack shouted, and then the Tartar, went down in the hollow between two waves again, and he could glimpse only the seething water as it hissed past under the force of the wind.

"I think it's the Ramona -- I'm not sure," was the lieutenant's next remark.

"What are you going to do about it?" Jack wanted to know.

"Hang on as long as I can," was the grim reply. "She doesn't look as though she were good for much more, and we are."

"Yes, we seem to be making it pretty well," Jack answered.

Indeed the staunch little Tartar was more than living up to her name. She was buoyant, and there was a power and thrust to her screw that kept her head on to the heavy seas, which allowed her to ride them.

The chase was now on, and a chase it was, for soon after sighting the steamer ahead of them, Lieutenant Walling, by means of powerful glasses, had made sure that she was the Ramona, and, without doubt, in charge of the mutineers, unless, indeed, the half of the crew opposed to them, had risen, and taken matters into their own hands.

"But we'll soon find out," said the lieutenant, grimly.

"How?"' asked Cora, for, the officer had come down into the cabin. "Can you board her now?"

"Hardly, in this blow, Miss Kimball. But we can hang on, and get them as soon as it lets up a little."

"Won't they get away from us?" Bess wanted to know. She, as well as her more fragile sister, had thoroughly entered into the spirit of the chase now.

"I think we can more than hold our own with them," answered the lieutenant. "You have a very fast craft here, and owing to the fact that they haven't much coal, and that they have probably suffered some damage, we won't let them get away very easily. We can hold on, I think."

"Then you won't try to run up alongside now?" Walter wanted to know.

"Indeed not! It would be dangerous. She rolls like a porpoise in a seaway, and she'd crush us like an egg shell if we got too close. All we can do is to hold off a bit, until this blows out. And it can't last very long at this season of the year. Storms never do."

For all the hopeful prediction of the young officer, this blow showed no signs of an early abatement. The wind seemed to increase, rather than diminish and the seas were still very high.

Through it all the Tartar behaved well. Joe, with Slim Jim, the faithful negro, to help, kept the motors up to their work, and Walters Jack and the lieutenant took turns steering, for it was too much to ask Joe or Jim to do this in addition to their other work.

The afternoon was waning, and it was evident that there would be another early night, for the clouds were thick. Walter and Jack had gone up on deck, while the lieutenant remained in the cabin, taking some hot tea which Cora had prepared for him. A warm feeling of friendship sprung up between the young officer and our travelers. Inez was not feeling well, and had gone to lie down in her berth, though it was anything but comfortable there, since the boat rolled and pitched so.

"I say!" called Jack, down a partly opened port into the cabin, "I think you'd better come up here, Lieutenant."

"Oh, he hasn't had his tea yet!" objected Cora.

"That doesn't matter -- if something is up!" was the hasty rejoinder, and, leaving the table, the revenue officer hastened up on deck, buttoning his oilskins as he went.

"What is it?" he asked of the two young men.

"She seems to be turning," said Jack, "thought you'd better know."

"That's right. I'm glad you called me. Yes, she is changing her course," said Lieutenant Walling. "I wonder what she's up to?"

The Ramona -- Jack and Walter had made out her name under her stem rail now -- was still slowly wallowing in the sea. She appeared to have lost headway, for she was moving very slowly, having barely steerage-way on. The Tartar had no trouble in keeping up to her.

"I wonder if they've seen us, and are waiting for us?" ventured Walter.

"They may have seen us, but they wouldn't stop -- not in this sea," was the reply of the revenue officer. "They're up to some trick, and I can't just fathom what it is."

With keen eyes he watched the steamer as it tore on through the mist. It was much nearer now.

"I have an idea!" suddenly exclaimed the British officer. "I'll be back in a moment."

He hurried down to the cabin again, and through a port Jack and Walter saw him bending over some charts. In a few minutes the lieutenant was up on deck again.

"I understand!" he cried. "I know what they're up to now."

"What?" asked Jack. He did not have to shout so loudly now, as the storm seemed to be lessening in its fury.

"They're going to run in under the lea of Palm Island," said Lieutenant Walling. "I guess they've had enough of it. This is the beginning of the end. They must be in bad shape."

"Sinking -- do you mean?" asked Walter.

"No, not exactly. But they may have run out of coal, and can't keep the engines going any longer. Yes, that's what they're doing -- making for Palm Island."

"What sort of a place is that?" Jack wanted to know.

"A mighty ticklish sort of place to run for during a storm," was the answer. "There's a bad coral reef at the entrance to the harbor, but once you pass that you're all right. I wonder if they can navigate it?"

"And if they don't?" asked Jack.

"Well, they'll pile her up on the reef, and she'll pound to pieces in no time in this sea."

Walter and Jack followed the lieutenant to the after deck, where the wheel was. There the revenue officer relieved Joe, the latter going to his motor, which needed attention. The storm was constantly growing less in violence.

As yet there was no sign of an island, but presently, through the gathering darkness, there loomed up a black mass in the swirl of white waters.

Now came the hard and risky work of getting in through the opening of a dangerous coral reef to the sheltered harbor. The big steamer went first, and, for a time, it seemed she was doomed, for the current played with her like a toy ship. But whoever was in charge of the wheel had a master's hand, and soon the craft had shot into the calm waters, followed by the Tartar.

It was a great relief from the pitching and tossing of the last two days.

"Oh, to be quiet again!"

"Isn't it delightful!" agreed Bess. "And now if we can only find our folks!"

Lieutenant Walling lost no time. As the Ramona dropped her anchor, he sent the Tartar alongside, and on his official hail a ladder was lowered. Walter and Jack mounted with him.

"Every mutinous member of this crew is under arrest!" was the grim announcement of the revenue officer. "Who's in charge? Are there any passengers aboard?"

Anxiously Jack looked for a sign of his mother, or for Mr. and Mrs. Robinson. He saw nothing of them.

"The passengers were all put ashore, sir," said sailor, with a salute.

"Where?" demanded the lieutenant.

Before he could answer there came on deck a fat man, at the sight of whom Jack uttered an exclamation.

"Senor Ramo!" cried Cora's brother.



Chapter XXVIII

Found


Unaware of what was taking place on the deck of the Ramona, for they were far below its level in the Tartar, Cora, Belle, Bess and Inez looked anxiously aloft. They could hear a murmur of voices, but little else. It was nearly dark now, but Joe switched on the electrics in the motor boat, and aboard the steamer lights began to gleam.

"Well!" exclaimed Cora, with her usual spirit. "I'm not going to stay here and miss everything. I want to see mother just as much as Jack does."

She was as yet unaware, you see, of what the sailor had said to her brother.

"Where are you going?" asked Bess, as Cora started for the dangling accommodation ladder.

"Up there!" was the quick answer.

"Oh, Cora! Don't leave us!" begged Bess.

"Come along then," suggested Jack's practical sister.

"But it is so steep!" complained Bess, who was more "plump" than ever, due to the inactivity of the sea trip.

"It wont be any the less steep from waiting," spoke Cora, grimly, "and it'll soon be so dark that you'll likely fall off, if you try to go up. I'm going -- mother must be up there, and so must your folks."

"Of course!" cried Belle. "Don't be a coward, Bess."

"I'm not, but -- "

"I will help," said Inez, gently, as she glided up from the cabin. "Perhaps zere may be news of my father!"

She had been very patient all this while regarding news of her parent -- very unselfish, for though the trip was partly undertaken to aid Senor Ralcanto, if possible, nothing as yet had been done toward this. All efforts had been bent toward getting news of Mrs. Kimball, and Mr. and Mrs. Robinson, and Inez had said nothing. Even now, she was willing to help others first.

"You're a dear," murmured Cora, her foot on the first step of the mounting ladder. "Oh, to think that all our worry is over now!" She had yet to learn what was in store for her and the others.

"Oh, I know I'll fall in!" cried Bess, as she essayed to go up.

"Don't be silly!" cautioned Cora. "Belle, you pull her from in front, and, Inez, you push. We've just got to get her up."

The Tartar was made fast by a rope tossed from the deck of the Ramona, and Joe and Slim Jim stood on deck, ready to execute any commands that might come from the young navigators. Cora and the other girls safely reached the deck of the steamer.

A carious sight confronted them.

Jack and Walter stood confronting, in the glare of several electric lights, the portly form of Senor Ramo, who seemed ill at ease. The members of the mutinous crew stood about, rather shame-facedly, it must be confessed. Lieutenant Walling wore an air of triumph. He had brought the criminals to the end of their rope.

"Jack! Where are they?" asked Cora, impulsively.

"They -- they're not here," her brother answered.

"Not here? Then where are they? Oh, don't say they're -- "

Cora's voice could not frame the words.

At this moment Inez caught sight of Senor Ramo.  She was rather a timid girl, and her troubles and, tribulations had not made her any bolder, but now, at the sight of the man she believed had done, or who contemplated doing her father an injury, the Spanish maid's courage rushed to the fore.

Inez sprang forward and began to speak rapidly in Spanish. Cora, who had managed to pick up a few words, understood that Inez was making a spirited demand for the papers which she accused the fat man of having taken from her room. Over and over again she insisted on receiving them -- here, now, at once, without delay!

So insistent was she that it looked, as though she meant to make a personal assault on-Senor Ramo, and take the papers from his ill-fitting frock coat.

"Whew!" whistled Walter, "that's going some, isn't it?"

"Walter! How can you?" remonstrated Cora. "At such a time, too!"

"Just can't help it!" he murmured. "He's getting his deserts all right."

Senor Ramo fairly backed away from the excited Inez, but she followed him to the very rail, where, as he could go no further, he made a stand, and continued to listen to her voluble talk.

"She certainly has some spirit," murmured lieutenant Walling to Cora. "Is that the fellow she suspects?" he asked, for he had been told the story of Inez.

"Yes," answered Cora. "But is my mother aboard? And Mr. and Mrs. Robinson?"

"They're not!" broke in Jack. "These scoundrels have put them ashore -- somewhere!"

"Oh!" cried Bess and Belle in chorus.

"Where?" demanded practical Cora.

"I am going to institute an inquiry at once," said Lieutenant Walling. "I'll also have something to say to that fat Spaniard. Better tell your friend so," he suggested to the motor girls. "She might cause him to act hastily. He might do something desperate."

"She only wants some papers she thinks he has," said Jack, "and I guess she's going to get them," for Senor Ramo was putting his hand to his inside breast pocket.

"I'll soon straighten out this tangle," the lieutenant promised. "I'll have the ring-leaders locked up, and then we'll get at the bottom of the whole affair. I'd better send ashore for help, though. May I use your boat?"

"Certainly," answered Cora. She was keenly disappointed at not finding the lost ones aboard. She and the others had counted so much on this when they should have come up to the Ramona. Where could the passengers be?

Jim and Joe were sent, in the Tartar, to bring aboard representatives of the English government, Palm Island belonging to Great Britain. The mutinous crew had no spirit of resistance left. The erstwhile commander of the rebelling forces was locked in his stateroom, until Lieutenant Walling was reinforced, when others of the leaders were put in irons.

"And I now I hope we can get some news," spoke Cora, when some sort of order had been brought out of the confusion, and the ship had been formally taken in charge by the authorities.

"You shall have all there is," promised Lieutenant Walling. "First, in regard to your parents," and he looked from Cora to the twins. "They are safe, so far as can be judged, though they may be in some distress."

"But where are they?" asked Cora, for Jack had found a chance to tell her that he had been informed they were put ashore.

"On Double Island," answered Lieutenant Walling. "They were made prisoners when the mutineers rose and seized the ship. They were locked in their cabins, so some of those who have confessed told me, and when the storm was over, they were treated fairly well. They were forced to remain on board while the plan of entering into the smuggling game was carried on. They tried to get ashore, or to send messages for help, but were frustrated.

"Then, finally, some of the crew began to grumble at the presence of the passengers. Food was running low, and a certain amount of care was required to prevent them from escaping. The upshot of it was that your parents were put ashore on Double Island, with a fairly good amount of food and other supplies."

"How long ago?"

"Where is a Double Island?"

"Can't we start and rescue them?"

"What of Inez's father?"

These questions were fairly rained on Lieutenant Walling, "One at a time, please," he said, as he gazed at the young people gathered about him in the cabin of the Ramona. "It was over a week ago that the passengers were put ashore on Double Island -- there were only your parents," he added, glancing again from Cora to the twins. "All the others had departed in the small boats when it was feared that the Ramona was sinking. As to the location of Double Island -- it is about two days' steaming from here. We certainly can, and will, rescue them, and as for the father of Miss Inez -- well that is another matter. We shall have to see Senor Ramo. He seems to know something about the prisoner -- at least Miss Inez thinks that does."

At that moment Inez came into the cabin. Whether she had been all this while "laying down the law," as Jack phrased it, to the Spaniard was not, for the present, disclosed. But she was greatly excited, and she flourished in her hand a package of documents.

"I have ze papairs!" she cried, exultantly. "Now my father will be free. Oh, Senorita you will help me -- will you not -- to go to Sea Horse Island and rescue him?"

"Of course," spoke Cora, in answer to this pleading. "My! but we have lots of work ahead of us!" and she sighed.

"But you are equal to it, my dear," said Bess.

"Oh, to see papa and mamma again!"

"And to think of them living on some lonely little island!" sighed her sister. "We can't get to them quickly enough!"

"You had better go ashore for the night," suggested Lieutenant Walling, "and we'll start early in the morning. I'll go with you -- if you will let me," and he looked at Jack's sister.

"Of course," murmured Cora, blushing slightly.

"You'll need more gasoline perhaps, and other stores," the officer went on. "And the journey will be much easier made with a good morning's start."

So it was decided. Supper was served for the young people aboard the Ramona, by direction of the British officer who was put in charge. There was rather more room to move about than on the Tartar. After the meal -- the merriest since the strange quest had begun -- explanations were forthcoming.

"I want to know how Inez got those papers away from Ramo," said Walter, with a flash of admiration at the Spanish girl.

"Ah, Senor, it is no secret!" she laughed. "I said I knew he had zem, and if he did not gif 'em I would tear zem from his pocket!

"He gave zem to me," she finished, simply.

"Good for you!" cried Jack. "What became of him?"

"I believe he went ashore in a small boat," said the lieutenant. "I'm having him watched, though, for I think he had some hand in this smuggling. In fact, he may prove to be at the bottom of the whole business."

And so it turned out. Senor Ramo, while pretending to be a respectable Spanish coffee merchant, had been engaged secretly in smuggling. It was he who planned the mutiny on the Ramona for purposes of his own, though the storm gave him unexpected aid. He had joined the steamer later, after having stolen the papers from the room of Inez.

For it was Ramo who had taken them. His agents had sent him word that Inez had the means to free the political prisoner, and as this would have interfered with the plans of Ramo and his cronies, he determined to frustrate it. So, watching his chance, he took the papers and fled to join his mutinous and smuggling comrades. But the fates were against him. Later, it was learned that Ramo had tried, through agents in New York, to get the papers from the Spanish girl. And the tramp in Chelton was, undoubtedly, one of them.

Inez said Ramo explained to her that he intended to keep her father a prisoner only a short time longer. With Senor Ralcanto free, the plans of the smugglers would have been interfered with, for the father of Inez, and his party, stood for law and order.

"But now I free my father myself!" cried the Spanish girl, proudly. "No more do I wait for that fat one!"

So with the papers which would eventually release the Spanish prisoner, and well fitted out for the cruise to Double Island, the party once again set forth on her cruise.

"There the island is!" cried Lieutenant Walling, on the second day out. "And I think I can see a flag flying. Few ships pass this way, but, very likely, the refugees would try to call one."

And, a little later, as the Tartar came nearer, Cora, who was looking through the glasses, cried out:

"I can see them! They are on shore! There's mother, Jack! She's waving, though of course she doesn't know who we are. And I see your mother and father, girls! Oh, Bess -- Belle -- we've found them!"



Chapter XXIX

At Sea Horse


There proved to be a good harbor at Double Island -- a harbor ringed about with sand-fringed coral, with a sandy bottom which could be seen through the limpid depths of the blue water that was as clear as a sapphire-tinted crystal. And, a short way up from the beach was a line of palms and other tropical plants, while, in a little clearing, near what proved to be a trickling spring, was a rude sort of hut.

"Ahoy, folks!" yelled Jack, his voice a shout with its old vigor. "Here we are!"

What the three on the beach said could not be heard, but they were plainly much excited.

"They don't yet know who we are," said Cora.

"They only know they are being rescued," echoed Bess.

"Oh, but isn't it great -- we've found them!" cried Belle in delight, hugging first Cora, Bess and next Inez.

Inez said nothing, but her shining eyes told of the joy she felt in the happiness of her friends. Her time for rejoicing was yet to come.

So little did the beach in the coral harbor shelve that the big motor boat could come up to within a few yards of the shore.

"Why it's Jack -- and Cora!" cried Mrs. Robinson. "It's your son and daughter -- and the girls! Oh, of all things!"

Mrs. Kimball could not answer. She was softly crying on the shoulder of Mrs. Robinson, Mr. Robinson, who had been trying to catch some crabs along shore, had his trousers rolled up. He was rather a disheveled figure as he stood there -- in fact, none of the refugees appeared to sartorial advantage -- but who minded that?

"Hurray!" yelled Mr. Robinson, waving, a piece of cloth on a stick -- an improvised crab-net.

"Hurray! So you've come for the Robinson Crusoes; have you?"

"That's it!" shouted Jack, who was getting the small boat ready to go ashore.

"I thought we'd find them," spoke Lieutenant Walling.

"Oh, and we can't, thank you enough!" Cora murmured to him gratefully. "Only for you we might not have located the Ramona in a long time, and we night have been a month finding the folks. And you dear good girl!" she went on, putting her arms about Inez. "Next we are going to rescue your father."

"I shall be glad -- mos' glad!" said the Spanish girl, softly.

Then they all went ashore, and brother and sisters were clasped in the arms of their loved ones.

"But how did it all happen?" asked Mr. Robinson. "How did you know where to look for us? Did the Ramona's crew repent, and send you for us? Tell us all about it! How are you, anyhow?"

He poured out a veritable flood of questions, which the girls, Jack, Walter and Lieutenant Walling tried to answer as best they could -- the girls, it must be confessed, rather hysterically and tearfully.

"It was Cora and Jack who had the idea," said Bess, when quiet had been a little restored. "They determined to charter a motor boat and go in search of you, after we heard that the Ramona had foundered in the storm. And of course we wouldn't be left behind."

"Brave girls," murmured their mother.

"Indeed they were brave," declared Jack, patting Bess on her plump shoulder.

"We -- we were afraid of being left behind," confessed Belle. "So we came."

"But what have you done since being marooned here?" Cora wanted to know. "Wasn't it awful -- just awful?"

"Not so awful!" answered Mr. Robinson, with a laugh that could be jolly now. "We've had a fine time, and you should see some of the orchids I have gathered! It was worth all the hardship!"

"But, really, it hasn't been so bad," said Mrs. Kimball. "The weather was delightful, except for the two storms, and we have had enough to eat -- such as it was. We have been camping out, and no more ideal place for such a life can be found than a West Indian coral island in December."

She looked back amid the palms, among which grew in a tropical luxuriousness many beautiful blossoms, with birds of brilliant plumage flitting from flower to flower.

"And you look so well," commented Cora, for indeed, aside from traces of sunburn, the refugees were pictures of health.

"We are well," declared Mrs. Robinson. "But of course we have been terribly worried about you girls, and Jack, too. How are you, Jack?" she asked, anxiously.

"You needn't ask," laughed Cora. "One glance is enough."

"Oh, I had a little touch of my old trouble," said Jack, in answer to his mother's questioning glance, "but I'm fine and fit now. But tell us about yourselves."

"Well, we're camping out here," said Mr. Robinson, with a laugh, "waiting for some vessel to come along and take us off. We could have stood it for another month, though it was getting pretty lonesome, with all due respect to the ladies," and he made a mock bow.

"That's nothing to how tiresome just one man can get, my dears!" put in his wife, to the girls.

Then they exchanged stories of their adventures. As those of the motor girls are well known to our readers, there is no need to dwell further on them.

As the crew of the Ramona had confessed, they had set the passengers -- Mrs. Kimball and Mr. and Mrs. Robinson -- ashore on Double Island, some time after the uprising. Our friends were glad enough to leave the vessel, for there were constant bickering and quarrels among the mutineers. Affairs did not go at all smoothly.

So it was with comparatively small regret that the refugees found themselves set ashore. They were given a boat, and a sufficient supply of food and stores. Only in the matter of clothing were they handicapped, having only a few belongings, the mutineers keeping the remainder.

"When we got ashore, and took an account of stock," said Mr. Robinson, "I found some sort of shelter would be necessary, even if we were in a land of almost perpetual June.

"This wasn't the first time I had gone camping, under worse circumstances than these, so I soon put up this hut. Not bad, is it?" and he waved his hand toward the palm-leaf thatched structure.

"It's great!" cried Jack. "I think I'll stay here a while myself, and camp out."

"You may -- I've had enough," said Mrs. Robinson. "Oh, I do hope you girls have some spare hairpins!" she exclaimed. "Perry said to use thorns, but even if Mother Eve did her hair up that way, I can't!" she sighed.

"Well, to make a long story short," resumed Mr. Robinson, "we've been here ever since. And we are beginning to enjoy ourselves. We've had enough to eat, such as it is, though the tinned stuff gets a trifle palling after a time. So I've been trying to catch a few crabs."

"And he hasn't had any luck -- he might as well confess," said his wife.

"Give me time, my dear," protested Mr. Robinson. "There's one now!"

He made a swoop with the improvised net, but the crustacean flipped itself into deep water and escaped.

"Never mind -- you're going to leave now, Dad!" said Bess, gaily.

The young folks inspected the rude hut, and were charmed by its simplicity.

"Though it does leak," said Mr. Robinson.

"I must admit that."

"Leak!" cried Mrs. Robinson. "It's a regular sieve!"

"Might as well haul down our signal," observed Mr. Robinson, for on a tall palm, at a prominent height of the island, he had raised an improvised flag.

Double Island was uninhabited, and was seldom visited by any vessels, though in the course of time the refugees would have been rescued even if the motor girls had not come for them. But their experience would have been unpleasant, if not dangerous.

"Well, let's go aboard and start back to civilization," proposed Belle, after Lieutenant Walling had been introduced, and his part in the affair told.

"But we mustn't forget Inez's father!" cried Cora. "We still have some rescue work to do."

"Oh, I'm so sorry I couldn't make any move along that line," spoke Mr. Robinson. "But now I'll attend to it, Inez."

"We'll make for Sea Horse Island at once," said Cora. "Inez has the papers with her. Tell him how you threatened Senor Ramo, dear," and the tale of the fat Spaniard was related.

Made comfortable aboard the Tartar, which had resumed her strange cruise, the refugees told little details of their marooning, which story there had not been time for on the island.

The days were pleasant, the weather all that could be desired, and in due season Sea Horse was sighted. This was a small place, maintained by the Spanish government as a prison for political offenders. As the Tartar approached the fort at the harbor entrance, Lieutenant Walling looked through the glass at several flags flying from a high pole.

"Something wrong here," he announced.

"What do you mean?" asked Jack.

"Some prisoner, or prisoners, have escaped," was the answer. "'The signal indicates that. We'll soon find out."

A curious idea came into Jack's head.



Chapter XXX

Senor Ralcanto


Sea Horse Island was not attractive. There was no coral enclosed harbor, filled with limpid blue water -- though the sea off shore was blue enough, for that matter. There were a few waving palms, and a hill or two midland. But that was all. The principal building was the political prison, and the barracks, or quarters of the commanding officer and his aides. In fact, Sea Horse Island was as little beautiful as its name. But the eyes of Inez glowed when she saw it, for once it had been home to her.

"And now to see my father!" cried the Spanish girl, when preparations were made for going ashore. "Zey can hardly keep me from seeing him, can zey?" she asked Mr. Robinson and Lieutenant Walling.

"I think not, my dear," said the former. "And if I am any judge of the worth of evidence, they can't refuse to let him go, after we show our documents, though it may take a little time."

"Matters may not be all easy sailing now," suggested the British officer.

"Why not?" demanded Cora.

"Because of the fact that there has been an escape -- perhaps several," was the answer. "Those signal flags are a warning to all vessels not to take aboard any refugees that seem to have escaped from here, unless they are taken as prisoners."

"How horrid!" murmured Bess.

"But we'll go see the commandant, and learn how matters stand," went on Mr. Robinson. "Fortunately I have letters from persons in influence that may aid me. And you have your papers, Inez?"

"Yes, Senor. I have them," she answered.

Our friends were stared at rather disconcertingly as they landed, and there was no little suspicion in the glances directed at them, as they made their way to the commandant's quarters.

There was some delay before they were admitted, for they all went in together, all save Walter, and he had said it might be best if he remained on board the Tartar with Joe and Jim.

"We have come," said Mr. Robinson to the Spanish officer, "to arrange for the release of Senor Ralcanto -- the father of this young lady. We have papers which prove his innocence of the charge against him, and I may add that one, of the men responsible for his unjust arrest is himself a prisoner, and on a more serious charge than a mere political one. I refer to Senor Ramo, who is in jail at Palm Island."

The commandant started. Evidently he was regarding his callers with more courtesy, for he had been a bit supercilious at first.

"Senor Ramo incarcerated?" he asked. "Is it possible?"

"Very much so," went on Mr. Robinson, grimly. "And now we come to demand the release of Senor Ralcanto -- or at least I demand to have an interview with him -- as does his daughter -- that we may take measures for freeing him. If you will look at the copies of these papers, you will see what authority we have," and he tossed some letters, and copies of the documents Inez had recovered, on the table.

"I am sorry, but it is impossible to grant what you request," said the commandant stiffly, hardly glancing at the papers.

"Why?" asked Mr. Robinson, truculently. "Do you mean we cannot see the prisoner, or that you will not release him?"

"Both!" was the surprising answer. "You cannot see Senor Ralcanto because he is not here. And I cannot release him, had I the power, for he has released himself. In other words, Senor, he has escaped!"

"Escaped!" cried Jack and Cora in a breath. "My father escaped!" murmured Inez. "Oh, praise ze dear God for zat! He is free! Oh, but where is he?"

"That I know not, Senorita," was the stiff answer. "I wish I did. We have searched for him, but have not found him. He must have had friends working for him on the outside," and he glanced with suspicious eyes at our friends.

"Well, we probably would have worked for him, had we had the chance," said Mr. Robinson, "but we had no hand in his escape. May I ask how he got away from your prison?"

"In a boat -- about a week ago," was the grudging reply. "That is all I can say. He is no longer on Sea Horse Island. I have the honor to bid you good-day!"

"Polite, at any rate," murmured Jack. "Bow, what's our next move?"

"To find her father!" exclaimed the British officer, promptly. He had entered into this as enthusiastically as he had into the task of finding the mutineers and smugglers.

"If he got away in a boat," resumed the lieutenant, "he would most likely make for some island. There are many such not far from here, but these Spaniards are so back-numbered, they wouldn't think of making a systematic search. That's for us to do."

"Oh, if we can only find him!" murmured Inez.

"We will -- never fear!" cried Jack, with as much enthusiasm as he could muster at short notice.

It was little use to linger longer on Sea Horse Island. No more information concerning the escaped man was available. It must be a "blind search" from then on. Still, the searchers did not give up hope, and once more the Tartar was under way.

I shall not weary you with the details of the final part of her cruise. Suffice it to say that many islands were called at, and many vessels spoken, with a view to finding out if any of the uninhabited coral specks in that stretch of blue West Indian waters had, of late, showed signs of being inhabited by a lone man. But no helpful clue was obtained.

Still the search was kept up. Mr. Robinson, his wife and Mrs. Kimball stayed with the young people, having renewed their wardrobes at the first suitable stopping place. Then the search was resumed.

And, curiously enough, it was Inez who discovered the torn rag, floating from a tree, which gave the signal that help was needed at a lonely isle they reached about two weeks after the search began.

"I think some one is zere," she said to Jack, pointing to the signal.

"It does look so," he agreed. "We'll put in there."

"A hard place to live," said Lieutenant Walling, as he came on deck and viewed the little Island. "It is very barren."

"Do you -- do you think it can be my father?" faltered Inez.

"It is possible -- it is some poor soul, at all events -- or some one has been there," the officer concluded.

"You mean it may be too late?" asked Cora, softly.

Lieutenant Walling nodded his head in confirmation.

The Tartar anchored off shore, and the small boat went to the beach. Hardly had it ground on the shingle than a tattered and ragged -- a tottering figure crawled from the bushes. It was the figure of a man, much emaciated from hunger. But the eyes showed bright from under the matted hair and from out of the straggly beard. Inez, who had come ashore with the first boat-load, sprang forward.

"Padre! Padre!" she cried, opening wide her arms, "I have found you at last! Padre! Padre!"

The others drew a little aside.

Once more the Tartar was under way. She was nearing the end of her strange cruise, for she was headed for San Juan -- the blue harbor of San Juan. Seated on deck, in an easy chair, was a Spanish gentleman, about whom Inez fluttered in a joy of service. It was her father.

He had, after many failures, made his escape from Sea Horse Island in a small boat, and had lived, for some time on the little coral rock, hardly worthy the name islet. He had almost starved, but he was free. Then his privations became too much for him, and he hoisted his signal for help. He would even have welcomed a Spanish party, so distressed was he.

But his own daughter -- and friends -- came instead. And, had he but waited a few weeks, he need not have so suffered in running away from his prison. The papers Inez had secured would have brought about his freedom from the unjust charge.

"But we have him anyhow!" cried Jack, "and a good job it was, too!"

"Isn't Jack just splendid!" murmured Bess to Cora. "He is so well again!"

"Yes, the trip, in spite of its hardships, has worked wonders for him."

"And I suppose we'll have to go back North again soon," remarked Belle. "Papa's business here is practically finished."

"Yes, we are going back to civilization, without smugglers and mutineers,"' said Mrs. Kimball.

"Oh, I rather liked them, they were sort of a tonic," laughed Mrs. Robinson.

"Sometimes one can take a little too much tonic," spoke Cora. "But it certainly has been a wonderful experience."

The Tartar dropped anchor at San Juan, coming to rest in the waters blue, over which she had skimmed on so many adventuresome trips of late.

"Well, are you glad to be back here?" asked Jack, of Senor Ralcanto.

"Indeed, yes, I am. And you have all been so kind to me. I can never repay you for what you have done for my daughter and myself," and he stroked the dark hair of Inez, who knelt at his side.

"Well, send for us again if you -- er -- need our services," suggested Walter.

"Thank you -- but I am going to keep out of prison after this," was the laughing answer.

There is little more to tell of this story. Senor Ralcanto was speedily recovering from his harsh experiences, when our friends took a steamer for New York, some weeks later. The mutineers and smugglers of the Ramona, including Senor Ramo, the real, influential leader, were duty punished.

After a final cruise about the blue waters of San Juan, in the Tartar, our friends bade farewell to the craft that had served them so efficiently.

"Good-bye!" called Cora, as she stood on the steamer-deck, homeward bound, and waved her hand to the blue sky, the blue waters, the blue mountains and the green, waving palms. "Good-bye! Good-bye!"

And we will echo her words.

<eob>

Indian Pete's Christmas Gift

By

Herbert W. Collingwood



The moon was just peeping over the pines as Pete Shivershee slunk down the road from the lumber camp into the forest. Pete did not present a surpassingly dignified appearance as he skulked through the clearing, but he was not a very dignified person even at his best.

Most persons would have said, I think, that Pete's method of departure was hardly appropriate for one who had been selected by the citizens of Carter's Camp to go on an important mission. But Pete had his own reasons for his actions. He crept along behind the stumps and logs till he reached the forest. Then, as if the shadow gave him fresh courage and dignity, he drew himself upright, and started at a sharp trot down the road toward the village.

We have said that Pete had reasons for his conduct. They were good ones. In the first place, he was an Indian. Not a "noble son of the forest," such as Cooper loved to picture, but a mean, dirty, yellow-faced "Injun." Lazy and worthless, picking up a living about the lumber camps, working as little as he could, and eating and drinking as much as possible: such was the messenger. The mission was worse yet.

It was Christmas Eve. The snow covered the ground, and the ice had stilled for the time the mouth of the roaring river. It was Saturday night as well; and for some time past the lumbermen had been considering the advisability of keeping the good old holiday with some form of celebration suited to the occasion.

The citizens of Carter's Camp were not remarkably fastidious. They knew but one form of celebration, and they had no thought of hunting out new ones. The one thing needful to make a celebration completely successful was -- liquor. This they must have in order to do justice to the day.

The temperance laws of Carter's were very strict. Not that the moral sentiment of the place was particularly high, but it had been noticed that the amounts of labor and whisky were in inverse proportion. The more whisky, the less labor. It was a pure question of political economy. The foreman had often stated that he would prosecute to the fullest extent of the law the first man caught bringing whisky into camp. The foreman did not attempt, perhaps, to deny that his knowledge of the law was somewhat crude. He had forcibly stated, however, that should a case be brought before him, he would himself act as judge and jury, while his fist and foot would take the place of witness and counsel. There was something so terrible in this statement, coming as it did from the largest man in camp, that very little whisky had thus far been brought in.

Christmas had come, and the drinking element in Carter's Camp proposed that Pete Shivershee -- the "Injun" -- be sent to town for a quantity of the liquid poison, that the drinkers might "enjoy" themselves.

Bill Gammon found Pete curled up by the stove. He took him out of doors and explained the business in hand. Bill prided himself somewhat on his ability to "git work out of Injuns." Pete muttered only "all right." He took the money Bill gave him, and then slunk away down the road for the forest, as we have seen him.

* * * * *

Bill felt so confident of the success of his experiment that he did not hesitate to inform the boys that Pete was "dead sure" to return. He would stake his reputation upon it.

Pete was in a hard position. If he loved anything in this world, it was whisky. If there was anything he feared, it was Bill's fist. The two were sure to go together. The money jingling in his pocket suggested unlimited pleasures, but over every one hung Bill's hard fist. He ran several miles through the forest, till, turning a corner of the road, he came upon a little clearing, in which stood a small log house. Pete knew the place well. Here lived Jeff Hunt with his wife, a French woman, and their troop of children.

Jeff was a person of little importance by the side of his wife, though, like all "lords of creation," he considered himself the legal and proper head of the family, as well as one of the mainstays of society. His part of the family government consisted, for the most part, in keeping the house supplied with wood and water, and in smoking his comfortable pipe in the corner, while his wife bent over her tub.

Mrs. Hunt was the only woman near the camp, and so all the laundry work fell to her. Laundry work in the pine woods implies mending and darning, as well as washing and ironing, and the poor little woman had her hands full of work surely. It was rub, rub, rub, day after day, over the steaming tub, with the children running about like little wolves, and Jeff kindly giving his advice from his comfortable corner. And even after the children were in bed at night, she must sit up and mend the clean clothes.

What a pack of children there were! How rough and strong they seemed, running about all day, all but poor little Marie, the oldest. She had never been strong, and now at last she was dying of consumption. She could not sit up at all, but lay all day on the little bed in the corner, watching her mother with sad, beautiful eyes.

The brave little Frenchwoman's heart almost failed her at times, as she saw how day by day the little form grew thinner, the eyes more beautiful, the cheeks more flushed. She knew the signs too well, but there was nothing she could do.

Pete was a regular visitor at Jeff's and always a welcome one. His work was to carry the washing to and from camp. He came nearer to feeling like a man at Jeff's house than at any other place he knew of. Everyone but Mrs. Hunt and little Marie called him only "Injun," but they always said "Mr. Shivershee." The "Meester Shivershee" of the little Frenchwoman was the nearest claim to respectability that Pete felt able to make. One night while carrying home the clothes, he dropped them in the mud. He never minded the whipping Bill Gammon gave him half as much as he did poor Mrs. Hunt's tears, to think how her work had gone for nothing.

As Pete came trotting down the road, Jeff stood in front of his house chopping stove-wood from a great log. A lantern, hung on a stump, provided light for his purpose. Pete stopped from sheer force of habit in front of the house, and Jeff, glad of any chance to interrupt his work, paused to talk with him.

"Walk in, Injun," said Jeff, hospitably. "Yer clo'es ain't quite ready, but the woman will hev 'em all up soon -- walk in."

It suddenly came over Pete that this was his night for taking the clothes home, but his present errand was of far more importance than mere laundry work.

"Me no stop. I goin' ter town. Great work. Large bizness." By which vague hints he meant no doubt to impress Jeff with a sense of the dignity of his mission, and yet cunningly to keep its object concealed.

"Goin' to town, be ye? Great doin's ter camp ter-morrer, I s'pose. I'll be round ef I kin git away, but walk in, Injun, an' git yer supper, an' see the wimmin," and Jeff opened the door for Pete to pass in.

The thought of supper was too much for Pete and he slunk in after Jeff and stood in the corner by the door. The room was hardly an inviting one, and yet if Pete had been a white man some thoughts of "home, sweet home," must have passed through his mind. But he was only a despised "Injun."

A rough board table was laid for supper at one side of the room. In the corner little Marie lay with the firelight falling over her poor thin face. Pete must have felt, as he looked at her, like some hopeless convict gazing through his prison bars upon some fair saint passing before him. She seemed to be in another world than his; there seemed between them a gulf that could not be bridged. Three of the larger children were sobbing in the corner, while the rest formed a sorrowful group about an old box in which were two or three simple plants frozen and yellow. Mrs. Hunt was frying pork over the hot stove. As she looked up at Pete, he noticed that she had been crying.

Jeff was the very prince of hosts. He made haste to make Pete feel at home.

"Set by, Injun. So the boys is goin' ter kinder cellybrate ter-morrer, be they?"

But Pete felt that his mission must not be disclosed. "What matter is with kids?" he asked, to change the subject.

"Oh, they're jest a-yellin' about them flowers," explained Jeff. "Ye see they hev been a-trainin' some posies indoors against ter-morrer, ye know. Ter-morrer's Christmas, ye see, an' them kids they hed an idee they'd hev some flowers fer ter dekerate thet corner where the little gal is. Little gals, when they ain't well, like sech things, ye know."

Pete nodded. He was not aware of this love of diminutive females, but it would not show very good breeding to appear ignorant.

"Wall, ye see," continued Jeff, "they kep the flowers away from the little gal, meanin' ter s'prise her like. But jest this afternoon they gut ketched by the frost, an' now there they be stiffer'n stakes. It is kinder bad, ain't it -- 'specially ez it's Christmas, too?"

"What Crissmus?" put in Pete.

"Oh, Christmas? Wall, it's a sorter day like. It's somethin' like other days, an' yet it ain't. But then, Injun, I don't s'pose ye would understand ef I wuz ter tell ye." And Jeff concealed his own ignorance, as many wiser and better men have done, by assuming a tone too lofty for his audience.

But Mrs. Hunt could explain, even if Jeff could not. She paused on the way to the stove with a dish of pork in her hand.

"It eez the day of the good Lord, Meester Shivershee. It eez the day when the good Lord He was born, and when all people should be glad." But the little woman belied her own creed as she thought of little Marie and the dead flowers.

I hardly think Pete gained a very clear idea of the day, even from Mrs. Hunt's explanation. It was, I fear, all Greek to him.

"What flowers fer?" he asked, as, in response to Jeff's polite invitation, he "sat by" and began supper.

"Wall, it's a sorter idee of the wimmin," explained Jeff. "Looks kinder pooty to see flowers round; ye see, kinder slicks up a room like. All these things hez ter come inter keepin' house, ye see, Injun." With which broad explanation Jeff helped himself to a piece of pork.

But Mrs. Hunt was bound to explain too. Her explanation was certainly more poetic.

"It eez the way we show our love for the good Lord, Meester Shivershee. What is more beautiful than the flowers? We take the flowers, and with much love we place them upon the walls, and we make others happy with them, and the good Lord, who loves us all, He is pleased," -- but here, seeing the sobbing children and the frozen plants, she could not help wiping her eyes upon her apron.

The little sufferer on the bed saw this action. Her voice was almost gone. "Never mind, mamma," she whispered; but the beautiful eyes were filled with tears, for she knew that mamma would mind -- that she could not help it.

Pete listened to all this attentively. "Injun" that he was, of course he could not understand it all, and yet he could hardly help seeing something of the sorrow that the loss of the flowers had brought upon the family. He finished his supper, and then slunk out at the door again. Jeff followed him out.

"Little gal ever git well?" asked Pete.

"No; I don't s'pose she will," answered Jeff. "There ain't no hopes held out fer her. Makes it kinder bad, ye see. Nice, clever little gal as ever lived, too. Stop in an' git yer clo'es when ye come back, will ye?"

"All right," muttered Pete, as he trotted away toward the town.

* * * * *

I wonder what Pete was thinking about as he ran through the forest. An "Injun's" thoughts on any ordinary subject cannot be very deep, yet when one comes from such a scene as Pete had just witnessed, and when such sad eyes as Marie's haunt one all along a lonely road, even an "Injun's" thoughts must be worth noticing. Let us imagine what Pete's thoughts were as he shuffled mile after mile through the snow. The scene he had just left rose before his dulled "Injun" mind. How kind Mrs. Hunt had always been to him! She was the only one that called him "Mister." How queer it was that the children should cry because the flowers were killed! How little Marie had looked at him! Somehow Pete could not drive those sad eyes away. They seemed to be looking at him from every stump, from every tree. They were filled with tears now -- could it be because the flowers were frozen?

It is no wonder that when at last the few lingering village lights came into view, Pete was wondering how he could help matters out.

It was quite late, and most of the shops were closed. Only here and there some late worker showed a light. The bar-rooms were open full blast, and as Pete glided down the sawdust street it needed all the remembrance of Bill's fist to keep him from parting with a portion of the jingling money for an equal amount of good cheer. But the fist had the best of it, and he went straight on to the last bar-room. Surely Bill was right. Nothing but a miracle could stop him.

But the miracle was performed, and when Pete least expected it.

Pete knew better than to go into the front door of the bar-room. He knew how well he and all his race are protected by the government. It had been decided that no one should be allowed to sell liquor to an "Injun" -- at least at the regular bar. If an "Injun," however, could so far lose sight of his personal dignity as to come sneaking in at the back door, and pay an extra price for his liquor, whose business was it?

Pete knew the way of bar-tenders. He had been in the business before. He did not go in at the front door where the higher-bred white men were made welcome, but slunk down an alley by the side of the building, meaning to go in the back way.

There was no light in the store next the bar-room. It was a milliner's store and had been closed for some hours. But in the back room two women were working away anxious to finish a hat, evidently intended for some village belle's Christmas. Pete stopped in the dark alley for a moment to watch them.

A man sat asleep in a chair by the stove, but the women worked on with tireless fingers. The hat was growing more and more brilliant under their quick touches. By their side stood a basket of artificial flowers and bright ribbons. It seemed to Pete that he had never before seen anything so beautiful. Here were flowers -- why could he not get some for the little sick girl?

It was a severe struggle for the poor "Injun," out there in the dark alley. The thought of the thrashing he would receive on the one hand, and the sad eyes of Marie on the other. What could he do? But even an "Injun" can remember a kindness. It may have been a miracle, or it may have been just the out-cropping of the desire to repay a kindness which even an "Injun" is said to possess. At any rate the eyes conquered and Pete braved the fist of Bill. For fear that he should lose courage, he pushed against the door of the room, and entered without ceremony.

There was a great commotion, I can assure you. The idea of an "Injun" pushing his way into the back parlor of a milliner's shop was too much of a revolutionary proceeding to pass unnoticed. The women dropped their work with a little scream, while the man started from his chair with most violent intent upon poor Pete.

"What be ye after here, Injun?" he growled. "Hump yerself outer here -- git a-goin'!"

But Pete pulled out his money, at the sight of which the standing army of the milliner's store paused. Money has smoothed over many an outrage. It might perhaps excuse even such an action on the part of an "Injun."

"I want flowers," Pete said, pointing to the basket. "Give me flowers -- I pay."

"Oh, ye wanter buy sum of them artyficial flowers, do ye? This is a pooty time o' night ter come flower huntin,' ain't it? Jest pick out yer flowers, an' then climb out!" -- and he held the basket out at arm's length for Pete to select.

Pete took a great red rose, and a white flower. There was not very much of a stock to select from, but Pete, with "Injun" instinct, selected the largest and gaudiest.

"Them is wurth about ten shillins," figured up the merchant, taking the money from Pete's hand.

Pete carefully placed the flowers in the pocket of his ragged coat, and started for the door. The milliner's man, rendered affable by the most surprising bargain he had just made, naturally wished to retain the patronage of such a model customer.

"Want anything in our line, Injun, jest call round an' we'll please ye. Only come a little afore bed-time when ye come again." But Pete slunk out at the door and did not hear him.

Pete's money was nearly gone, but he had a scheme in his head. He slunk in at the back door of the bar-room, and obtained his jug, and what whiskey he could buy with the rest of his money. Then up the street he ran again, out of town, stopping only once at the pump to fill the jug to the top with water. Resolutely fastening in the stopper, and not even raising the jug to his mouth, he started for camp at his long, swinging trot, with the jug in his hand. Mile after mile was passed over, yet Pete did not stop till Jeff Hunt's cabin came in sight. Hiding his jug behind a log, he crept up to the window and looked in.

The light was burning on the table, while Mrs. Hunt sat nodding over her work. She had been mending the clothes so that Pete could take them back with him. Tired out, she had fallen asleep. The box of frozen plants still stood by the table. Pete grinned as he saw them, thinking of the great flowers in his pocket. Marie was asleep. Over her head were hung long clusters of moss, with masses of ground pine and red berries.

Pete stole to the door and went in. Mrs. Hunt woke with a start, but at sight of Pete smiled in her weary way. Pete made up his bundle of clothes, and then pulled out the great red rose and the white flower. He laid them on the table with -- "Flowers fer little gal. Sick. Make her think Crissmus. Good flowers. All color. No fade. No smell. No wear out." Then, catching up his bundle, he slunk away without waiting for Mrs. Hunt's thanks.

* * * * *

When Bill Gammon woke in the morning, he found the jug at the foot of his bunk. But Pete was nowhere to be seen. He had left the jug and fled.

The Christmas celebration at Carter's was a very tame affair. Many were the curses showered upon Pete, and had that worthy been present, I doubt if even the thought of the famous miracle would have sustained him in the beating he would have received. But if Pete's conduct produced such a sad effect upon the festivities at Carter's, the joy it caused at Jeff Hunt's cabin made matters even. The glad Christmas sun, glad with the promise of the "old, old story," came dancing and sparkling over the trees, and looked down in wonderful tenderness upon the humble cabin. The first bright beams fell upon the bed where little Marie was lying. They showed her the rose and the white flower nestling in the evergreens. The children came and stood in wonder before the rude flowers. How wonderful they were! Where could they have come from?

The face of the little girl was more patient than before. The eyes seemed more tender, and yet not so sad. Perhaps the glad sun, the same good sun that had looked upon that far-away tomb from which the stone had rolled, whispered to her, as it played about her face, how soon the stone would roll from her life; how soon she would forget all her care and trouble, and enter the land of sunshine and flowers. It may be that the good old Christmas sun even hunted out poor despised Pete, and told him something of its happiness. I am sure he deserved it. Let us hope so at any rate.

<eob>

Jo's Boys

By

Louisa M. Alcott



Chapter 1. TEN YEARS LATER

'If anyone had told me what wonderful changes were to take place here in ten years, I wouldn't have believed it,' said Mrs Jo to Mrs Meg, as they sat on the piazza at Plumfield one summer day, looking about them with faces full of pride and pleasure.

'This is the sort of magic that money and kind hearts can work. I am sure Mr Laurence could have no nobler monument than the college he so generously endowed; and a home like this will keep Aunt March's memory green as long as it lasts,' answered Mrs Meg, always glad to praise the absent.

'We used to believe in fairies, you remember, and plan what we'd ask for if we could have three wishes. Doesn't it seem as if mine had been really granted at last? Money, fame, and plenty of the work I love,' said Mrs Jo, carelessly rumpling up her hair as she clasped her hands over her head just as she used to do when a girl.

'I have had mine, and Amy is enjoying hers to her heart's content. If dear Marmee, John, and Beth were here, it would be quite perfect,' added Meg, with a tender quiver in her voice; for Marmee's place was empty now.

Jo put her hand on her sister's, and both sat silent for a little while, surveying the pleasant scene before them with mingled sad and happy thoughts.

It certainly did look as if magic had been at work, for quiet Plumfield was transformed into a busy little world. The house seemed more hospitable than ever, refreshed now with new paint, added wings, well-kept lawn and garden, and a prosperous air it had not worn when riotous boys swarmed everywhere and it was rather difficult for the Bhaers to make both ends meet. On the hill, where kites used to be flown, stood the fine college which Mr Laurence's munificent legacy had built. Busy students were going to and fro along the paths once trodden by childish feet, and many young men and women were enjoying all the advantages that wealth, wisdom, and benevolence could give them.

Just inside the gates of Plumfield a pretty brown cottage, very like the Dovecote, nestled among the trees, and on the green slope westward Laurie's white-pillared mansion glittered in the sunshine; for when the rapid growth of the city shut in the old house, spoilt Meg's nest, and dared to put a soap-factory under Mr Laurence's indignant nose, our friends emigrated to Plumfield, and the great changes began.

These were the pleasant ones; and the loss of the dear old people was sweetened by the blessings they left behind; so all prospered now in the little community, and Mr Bhaer as president, and Mr March as chaplain of the college, saw their long-cherished dream beautifully realized. The sisters divided the care of the young people among them, each taking the part that suited her best. Meg was the motherly friend of the young women, Jo the confidante and defender of all the youths, and Amy the lady Bountiful who delicately smoothed the way for needy students, and entertained them all so cordially that it was no wonder they named her lovely home Mount Parnassus, so full was it of music, beauty, and the culture hungry young hearts and fancies long for.

The original twelve boys had of course scattered far and wide during these years, but all that lived still remembered old Plumfield, and came wandering back from the four quarters of the earth to tell their various experiences, laugh over the pleasures of the past, and face the duties of the present with fresh courage; for such home-comings keep hearts tender and hands helpful with the memories of young and happy days. A few words will tell the history of each, and then we can go on with the new chapter of their lives.

Franz was with a merchant kinsman in Hamburg, a man of twenty-six now, and doing well. Emil was the jolliest tar that ever 'sailed the ocean blue'. His uncle sent him on a long voyage to disgust him with this adventurous life; but he came home so delighted with it that it was plain this was his profession, and the German kinsman gave him a good chance in his ships; so the lad was happy. Dan was a wanderer still; for after the geological researches in South America he tried sheep-farming in Australia, and was now in California looking up mines. Nat was busy with music at the Conservatory, preparing for a year or two in Germany to finish him off. Tom was studying medicine and trying to like it. Jack was in business with his father, bent on getting rich. Dolly was in college with Stuffy and Ned reading law. Poor little Dick was dead, so was Billy; and no one could mourn for them, since life would never be happy, afflicted as they were in mind and body.

Rob and Teddy were called the 'Lion and the Lamb'; for the latter was as rampant as the king of beasts, and the former as gentle as any sheep that ever baaed. Mrs Jo called him 'my daughter', and found him the most dutiful of children, with plenty of manliness underlying the quiet manners and tender nature. But in Ted she seemed to see all the faults, whims, aspirations, and fun of her own youth in a new shape. With his tawny locks always in wild confusion, his long legs and arms, loud voice, and continual activity, Ted was a prominent figure at Plumfield. He had his moods of gloom, and fell into the Slough of Despond about once a week, to be hoisted out by patient Rob or his mother, who understood when to let him alone and when to shake him up. He was her pride and joy as well as torment, being a very bright lad for his age, and so full of all sorts of budding talent, that her maternal mind was much exercised as to what this remarkable boy would become.

Demi had gone through College with honour, and Mrs Meg had set her heart on his being a minister -- picturing in her fond fancy the first sermon her dignified young parson would preach, as well as the long, useful, and honoured life he was to lead. But John, as she called him now, firmly declined the divinity school, saying he had had enough of books, and needed to know more of men and the world, and caused the dear woman much disappointment by deciding to try a journalist's career. It was a blow; but she knew that young minds cannot be driven, and that experience is the best teacher; so she let him follow his own inclinations, still hoping to see him in the pulpit. Aunt Jo raged when she found that there was to be a reporter in the family, and called him 'Jenkins' on the spot. She liked his literary tendencies, but had reason to detest official Paul Prys, as we shall see later. Demi knew his own mind, however, and tranquilly carried out his plans, unmoved by the tongues of the anxious mammas or the jokes of his mates. Uncle Teddy encouraged him, and painted a splendid career, mentioning Dickens and other celebrities who began as reporters and ended as famous novelists or newspaper men.

The girls were all flourishing. Daisy, as sweet and domestic as ever, was her mother's comfort and companion. Josie at fourteen was a most original young person, full of pranks and peculiarities, the latest of which was a passion for the stage, which caused her quiet mother and sister much anxiety as well as amusement. Bess had grown into a tall, beautiful girl looking several years older than she was, with the same graceful ways and dainty tastes which the little Princess had, and a rich inheritance of both the father's and mother's gifts, fostered by every aid love and money could give. But the pride of the community was naughty Nan; for, like so many restless, wilful children, she was growing into a woman full of the energy and promise that suddenly blossoms when the ambitious seeker finds the work she is fitted to do well. Nan began to study medicine at sixteen, and at twenty was getting on bravely; for now, thanks to other intelligent women, colleges and hospitals were open to her. She had never wavered in her purpose from the childish days when she shocked Daisy in the old willow by saying: 'I don't want any family to fuss over. I shall have an office, with bottles and pestle things in it, and drive round and cure folks.' The future foretold by the little girl the young woman was rapidly bringing to pass, and finding so much happiness in it that nothing could win her from the chosen work. Several worthy young gentlemen had tried to make her change her mind and choose, as Daisy did, 'a nice little house and family to take care of'. But Nan only laughed, and routed the lovers by proposing to look at the tongue which spoke of adoration, or professionally felt the pulse in the manly hand offered for her acceptance. So all departed but one persistent youth, who was such a devoted Traddles it was impossible to quench him.

This was Tom, who was as faithful to his child sweetheart as she to her 'pestle things', and gave a proof of fidelity that touched her very much. He studied medicine for her sake alone, having no taste for it, and a decided fancy for a mercantile life. But Nan was firm, and Tom stoutly kept on, devoutly hoping he might not kill many of his fellow-beings when he came to practise. They were excellent friends, however, and caused much amusement to their comrades, by the vicissitudes of this merry love-chase.

Both were approaching Plumfield on the afternoon when Mrs Meg and Mrs Jo were talking on the piazza. Not together; for Nan was walking briskly along the pleasant road alone, thinking over a case that interested her, and Tom was pegging on behind to overtake her, as if by accident, when the suburbs of the city were past -- a little way of his, which was part of the joke.

Nan was a handsome girl, with a fresh colour, clear eye, quick smile, and the self-poised look young women with a purpose always have. She was simply and sensibly dressed, walked easily, and seemed full of vigour, with her broad shoulders well back, arms swinging freely, and the elasticity of youth and health in every motion. The few people she met turned to look at her, as if it was a pleasant sight to see a hearty, happy girl walking countryward that lovely day; and the red-faced young man steaming along behind, hat off and every tight curl wagging with impatience, evidently agreed with them.

Presently a mild 'Hallo!' was borne upon the breeze, and pausing, with an effort to look surprised that was an utter failure, Nan said affably:

'Oh, is that you, Tom?'

'Looks like it. Thought you might be walking out today'; and Tom's jovial face beamed with pleasure.

'You knew it. How is your throat?' asked Nan in her professional tone, which was always a quencher to undue raptures.

'Throat? Oh, ah! yes, I remember. It is well. The effect of that prescription was wonderful. I'll never call homoeopathy a humbug again.'

'You were the humbug this time, and so were the unmedicated pellets I gave you. If sugar or milk can cure diphtheria in this remarkable manner, I'll make a note of it. O Tom, Tom, will you never be done playing tricks?'

'O Nan, Nan, will you never be done getting the better of me?' And the merry pair laughed at one another just as they did in the old times, which always came back freshly when they went to Plumfield.

'Well, I knew I shouldn't see you for a week if I didn't scare up some excuse for a call at the office. You are so desperately busy all the time I never get a word,' explained Tom.

'You ought to be busy too, and above such nonsense. Really, Tom, if you don't give your mind to your lectures, you'll never get on,' said Nan soberly.

'I have quite enough of them as it is,' answered Tom with an air of disgust. 'A fellow must lark a bit after dissecting corpuses all day. I can't stand it long at a time, though some people seem to enjoy it immensely.'

'Then why not leave it, and do what suits you better? I always thought it a foolish thing, you know,' said Nan, with a trace of anxiety in the keen eyes that searched for signs of illness in a face as ruddy as a Baldwin apple.

'You know why I chose it, and why I shall stick to it if it kills me. I may not look delicate, but I've a deep-seated heart complaint, and it will carry me off sooner or later; for only one doctor in the world can cure it, and she won't.'

There was an air of pensive resignation about Tom that was both comic and pathetic; for he was in earnest, and kept on giving hints of this sort, without the least encouragement.

Nan frowned; but she was used to it, and knew how to treat him.

'She is curing it in the best and only way; but a more refractory patient never lived. Did you go to that ball, as I directed?'

'I did.'

'And devote yourself to pretty Miss West?'

'Danced with her the whole evening.'

'No impression made on that susceptible organ of yours?'

'Not the slightest. I gaped in her face once, forgot to feed her, and gave a sigh of relief when I handed her over to her mamma.'

'Repeat the dose as often as possible, and note the symptoms. I predict that you'll "cry for it" by and by.'

'Never! I'm sure it doesn't suit my constitution.'

'We shall see. Obey orders!' sternly.

'Yes, Doctor,' meekly.

Silence reigned for a moment; then, as if the bone of contention was forgotten in the pleasant recollections called up by familiar objects, Nan said suddenly:

'What fun we used to have in that wood! Do you remember how you tumbled out of the big nut-tree and nearly broke your collar-bones?'

'Don't I! and how you steeped me in wormwood till I was a fine mahogany colour, and Aunt Jo wailed over my spoilt jacket,' laughed Tom, a boy again in a minute.

'And how you set the house afire?'

'And you ran off for your band-box?'

'Do you ever say "Thunder-turtles" now?'

'Do people ever call you "Giddy-gaddy"?'

'Daisy does. Dear thing, I haven't seen her for a week.'

'I saw Demi this morning, and he said she was keeping house for Mother Bhaer.'

'She always does when Aunt Jo gets into a vortex. Daisy is a model housekeeper; and you couldn't do better than make your bow to her, if you can't go to work and wait till you are grown up before you begin lovering.'

'Nat would break his fiddle over my head if I suggested such a thing. No, thank you. Another name is engraved upon my heart as indelibly as the blue anchor on my arm. "Hope" is my motto, and "No surrender", yours; see who will hold out longest.'

'You silly boys think we must pair off as we did when children; but we shall do nothing of the kind. How well Parnassus looks from here!' said Nan, abruptly changing the conversation again.

'It is a fine house; but I love old Plum best. Wouldn't Aunt March stare if she could see the changes here?' answered Tom, as they both paused at the great gate to look at the pleasant landscape before them.

A sudden whoop startled them, as a long boy with a wild yellow head came leaping over a hedge like a kangaroo, followed by a slender girl, who stuck in the hawthorn, and sat there laughing like a witch. A pretty little lass she was, with curly dark hair, bright eyes, and a very expressive face. Her hat was at her back, and her skirts a good deal the worse for the brooks she had crossed, the trees she had climbed, and the last leap, which added several fine rents.

'Take me down, Nan, please. Tom, hold Ted; he's got my book, and I will have it,' called Josie from her perch, not at all daunted by the appearance of her friends.

Tom promptly collared the thief, while Nan picked Josie from among the thorns and set her on her feet without a word of reproof; for having been a romp in her own girlhood, she was very indulgent to like tastes in others. 'What's the matter, dear?' she asked, pinning up the longest rip, while Josie examined the scratches on her hands. 'I was studying my part in the willow, and Ted came slyly up and poked the book out of my hands with his rod. It fell in the brook, and before I could scrabble down he was off. You wretch, give it back this moment or I'll box your ears,' cried Josie, laughing and scolding in the same breath.

Escaping from Tom, Ted struck a sentimental attitude, and with tender glances at the wet, torn young person before him, delivered Claude Melnotte's famous speech in a lackadaisical way that was irresistibly funny, ending with 'Dost like the picture, love?' as he made an object of himself by tying his long legs in a knot and distorting his face horribly.

The sound of applause from the piazza put a stop to these antics, and the young folks went up the avenue together very much in the old style when Tom drove four in hand and Nan was the best horse in the team. Rosy, breathless, and merry, they greeted the ladies and sat down on the steps to rest, Aunt Meg sewing up her daughter's rags while Mrs Jo smoothed the Lion's mane, and rescued the book. Daisy appeared in a moment to greet her friend, and all began to talk.

'Muffins for tea; better stay and eat 'em; Daisy's never fail,' said Ted hospitably.

'He's a judge; he ate nine last time. That's why he's so fat,' added Josie, with a withering glance at her cousin, who was as thin as a lath.

'I must go and see Lucy Dove. She has a whitlow, and it's time to lance it. I'll tea at college,' answered Nan, feeling in her pocket to be sure she had not forgotten her case of instruments.

'Thanks, I'm going there also. Tom Merryweather has granulated lids, and I promised to touch them up for him. Save a doctor's fee and be good practice for me. I'm clumsy with my thumbs,' said Tom, bound to be near his idol while he could.

'Hush! Daisy doesn't like to hear you saw-bones talk of your work. Muffins suit us better'; and Ted grinned sweetly, with a view to future favours in the eating line.

'Any news of the Commodore?' asked Tom.

'He is on his way home, and Dan hopes to come soon. I long to see my boys together, and have begged the wanderers to come to Thanksgiving, if not before,' answered Mrs Jo, beaming at the thought.

'They'll come, every man of them, if they can. Even Jack will risk losing a dollar for the sake of one of our jolly old dinners,' laughed Tom.

'There's the turkey fattening for the feast. I never chase him now, but feed him well; and he's "swellin' wisibly", bless his drumsticks!' said Ted, pointing out the doomed fowl proudly parading in a neighbouring field.

'If Nat goes the last of the month we shall want a farewell frolic for him. I suppose the dear old Chirper will come home a second Ole Bull,' said Nan to her friend.

A pretty colour came into Daisy's cheek, and the folds of muslin on her breast rose and fell with a quick breath; but she answered placidly: 'Uncle Laurie says he has real talent, and after the training he will get abroad he can command a good living here, though he may never be famous.'

'Young people seldom turn out as one predicts, so it is of little use to expect anything,' said Mrs Meg with a sigh. 'If our children are good and useful men and women, we should be satisfied; yet it's very natural to wish them to be brilliant and successful.'

'They are like my chickens, mighty uncertain. Now, that fine-looking cockerel of mine is the stupidest one of the lot, and the ugly, long-legged chap is the king of the yard, he's so smart; crows loud enough to wake the Seven Sleepers; but the handsome one croaks, and is no end of a coward. I get snubbed; but you wait till I grow up, and then see'; and Ted looked so like his own long-legged pet that everyone laughed at his modest prediction.

'I want to see Dan settled somewhere. "A rolling stone gathers no moss", and at twenty-five he is still roaming about the world without a tie to hold him, except this'; and Mrs Meg nodded towards her sister.

'Dan will find his place at last, and experience is his best teacher. He is rough still, but each time he comes home I see a change for the better, and never lose my faith in him. He may never do anything great, or get rich; but if the wild boy makes an honest man, I'm satisfied,' said Mrs Jo, who always defended the black sheep of her flock.

'That's right, mother, stand by Dan! He's worth a dozen Jacks and Neds bragging about money and trying to be swells. You see if he doesn't do something to be proud of and take the wind out of their sails,' added Ted, whose love for his 'Danny' was now strengthened by a boy's admiration for the bold, adventurous man.

'Hope so, I'm sure. He's just the fellow to do rash things and come to glory -- climbing the Matterhorn, taking a "header" into Niagara, or finding a big nugget. That's his way of sowing wild oats, and perhaps it's better than ours,' said Tom thoughtfully; for he had gained a good deal of experience in that sort of agriculture since he became a medical student.

'Much better!' said Mrs Jo emphatically. 'I'd rather send my boys off to see the world in that way than leave them alone in a city full of temptations, with nothing to do but waste time, money, and health, as so many are left. Dan has to work his way, and that teaches him courage, patience, and self-reliance. I don't worry about him as much as I do about George and Dolly at college, no more fit than two babies to take care of themselves.'

'How about John? He's knocking round town as a newspaper man, reporting all sorts of things, from sermons to prize-fights,' asked Tom, who thought that sort of life would be much more to his own taste than medical lectures and hospital wards.

'Demi has three safeguards -- good principles, refined tastes, and a wise mother. He won't come to harm, and these experiences will be useful to him when he begins to write, as I'm sure he will in time,' began Mrs Jo in her prophetic tone; for she was anxious to have some of her geese turn out swans.

'Speak of Jenkins, and you'll hear the rustling of his paper,' cried Tom, as a fresh-faced, brown-eyed young man came up the avenue, waving a newspaper over his head.

'Here's your Evening Tattler! Latest Edition! Awful murder! Bank clerk absconded! Powder-mill explosion, and great strike of the Latin School boys!' roared Ted, going to meet his cousin with the graceful gait of a young giraffe.

'The Commodore is in, and will cut his cable and run before the wind as soon as he can get off,' called Demi, with 'a nice derangement of nautical epitaphs', as he came up smiling over his good news.

Everyone talked together for a moment, and the paper passed from hand to hand that each eye might rest on the pleasant fact that the Brenda, from Hamburg, was safe in port.

'He'll come lurching out by tomorrow with his usual collection of marine monsters and lively yarns. I saw him, jolly and tarry and brown as a coffee-berry. Had a good run, and hopes to be second mate, as the other chap is laid up with a broken leg,' added Demi.

'Wish I had the setting of it,' said Nan to herself, with a professional twist of her hand.

'How's Franz?' asked Mrs Jo.

'He's going to be married! There's news for you. The first of the flock, Aunty, so say good-bye to him. Her name is Ludmilla Heldegard Blumenthal; good family, well-off, pretty, and of course an angel. The dear old boy wants Uncle's consent, and then he will settle down to be a happy and an honest burgher. Long life to him!'

'I'm glad to hear it. I do so like to settle my boys with a good wife and a nice little home. Now, if all is right, I shall feel as if Franz was off my mind,' said Mrs Jo, folding her hands contentedly; for she often felt like a distracted hen with a large brood of mixed chickens and ducks upon her hands.

'So do I,' sighed Tom, with a sly glance at Nan. 'That's what a fellow needs to keep him steady; and it's the duty of nice girls to marry as soon as possible, isn't it, Demi?'

'If there are enough nice fellows to go round. The female population exceeds the male, you know, especially in New England; which accounts for the high state of culture we are in, perhaps,' answered John, who was leaning over his mother's chair, telling his day's experiences in a whisper.

'It is a merciful provision, my dears; for it takes three or four women to get each man into, through, and out of the world. You are costly creatures, boys; and it is well that mothers, sisters, wives, and daughters love their duty and do it so well, or you would perish off the face of the earth,' said Mrs Jo solemnly, as she took up a basket filled with dilapidated hose; for the good Professor was still hard on his socks, and his sons resembled him in that respect.

'Such being the case, there is plenty for the "superfluous women" to do, in taking care of these helpless men and their families. I see that more clearly every day, and am very glad and grateful that my profession will make me a useful, happy, and independent spinster.'

Nan's emphasis on the last word caused Tom to groan, and the rest to laugh.

'I take great pride and solid satisfaction in you, Nan, and hope to see you very successful; for we do need just such helpful women in the world. I sometimes feel as if I've missed my vocation and ought to have remained single; but my duty seemed to point this way, and I don't regret it,' said Mrs Jo, folding a large and very ragged blue sock to her bosom.

'Neither do I. What should I ever have done without my dearest Mum?' added Ted, with a filial hug which caused both to disappear behind the newspaper in which he had been mercifully absorbed for a few minutes.

'My darling boy, if you would wash your hands semi-occasionally, fond caresses would be less disastrous to my collar. Never mind, my precious touslehead, better grass stains and dirt than no cuddlings at all'; and Mrs Jo emerged from that brief eclipse looking much refreshed, though her back hair was caught in Ted's buttons and her collar under one ear.

Here Josie, who had been studying her part at the other end of the piazza, suddenly burst forth with a smothered shriek, and gave Juliet's speech in the tomb so effectively that the boys applauded, Daisy shivered, and Nan murmured: 'Too much cerebral excitement for one of her age.'

'I'm afraid you'll have to make up your mind to it, Meg. That child is a born actress. We never did anything so well, not even the Witch's Curse,' said Mrs Jo, casting a bouquet of many-coloured socks at the feet of her flushed and panting niece, when she fell gracefully upon the door-mat.

'It is a sort of judgement upon me for my passion for the stage when a girl. Now I know how dear Marmee felt when I begged to be an actress. I never can consent, and yet I may be obliged to give up my wishes, hopes, and plans again.'

There was an accent of reproach in his mother's voice, which made Demi pick up his sister with a gentle shake, and the stern command to 'drop that nonsense in public'.

'Drop me, Minion, or I'll give you the Maniac Bride, with my best Ha-ha!' cried Josie, glaring at him like an offended kitten. Being set on her feet, she made a splendid courtesy, and dramatically proclaiming, 'Mrs Woffington's carriage waits,' swept down the steps and round the corner, trailing Daisy's scarlet shawl majestically behind her.

'Isn't she great fun? I couldn't stop in this dull place if I hadn't that child to make it lively for me. If ever she turns prim, I'm off; so mind how you nip her in the bud,' said Teddy, frowning at Demi, who was now writing out shorthand notes on the steps.

'You two are a team, and it takes a strong hand to drive you, but I rather like it. Josie ought to have been my child, and Rob yours, Meg. Then your house would have been all peace and mine all Bedlam. Now I must go and tell Laurie the news. Come with me, Meg, a little stroll will do us good'; and sticking Ted's straw hat on her head, Mrs Jo walked off with her sister, leaving Daisy to attend to the muffins, Ted to appease Josie, and Tom and Nan to give their respective patients a very bad quarter of an hour.



Chapter 2. PARNASSUS

It was well named; and the Muses seemed to be at home that day, for as the newcomers went up the slope appropriate sights and sounds greeted them. Passing an open window, they looked in upon a library presided over by Clio, Calliope, and Urania; Melpomene and Thalia were disporting themselves in the hall, where some young people were dancing and rehearsing a play; Erato was walking in the garden with her lover, and in the music-room Phoebus himself was drilling a tuneful choir.

A mature Apollo was our old friend Laurie, but comely and genial as ever; for time had ripened the freakish boy into a noble man. Care and sorrow, as well as ease and happiness, had done much for him; and the responsibility of carrying out his grandfather's wishes had been a duty most faithfully performed. Prosperity suits some people, and they blossom best in a glow of sunshine; others need the shade, and are the sweeter for a touch of frost. Laurie was one of the former sort, and Amy was another; so life had been a kind of poem to them since they married -- not only harmonious and happy, but earnest, useful, and rich in the beautiful benevolence which can do so much when wealth and wisdom go hand in hand with charity. Their house was full of unostentatious beauty and comfort, and here the art-loving host and hostess attracted and entertained artists of all kinds. Laurie had music enough now, and was a generous patron to the class he most liked to help. Amy had her proteges among ambitious young painters and sculptors, and found her own art double dear as her daughter grew old enough to share its labours and delights with her; for she was one of those who prove that women can be faithful wives and mothers without sacrificing the special gift bestowed upon them for their own development and the good of others.

Her sisters knew where to find her, and Jo went at once to the studio, where mother and daughter worked together. Bess was busy with the bust of a little child, while her mother added the last touches to a fine head of her husband. Time seemed to have stood still with Amy, for happiness had kept her young and prosperity given her the culture she needed. A stately, graceful woman, who showed how elegant simplicity could be made by the taste with which she chose her dress and the grace with which she wore it. As someone said: 'I never know what Mrs Laurence has on, but I always receive the impression that she is the best-dressed lady in the room.'

It was evident that she adored her daughter, and well she might; for the beauty she had longed for seemed, to her fond eyes at least, to be impersonated in this younger self. Bess inherited her mother's Diana-like figure, blue eyes, fair skin, and golden hair, tied up in the same classic knot of curls. Also -- ah! never-ending source of joy to Amy -- she had her father's handsome nose and mouth, cast in a feminine mould. The severe simplicity of a long linen pinafore suited her; and she worked away with the entire absorption of the true artist, unconscious of the loving eyes upon her, till Aunt Jo came in exclaiming eagerly:

'My dear girls, stop your mud-pies and hear the news!'

Both artists dropped their tools and greeted the irrepressible woman cordially, though genius had been burning splendidly and her coming spoilt a precious hour. They were in the full tide of gossip when Laurie, who had been summoned by Meg, arrived, and sitting down between the sisters, with no barricade anywhere, listened with interest to the news of Franz and Emil.

'The epidemic has broke out, and now it will rage and ravage your flock. Be prepared for every sort of romance and rashness for the next ten years, Jo. Your boys are growing up and will plunge headlong into a sea of worse scrapes than any you have had yet,' said Laurie, enjoying her look of mingled delight and despair.

'I know it, and I hope I shall be able to pull them through and land them safely; but it's an awful responsibility, for they will come to me and insist that I can make their poor little loves run smoothly. I like it, though, and Meg is such a mush of sentiment she revels in the prospect,' answered Jo, feeling pretty easy about her own boys, whose youth made them safe for the present.

'I'm afraid she won't revel when our Nat begins to buzz too near her Daisy. Of course you see what all that means? As musical director I am also his confidante, and would like to know what advice to give,' said Laurie soberly. 'Hush! you forget that child,' began Jo, nodding towards Bess, who was at work again.

'Bless you! she's in Athens, and doesn't hear a word. She ought to leave off, though, and go out. My darling, put the baby to sleep, and go for a run. Aunt Meg is in the parlour; go and show her the new pictures till we come,' added Laurie, looking at his tall girl as Pygmalion might have looked at Galatea; for he considered her the finest statue in the house.

'Yes, papa; but please tell me if it is good'; and Bess obediently put down her tools, with a lingering glance at the bust.

'My cherished daughter, truth compels me to confess that one cheek is plumper than the other; and the curls upon its infant brow are rather too much like horns for perfect grace; otherwise it rivals Raphael's Chanting Cherubs, and I'm proud of it.'

Laurie was laughing as he spoke; for these first attempts were so like Amy's early ones, it was impossible to regard them as soberly as the enthusiastic mamma did.

'You can't see beauty in anything but music,' answered Bess, shaking the golden head that made the one bright spot in the cool north lights of the great studio.

'Well, I see beauty in you, dear. And if you are not art, what is? I wish to put a little more nature into you, and get you away from this cold clay and marble into the sunshine, to dance and laugh as the others do. I want a flesh-and-blood girl, not a sweet statue in a grey pinafore, who forgets everything but her work.' As he spoke, two dusty hands came round his neck, and Bess said earnestly, punctuating her words with soft touches of her lips:

'I never forget you, papa; but I do want to do something beautiful that you may be proud of me by and by. Mamma often tells me to stop; but when we get in here we forget there is any world outside, we are so busy and so happy. Now I'll go and run and sing, and be a girl to please you.' And throwing away the apron, Bess vanished from the room, seeming to take all the light with her.

'I'm glad you said that. The dear child is too much absorbed in her artistic dreams for one so young. It is my fault; but I sympathize so deeply in it all, I forget to be wise,' sighed Amy, carefully covering the baby with a wet towel.

'I think this power of living in our children is one of the sweetest things in the world; but I try to remember what Marmee once said to Meg -- that fathers should have their share in the education of both girls and boys; so I leave Ted to his father all I can, and Fritz lends me Rob, whose quiet ways are as restful and good for me as Ted's tempests are for his father. Now I advise you, Amy, to let Bess drop the mud-pies for a time, and take up music with Laurie; then she won't be one-sided, and he won't be jealous.'

'Hear, hear! A Daniel -- a very Daniel!' cried Laurie, well pleased. 'I thought you'd lend a hand, Jo, and say a word for me. I am a little jealous of Amy, and want more of a share in my girl. Come, my lady, let me have her this summer, and next year, when we go to Rome, I'll give her up to you and high art. Isn't that a fair bargain?'

'I agree; but in trying your hobby, nature, with music thrown in, don't forget that, though only fifteen, our Bess is older than most girls of that age, and cannot be treated like a child. She is so very precious to me, I feel as if I wanted to keep her always as pure and beautiful as the marble she loves so well.'

Amy spoke regretfully as she looked about the lovely room where she had spent so many happy hours with this dear child of hers.

'"Turn and turn about is fair play", as we used to say when we all wanted to ride on Ellen Tree or wear the russet boots,' said Jo briskly; 'so you must share your girl between you, and see who will do the most for her.'

'We will,' answered the fond parents, laughing at the recollections Jo's proverb brought up to them.

'How I did use to enjoy bouncing on the limbs of that old apple-tree! No real horse ever gave me half the pleasure or the exercise,' said Amy, looking out of the high window as if she saw the dear old orchard again and the little girls at play there.

'And what fun I had with those blessed boots!' laughed Jo. 'I've got the relics now. The boys reduced them to rags; but I love them still, and would enjoy a good theatrical stalk in them if it were possible.'

'My fondest memories twine about the warming-pan and the sausage. What larks we had! And how long ago it seems!' said Laurie, staring at the two women before him as if he found it hard to realize that they ever had been little Amy and riotous Jo.

'Don't suggest that we are growing old, my Lord. We have only bloomed; and a very nice bouquet we make with our buds about us,' answered Mrs Amy, shaking out the folds of her rosy muslin with much the air of dainty satisfaction the girl used to show in a new dress.

'Not to mention our thorns and dead leaves,' added Jo, with a sigh; for life had never been very easy to her, and even now she had her troubles both within and without.

'Come and have a dish of tea, old dear, and see what the young folks are about. You are tired, and want to be "stayed with flagons and comforted with apples",' said Laurie, offering an arm to each sister, and leading them away to afternoon tea, which flowed as freely on Parnassus as the nectar of old.

They found Meg in the summer-parlour, an airy and delightful room, full now of afternoon sunshine and the rustle of trees; for the three long windows opened on the garden. The great music-room was at one end, and at the other, in a deep alcove hung with purple curtains, a little household shrine had been made. Three portraits hung there, two marble busts stood in the corners, and a couch, an oval table, with its urn of flowers, were the only articles of furniture the nook contained. The busts were John Brooke and Beth -- Amy's work -- both excellent likenesses, and both full of the placid beauty which always recalls the saying, that 'Clay represents life; plaster, death; marble, immortality'. On the right, as became the founder of the house, hung the portrait of Mr Laurence, with its expression of mingled pride and benevolence, as fresh and attractive as when he caught the girl Jo admiring it. Opposite was Aunt March -- a legacy to Amy -- in an imposing turban, immense sleeves, and long mittens decorously crossed on the front of her plum-coloured satin gown. Time had mellowed the severity of her aspect; and the fixed regard of the handsome old gentleman opposite seemed to account for the amiable simper on lips that had not uttered a sharp word for years.

In the place of honour, with the sunshine warm upon it, and a green garland always round it, was Marmee's beloved face, painted with grateful skill by a great artist whom she had befriended when poor and unknown. So beautifully lifelike was it that it seemed to smile down upon her daughters, saying cheerfully:

'Be happy; I am with you still.'

The three sisters stood a moment looking up at the beloved picture with eyes full of tender reverence and the longing that never left them; for this noble mother had been so much to them that no one could ever fill her place. Only two years since she had gone away to live and love anew, leaving such a sweet memory behind her that it was both an inspiration and a comforter to all the household. They felt this as they drew closer to one another, and Laurie put it into words as he said earnestly:

'I can ask nothing better for my child than that she may be a woman like our mother. Please God, she shall be, if I can do it; for I owe the best I have to this dear saint.'

Just then a fresh voice began to sing 'Ave Maria' in the music-room, and Bess unconsciously echoed her father's prayer for her as she dutifully obeyed his wishes. The soft sound of the air Marmee used to sing led the listeners back into the world again from that momentary reaching after the loved and lost, and they sat down together near the open windows enjoying the music, while Laurie brought them tea, making the little service pleasant by the tender care he gave to it.

Nat came in with Demi, soon followed by Ted and Josie, the Professor and his faithful Rob, all anxious to hear more about 'the boys'. The rattle of cups and tongues grew brisk, and the setting sun saw a cheerful company resting in the bright room after the varied labours of the day.

Professor Bhaer was grey now, but robust and genial as ever; for he had the work he loved, and did it so heartily that the whole college felt his beautiful influence. Rob was as much like him as it was possible for a boy to be, and was already called the 'young Professor', he so adored study and closely imitated his honoured father in all ways.

'Well, heart's dearest, we go to have our boys again, all two, and may rejoice greatly,' said Mr Bhaer, seating himself beside Jo with a beaming face and a handshake of congratulation.

'Oh, Fritz, I'm so delighted about Emil, and if you approve about Franz also. Did you know Ludmilla? Is it a wise match?' asked Mrs Jo, handing him her cup of tea and drawing closer, as if she welcomed her refuge in joy as well as sorrow.

'It all goes well. I saw the Madchen when I went over to place Franz. A child then, but most sweet and charming. Blumenthal is satisfied, I think, and the boy will be happy. He is too German to be content away from Vaterland, so we shall have him as a link between the new and the old, and that pleases me much.'

'And Emil, he is to be second mate next voyage; isn't that fine? I'm so happy that both your boys have done well; you gave up so much for them and their mother. You make light of it, dear, but I never forget it,' said Jo, with her hand in his as sentimentally as if she was a girl again and her Fritz had come a-wooing.

He laughed his cheery laugh, and whispered behind her fan: 'If I had not come to America for the poor lads, I never should have found my Jo. The hard times are very sweet now, and I bless Gott for all I seemed to lose, because I gained the blessing of my life.'

'Spooning! spooning! Here's an awful flirtation on the sly,' cried Teddy, peering over the fan just at that interesting moment, much to his mother's confusion and his father's amusement; for the Professor never was ashamed of the fact that he still considered his wife the dearest woman in the world. Rob promptly ejected his brother from one window, to see him skip in at the other, while Mrs Jo shut her fan and held it ready to rap her unruly boy's knuckles if he came near her again.

Nat approached in answer to Mr Bhaer's beckoning teaspoon, and stood before them with a face full of the respectful affection he felt for the excellent man who had done so much for him.

'I have the letters ready for thee, my son. They are two old friends of mine in Leipzig, who will befriend thee in that new life. It is well to have them, for thou wilt be heartbroken with Heimweh at the first, Nat, and need comforting,' said the Professor, giving him several letters.

'Thanks, sir. Yes, I expect to be pretty lonely till I get started, then my music and the hope of getting on will cheer me up,' answered Nat, who both longed and dreaded to leave all these friends behind him and make new ones.

He was a man now; but the blue eyes were as honest as ever, the mouth still a little weak, in spite of the carefully cherished moustache over it, and the broad forehead more plainly than ever betrayed the music-loving nature of the youth. Modest, affectionate, and dutiful, Nat was considered a pleasant though not a brilliant success by Mrs Jo. She loved and trusted him, and was sure he would do his best, but did not expect that he would be great in any way, unless the stimulus of foreign training and self-dependence made him a better artist and a stronger man than now seemed likely.

'I've marked all your things -- or rather, Daisy did -- and as soon as your books are collected, we can see about the packing,' said Mrs Jo, who was so used to fitting boys off for all quarters of the globe that a trip to the North Pole would not have been too much for her.

Nat grew red at mention of that name -- or was it the last glow of sunset on his rather pale cheek? -- and his heart beat happily at the thought of the dear girl working Ns and Bs on his humble socks and handkerchiefs; for Nat adored Daisy, and the cherished dream of his life was to earn a place for himself as a musician and win this angel for his wife. This hope did more for him than the Professor's counsels, Mrs Jo's care, or Mr Laurie's generous help. For her sake he worked, waited, and hoped, finding courage and patience in the dream of that happy future when Daisy should make a little home for him and he fiddle a fortune into her lap. Mrs Jo knew this; and though he was not exactly the man she would have chosen for her niece, she felt that Nat would always need just the wise and loving care Daisy could give him, and that without it there was danger of his being one of the amiable and aimless men who fail for want of the right pilot to steer them safely through the world. Mrs Meg decidedly frowned upon the poor boy's love, and would not hear of giving her dear girl to any but the best man to be found on the face of the earth. She was very kind, but as firm as such gentle souls can be; and Nat fled for comfort to Mrs Jo, who always espoused the interests of her boys heartily. A new set of anxieties was beginning now that the aforesaid boys were growing up, and she foresaw no end of worry as well as amusement in the love-affairs already budding in her flock. Mrs Meg was usually her best ally and adviser, for she loved romances as well now as when a blooming girl herself. But in this case she hardened her heart, and would not hear a word of entreaty. 'Nat was not man enough, never would be, no one knew his family, a musician's life was a hard one; Daisy was too young, five or six years hence when time had proved both perhaps. Let us see what absence will do for him.' And that was the end of it, for when the maternal Pelican was roused she could be very firm, though for her precious children she would have plucked her last feather and given the last drop of her blood.

Mrs Jo was thinking of this as she looked at Nat while he talked with her husband about Leipzig, and she resolved to have a clear understanding with him before he went; for she was used to confidences, and talked freely with her boys about the trials and temptations that beset all lives in the beginning, and so often mar them, for want of the right word at the right moment.

This is the first duty of parents, and no false delicacy should keep them from the watchful care, the gentle warning, which makes self-knowledge and self-control the compass and pilot of the young as they leave the safe harbour of home.

'Plato and his disciples approach,' announced irreverent Teddy, as Mr March came in with several young men and women about him; for the wise old man was universally beloved, and ministered so beautifully to his flock that many of them thanked him all their lives for the help given to both hearts and souls.

Bess went to him at once; for since Marmee died, Grandpapa was her special care, and it was sweet to see the golden head bend over the silver one as she rolled out his easy-chair and waited on him with tender alacrity.

'Aesthetic tea always on tap here, sir; will you have a flowing bowl or a bit of ambrosia?' asked Laurie, who was wandering about with a sugar-basin in one hand and a plate of cake in the other; for sweetening cups and feeding the hungry was work he loved.

'Neither, thanks; this child has taken care of me'; and Mr March turned to Bess, who sat on one arm of his chair, holding a glass of fresh milk.

'Long may she live to do it, sir, and I be here to see this pretty contradiction of the song that "youth and age cannot live together"!' answered Laurie, smiling at the pair. '"Crabbed age", papa; that makes all the difference in the world,' said Bess quickly; for she loved poetry, and read the best.

'Wouldst thou see fresh roses grow In a reverend bed of snow?'

quoted Mr March, as Josie came and perched on the other arm, looking like a very thorny little rose; for she had been having a hot discussion with Ted, and had got the worst of it.

'Grandpa, must women always obey men and say they are the wisest, just because they are the strongest?' she cried, looking fiercely at her cousin, who came stalking up with a provoking smile on the boyish face that was always very comical atop of that tall figure.

'Well, my dear, that is the old-fashioned belief, and it will take some time to change it. But I think the woman's hour has struck; and it looks to me as if the boys must do their best, for the girls are abreast now, and may reach the goal first,' answered Mr March, surveying with paternal satisfaction the bright faces of the young women, who were among the best students in the college.

'The poor little Atalantas are sadly distracted and delayed by the obstacles thrown in their way -- not golden apples, by any means -- but I think they will stand a fair chance when they have learned to run better,' laughed Uncle Laurie, stroking Josie's breezy hair, which stood up like the fur of an angry kitten.

'Whole barrels of apples won't stop me when I start, and a dozen Teds won't trip me up, though they may try. I'll show him that a woman can act as well, if not better, than a man. It has been done, and will be again; and I'll never own that my brain isn't as good as his, though it may be smaller,' cried the excited young person.

'If you shake your head in that violent way you'll addle what brains you have got; and I'd take care of 'em, if I were you,' began teasing Ted.

'What started this civil war?' asked Grandpapa, with a gentle emphasis on the adjective, which caused the combatants to calm their ardour a little.

'Why, we were pegging away at the Iliad and came to where Zeus tells Juno not to inquire into his plans or he'll whip her, and Jo was disgusted because Juno meekly hushed up. I said it was all right, and agreed with the old fellow that women didn't know much and ought to obey men,' explained Ted, to the great amusement of his hearers.

'Goddesses may do as they like, but those Greek and Trojan women were poor-spirited things if they minded men who couldn't fight their own battles and had to be hustled off by Pallas, and Venus, and Juno, when they were going to get beaten. The idea of two armies stopping and sitting down while a pair of heroes flung stones at one another! I don't think much of your old Homer. Give me Napoleon or Grant for my hero.'

Josie's scorn was as funny as if a humming-bird scolded at an ostrich, and everyone laughed as she sniffed at the immortal poet and criticized the gods.

'Napoleon's Juno had a nice time; didn't she? That's just the way girls argue -- first one way and then the other,' jeered Ted.

'Like Johnson's young lady, who was "not categorical, but all wiggle-waggle",' added Uncle Laurie, enjoying the battle immensely.

'I was only speaking of them as soldiers. But if you come to the woman side of it, wasn't Grant a kind husband and Mrs Grant a happy woman? He didn't threaten to whip her if she asked a natural question; and if Napoleon did do wrong about Josephine, he could fight, and didn't want any Minerva to come fussing over him. They were a stupid set, from dandified Paris to Achilles sulking in his ships, and I won't change my opinion for all the Hectors and Agamemnons in Greece,' said Josie, still unconquered.

'You can fight like a Trojan, that's evident; and we will be the two obedient armies looking on while you and Ted have it out,' began Uncle Laurie, assuming the attitude of a warrior leaning on his spear.

'I fear we must give it up, for Pallas is about to descend and carry off our Hector,' said Mr March, smiling, as Jo came to remind her son that suppertime was near.

'We will fight it out later when there are no goddesses to interfere,' said Teddy, as he turned away with unusual alacrity, remembering the treat in store.

'Conquered by a muffin, by Jove!' called Josie after him, exulting in an opportunity to use the classical exclamation forbidden to her sex.

But Ted shot a Parthian arrow as he retired in good order by replying, with a highly virtuous expression:

'Obedience is a soldier's first duty.'

Bent on her woman's privilege of having the last word, Josie ran after him, but never uttered the scathing speech upon her lips, for a very brown young man in a blue suit came leaping up the steps with a cheery 'Ahoy! ahoy! where is everybody?'

'Emil! Emil!' cried Josie, and in a moment Ted was upon him, and the late enemies ended their fray in a joyful welcome to the newcomer.

Muffins were forgotten, and towing their cousin like two fussy little tugs with a fine merchantman, the children returned to the parlour, where Emil kissed all the women and shook hands with all the men except his uncle; him he embraced in the good old German style, to the great delight of the observers.

'Didn't think I could get off today, but found I could, and steered straight for old Plum. Not a soul there, so I luffed and bore away for Parnassus, and here is every man Jack of you. Bless your hearts, how glad I am to see you all!' exclaimed the sailor boy, beaming at them, as he stood with his legs apart as if he still felt the rocking deck under his feet.

'You ought to "shiver your timbers", not "bless our hearts", Emil; it's not nautical at all. Oh, how nice and shippy and tarry you do smell!' said Josie, sniffing at him with great enjoyment of the fresh sea odours he brought with him. This was her favourite cousin, and she was his pet; so she knew that the bulging pockets of the blue jacket contained treasures for her at least.

'Avast, my hearty, and let me take soundings before you dive,' laughed Emil, understanding her affectionate caresses, and holding her off with one hand while with the other he rummaged out sundry foreign little boxes and parcels marked with different names, and handed them round with appropriate remarks, which caused much laughter; for Emil was a wag.

'There's a hawser that will hold our little cock-boat still about five minutes,' he said, throwing a necklace of pretty pink coral over Josie's head; 'and here's something the mermaids sent to Undine,' he added, handing Bess a string of pearly shells on a silver chain.

I thought Daisy would like a fiddle, and Nat can find her a beau,' continued the sailor, with a laugh, as he undid a dainty filigree brooch in the shape of a violin.

'I know she will, and I'll take it to her,' answered Nat, as he vanished, glad of an errand, and sure that he could find Daisy though Emil had missed her.

Emil chuckled, and handed out a quaintly carved bear whose head opened, showing a capacious ink-stand. This he presented, with a scrape, to Aunt Jo.

'Knowing your fondness for these fine animals, I brought this one to your pen.'

'Very good, Commodore! Try again,' said Mrs Jo, much pleased with her gift, which caused the Professor to prophesy 'works of Shakespeare' from its depths, so great would be the inspiration of the beloved bruin.

'As Aunt Meg will wear caps, in spite of her youth, I got Ludmilla to get me some bits of lace. Hope you'll like 'em'; and out of a soft paper came some filmy things, one of which soon lay like a net of snowflakes on Mrs Meg's pretty hair.

'I couldn't find anything swell enough for Aunt Amy, because she has everything she wants, so I brought a little picture that always makes me think of her when Bess was a baby'; and he handed her an oval ivory locket, on which was painted a goldenhaired Madonna, with a rosy child folded in her blue mantle.

'How lovely!' cried everyone; and Aunt Amy at once hung it about her neck on the blue ribbon from Bess's hair, charmed with her gift; for it recalled the happiest year of her life.

'Now, I flatter myself I've got just the thing for Nan, neat but not gaudy, a sort of sign you see, and very appropriate for a doctor,' said Emil, proudly displaying a pair of lava earrings shaped like little skulls.

'Horrid!' And Bess, who hated ugly things, turned her eyes to her own pretty shells.

'She won't wear earrings,' said Josie.

'Well, she'll enjoy punching your ears then. She's never so happy as when she's overhauling her fellow creatures and going for 'em with a knife,' answered Emil, undisturbed. 'I've got a lot of plunder for you fellows in my chest, but I knew I should have no peace till my cargo for the girls was unloaded. Now tell me all the news.' And, seated on Amy's best marbletopped table, the sailor swung his legs and talked at the rate of ten knots an hour, till Aunt Jo carried them all off to a grand family tea in honour of the Commodore.



Chapter 3. JO'S LAST SCRAPE

The March family had enjoyed a great many surprises in the course of their varied career, but the greatest of all was when the Ugly Duckling turned out to be, not a swan, but a golden goose, whose literary eggs found such an unexpected market that in ten years Jo's wildest and most cherished dream actually came true. How or why it happened she never clearly understood, but all of a sudden she found herself famous in a small way, and, better still, with a snug little fortune in her pocket to clear away the obstacles of the present and assure the future of her boys.

It began during a bad year when everything went wrong at Plumfield; times were hard, the school dwindled, Jo overworked herself and had a long illness; Laurie and Amy were abroad, and the Bhaers too proud to ask help even of those as near and dear as this generous pair. Confined to her room, Jo got desperate over the state of affairs, till she fell back upon the long-disused pen as the only thing she could do to help fill up the gaps in the income. A book for girls being wanted by a certain publisher, she hastily scribbled a little story describing a few scenes and adventures in the lives of herself and sisters, though boys were more in her line, and with very slight hopes of success sent it out to seek its fortune.

Things always went by contraries with Jo. Her first book, laboured over for years, and launched full of the high hopes and ambitious dreams of youth, foundered on its voyage, though the wreck continued to float long afterward, to the profit of the publisher at least. The hastily written story, sent away with no thought beyond the few dollars it might bring, sailed with a fair wind and a wise pilot at the helm into public favour, and came home heavily laden with an unexpected cargo of gold and glory.

A more astonished woman probably never existed than Josephine Bhaer when her little ship came into port with flags flying, cannon that had been silent before now booming gaily, and, better than all, many kind faces rejoicing with her, many friendly hands grasping hers with cordial congratulations. After that it was plain sailing, and she merely had to load her ships and send them off on prosperous trips, to bring home stores of comfort for all she loved and laboured for.

The fame she never did quite accept; for it takes very little fire to make a great deal of smoke nowadays, and notoriety is not real glory. The fortune she could not doubt, and gratefully received; though it was not half so large a one as a generous world reported it to be. The tide having turned continued to rise, and floated the family comfortably into a snug harbour where the older members could rest secure from storms, and whence the younger ones could launch their boats for the voyage of life.

All manner of happiness, peace, and plenty came in those years to bless the patient waiters, hopeful workers, and devout believers in the wisdom and justice of Him who sends disappointment, poverty, and sorrow to try the love of human hearts and make success the sweeter when it comes. The world saw the prosperity, and kind souls rejoiced over the improved fortunes of the family; but the success Jo valued most, the happiness that nothing could change or take away, few knew much about.

It was the power of making her mother's last years happy and serene; to see the burden of care laid down for ever, the weary hands at rest, the dear face untroubled by any anxiety, and the tender heart free to pour itself out in the wise charity which was its delight. As a girl, Jo's favourite plan had been a room where Marmee could sit in peace and enjoy herself after her hard, heroic life. Now the dream had become a happy fact, and Marmee sat in her pleasant chamber with every comfort and luxury about her, loving daughters to wait on her as infirmities increased, a faithful mate to lean upon, and grand-children to brighten the twilight of life with their dutiful affection. A very precious time to all, for she rejoiced as only mothers can in the good fortunes of their children. She had lived to reap the harvest she sowed; had seen prayers answered, hopes blossom, good gifts bear fruit, peace and prosperity bless the home she had made; and then, like some brave, patient angel, whose work was done, turned her face heavenward, glad to rest.

This was the sweet and sacred side of the change; but it had its droll and thorny one, as all things have in this curious world of ours. After the first surprise, incredulity, and joy, which came to Jo, with the ingratitude of human nature, she soon tired of renown, and began to resent her loss of liberty. For suddenly the admiring public took possession of her and all her affairs, past, present, and to come. Strangers demanded to look at her, question, advise, warn, congratulate, and drive her out of her wits by well-meant but very wearisome attentions. If she declined to open her heart to them, they reproached her; if she refused to endow her pet charities, relieve private wants, or sympathize with every ill and trial known to humanity, she was called hard-hearted, selfish, and haughty; if she found it impossible to answer the piles of letters sent her, she was neglectful of her duty to the admiring public; and if she preferred the privacy of home to the pedestal upon which she was requested to pose, 'the airs of literary people' were freely criticized.

She did her best for the children, they being the public for whom she wrote, and laboured stoutly to supply the demand always in the mouths of voracious youth -- 'More stories; more right away!' Her family objected to this devotion at their expense, and her health suffered; but for a time she gratefully offered herself up on the altar of juvenile literature, feeling that she owed a good deal to the little friends in whose sight she had found favour after twenty years of effort.

But a time came when her patience gave out; and wearying of being a lion, she became a bear in nature as in name, and returning to her den, growled awfully when ordered out. Her family enjoyed the fun, and had small sympathy with her trials, but Jo came to consider it the worse scrape of her life; for liberty had always been her dearest possession, and it seemed to be fast going from her. Living in a lantern soon loses its charm, and she was too old, too tired, and too busy to like it. She felt that she had done all that could reasonably be required of her when autographs, photographs, and autobiographical sketches had been sown broadcast over the land; when artists had taken her home in all its aspects, and reporters had taken her in the grim one she always assumed on these trying occasions; when a series of enthusiastic boarding-schools had ravaged her grounds for trophies, and a steady stream of amiable pilgrims had worn her doorsteps with their respectful feet; when servants left after a week's trial of the bell that rang all day; when her husband was forced to guard her at meals, and the boys to cover her retreat out of back windows on certain occasions when enterprising guests walked in unannounced at unfortunate moments.

A sketch of one day may perhaps explain the state of things, offer some excuse for the unhappy woman, and give a hint to the autograph-fiend now rampant in the land; for it is a true tale.

'There ought to be a law to protect unfortunate authors,' said Mrs Jo one morning soon after Emil's arrival, when the mail brought her an unusually large and varied assortment of letters. 'To me it is a more vital subject than international copyright; for time is money, peace is health, and I lose both with no return but less respect for my fellow creatures and a wild desire to fly into the wilderness, since I cannot shut my doors even in free America.'

'Lion-hunters are awful when in search of their prey. If they could change places for a while it would do them good; and they'd see what bores they were when they "do themselves the honour of calling to express their admiration of our charming work",' quoted Ted, with a bow to his parent, now frowning over twelve requests for autographs.

'I have made up my mind on one point,' said Mrs Jo with great firmness. 'I will not answer this kind of letter. I've sent at least six to this boy, and he probably sells them. This girl writes from a seminary, and if I send her one all the other girls will at once write for more. All begin by saying they know they intrude, and that I am of course annoyed by these requests; but they venture to ask because I like boys, or they like the books, or it is only one. Emerson and Whittier put these things in the wastepaper-basket; and though only a literary nursery-maid who provides moral pap for the young, I will follow their illustrious example; for I shall have no time to eat or sleep if I try to satisfy these dear unreasonable children'; and Mrs Jo swept away the entire batch with a sigh of relief.

'I'll open the others and let you eat your breakfast in peace, liebe Mutter,' said Rob, who often acted as her secretary. 'Here's one from the South'; and breaking an imposing seal, he read:

'MADAM, As it has pleased Heaven to bless your efforts with a large fortune, I feel no hesitation in asking you to supply funds to purchase a new communion-service for our church. To whatever denomination you belong, you will of course respond with liberality to such a request,

'Respectfully yours,

'Mrs X.Y. Zavier'


'Send a civil refusal, dear. All I have to give must go to feed and clothe the poor at my gates. That is my thank-offering for success. Go on,' answered his mother, with a grateful glance about her happy home.

'A literary youth of eighteen proposes that you put your name to a novel he has written; and after the first edition your name is to be taken off and his put on. There's a cool proposal for you. I guess you won't agree to that, in spite of your soft-heartedness towards most of the young scribblers.'

'Couldn't be done. Tell him so kindly, and don't let him send the manuscript. I have seven on hand now, and barely time to read my own,' said Mrs Jo, pensively fishing a small letter out of the slop-bowl and opening it with care, because the down-hill address suggested that a child wrote it.

'I will answer this myself. A little sick girl wants a book, and she shall have it, but I can't write sequels to all the rest to please her. I should never come to an end if I tried to suit these voracious little Oliver Twists, clamouring for more. What next, Robin?'

'This is short and sweet.

'DEAR MRS BHAER, I am now going to give you my opinion of your works. I have read them all many times, and call them first-rate. Please go ahead.

'Your admirer,

'Billy Babcock'



'Now that is what I like. Billy is a man of sense and a critic worth having, since he had read my works many times before expressing his opinion. He asks for no answer, so send my thanks and regards.'

'Here's a lady in England with seven girls, and she wishes to know your views upon education. Also what careers they shall follow the oldest being twelve. Don't wonder she's worried,' laughed Rob.

'I'll try to answer it. But as I have no girls, my opinion isn't worth much and will probably shock her, as I shall tell her to let them run and play and build up good, stout bodies before she talks about careers. They will soon show what they want, if they are let alone, and not all run in the same mould.'

'Here's a fellow who wants to know what sort of a girl he shall marry, and if you know of any like those in your stories.'

'Give him Nan's address, and see what he'll get,' proposed Ted, privately resolving to do it himself if possible.

'This is from a lady who wants you to adopt her child and lend her money to study art abroad for a few years. Better take it, and try your hand at a girl, mother.'

'No, thank you, I will keep to my own line of business. What is that blotted one? It looks rather awful, to judge by the ink,' asked Mrs Jo, who beguiled her daily task by trying to guess from the outside what was inside her many letters. This proved to be a poem from an insane admirer, to judge by its incoherent style.



'To J.M.B.

'Oh, were I a heliotrope, I would play poet, And blow a breeze of fragrance To you; and none should know it.

'Your form like the stately elm When Phoebus gilds the morning ray; Your cheeks like the ocean bed That blooms a rose in May.

'Your words are wise and bright, I bequeath them to you a legacy given; And when your spirit takes its flight, May it bloom aflower in heaven.

'My tongue in flattering language spoke, And sweeter silence never broke in busiest street or loneliest glen. I take you with the flashes of my pen.

'Consider the lilies, how they grow; They toil not, yet are fair, Gems and flowers and Solomon's seal. The geranium of the world is J. M. Bhaer.

'James'



While the boys shouted over this effusion -- which is a true one -- their mother read several liberal offers from budding magazines for her to edit them gratis; one long letter from a young girl inconsolable because her favourite hero died, and 'would dear Mrs Bhaer rewrite the tale, and make it end good?' another from an irate boy denied an autograph, who darkly foretold financial ruin and loss of favour if she did not send him and all other fellows who asked autographs, photographs, and auto-biographical sketches; a minister wished to know her religion; and an undecided maiden asked which of her two lovers she should marry. These samples will suffice to show a few of the claims made on a busy woman's time, and make my readers pardon Mrs Jo if she did not carefully reply to all.

'That job is done. Now I will dust a bit, and then go to my work. I'm all behind-hand, and serials can't wait; so deny me to everybody, Mary. I won't see Queen Victoria if she comes today.' And Mrs Bhaer threw down her napkin as if defying all creation.

'I hope the day will go well with thee, my dearest,' answered her husband, who had been busy with his own voluminous correspondence. 'I will dine at college with Professor Plock, who is to visit us today. The Junglings can lunch on Parnassus; so thou shalt have a quiet time.' And smoothing the worried lines out of her forehead with his good-bye kiss, the excellent man marched away, both pockets full of books, an old umbrella in one hand, and a bag of stones for the geology class in the other.

'If all literary women had such thoughtful angels for husbands, they would live longer and write more. Perhaps that wouldn't be a blessing to the world though, as most of us write too much now,' said Mrs Jo, waving her feather duster to her spouse, who responded with flourishes of the umbrella as he went down the avenue.

Rob started for school at the same time, looking so much like him with his books and bag and square shoulders and steady air that his mother laughed as she turned away, saying heartily: 'Bless both my dear professors, for better creatures never lived!'

Emil was already gone to his ship in the city; but Ted lingered to steal the address he wanted, ravage the sugar-bowl, and talk with 'Mum'; for the two had great larks together. Mrs Jo always arranged her own parlour, refilled her vases, and gave the little touches that left it cool and neat for the day. Going to draw down the curtain, she beheld an artist sketching on the lawn, and groaned as she hastily retired to the back window to shake her duster.

At that moment the bell rang and the sound of wheels was heard in the road.

'I'll go; Mary lets 'em in'; and Ted smoothed his hair as he made for the hall.

'Can't see anyone. Give me a chance to fly upstairs,' whispered Mrs Jo, preparing to escape. But before she could do so, a man appeared at the door with a card in his hand. Ted met him with a stern air, and his mother dodged behind the window-curtains to bide her time for escape.

'I am doing a series of articles for the Saturday Tattler, and I called to see Mrs Bhaer the first of all,' began the newcomer in the insinuating tone of his tribe, while his quick eyes were taking in all they could, experience having taught him to make the most of his time, as his visits were usually short ones.

'Mrs Bhaer never sees reporters, sir.'

'But a few moments will be all I ask,' said the man, edging his way farther in.

'You can't see her, for she is out,' replied Teddy, as a backward glance showed him that his unhappy parent had vanished -- through the window, he supposed, as she sometimes did when hard bestead.

'Very sorry. I'll call again. Is this her study? Charming room!' And the intruder fell back on the parlour, bound to see something and bag a fact if he died in the attempt. 'It is not,' said Teddy, gently but firmly backing him down the hall, devoutly hoping that his mother had escaped round the corner of the house.

'If you could tell me Mrs Bhaer's age and birthplace, date of marriage, and number of children, I should be much obliged,' continued the unabashed visitor as he tripped over the door-mat.

'She is about sixty, born in Nova Zembla, married just forty years ago today, and has eleven daughters. Anything else, sir?' And Ted's sober face was such a funny contrast to his ridiculous reply that the reporter owned himself routed, and retired laughing just as a lady followed by three beaming girls came up the steps.

'We are all the way from Oshkosh, and couldn't go home without seein' dear Aunt Jo. My girls just admire her works, and lot on gettin' a sight of her. I know it's early; but we are goin' to see Holmes and Longfeller, and the rest of the celebrities, so we ran out here fust thing. Mrs Erastus Kingsbury Parmalee, of Oshkosh, tell her. We don't mind waitin'; we can look round a spell if she ain't ready to see folks yet.'

All this was uttered with such rapidity that Ted could only stand gazing at the buxom damsels, who fixed their six blue eyes upon him so beseechingly that his native gallantry made it impossible to deny them a civil reply at least.

'Mrs Bhaer is not visible today -- out just now, I believe; but you can see the house and grounds if you like,' he murmured, falling back as the four pressed in gazing rapturously about them.

'Oh, thank you! Sweet, pretty place I'm sure! That's where she writes, ain't it? Do tell me if that's her picture! Looks just as I imagined her!'

With these remarks the ladies paused before a fine engraving of the Hon. Mrs Norton, with a pen in her hand and a rapt expression of countenance, likewise a diadem and pearl necklace.

Keeping his gravity with an effort, Teddy pointed to a very bad portrait of Mrs Jo, which hung behind the door, and afforded her much amusement, it was so dismal, in spite of a curious effect of light upon the end of the nose and cheeks as red as the chair she sat in.

'This was taken for my mother; but it is not very good,' he said, enjoying the struggles of the girls not to look dismayed at the sad difference between the real and the ideal. The youngest, aged twelve, could not conceal her disappointment, and turned away, feeling as so many of us have felt when we discover that our idols are very ordinary men and women.

'I thought she'd be about sixteen and have her hair braided in two tails down her back. I don't care about seeing her now,' said the honest child, walking off to the hall door, leaving her mother to apologize, and her sisters to declare that the bad portrait was 'perfectly lovely, so speaking and poetic, you know, 'specially about the brow'.

'Come girls, we must be goin', if we want to get through today. You can leave your albums and have them sent when Mrs Bhaer has written a sentiment in 'em. We are a thousand times obliged. Give our best love to your ma, and tell her we are so sorry not to see her.' Just as Mrs. Erastus Kingsbury Parmalee uttered the words her eye fell upon a middle-aged woman in a large checked apron, with a handkerchief tied over her head, busily dusting an end room which looked like a study.

'One peep at her sanctum since she is out,' cried the enthusiastic lady, and swept across the hall with her flock before Teddy could warn his mother, whose retreat had been cut off by the artist in front, the reporter at the back of the house -- for he hadn't gone and the ladies in the hall.

'They've got her!' thought Teddy, in comical dismay. 'No use for her to play housemaid since they've seen the portrait.'

Mrs Jo did her best, and being a good actress, would have escaped if the fatal picture had not betrayed her. Mrs Parmalee paused at the desk, and regardless of the meerschaum that lay there, the man's slippers close by, and a pile of letters directed to 'Prof. F. Bhaer', she clasped her hands, exclaiming impressively: 'Girls, this is the spot where she wrote those sweet, those moral tales which have thrilled us to the soul! Could I -- ah, could I take one morsel of paper, an old pen, a postage stamp even, as a memento of this gifted woman?'

'Yes'm, help yourselves,' replied the maid, moving away with a glance at the boy, whose eyes were now full of merriment he could not suppress.

The oldest girl saw it, guessed the truth, and a quick look at the woman in the apron confirmed her suspicion. Touching her mother, she whispered: 'Ma, it's Mrs Bhaer herself. I know it is.'

'No? yes? it is! Well, I do declare, how nice that is!' And hastily pursuing the unhappy woman, who was making for the door, Mrs Parmalee cried eagerly:

'Don't mind us! I know you're busy, but just let me take your hand and then we'll go.'

Giving herself up for lost, Mrs Jo turned and presented her hand like a tea-tray, submitting to have it heartily shaken, as the matron said, with somewhat alarming hospitality:

'If ever you come to Oshkosh, your feet won't be allowed to touch the pavement; for you'll be borne in the arms of the populace, we shall be so dreadful glad to see you.'

Mentally resolving never to visit that effusive town, Jo responded as cordially as she could; and having written her name in the albums, provided each visitor with a memento, and kissed them all round, they at last departed, to call on 'Longfeller, Holmes, and the rest' -- who were all out, it is devoutly to be hoped.

'You villain, why didn't you give me a chance to whip away? Oh, my dear, what fibs you told that man! I hope we shall be forgiven our sins in this line, but I don't know what is to become of us if we don't dodge. So many against one isn't fair play.' And Mrs Jo hung up her apron in the hall closet, with a groan at the trials of her lot.

'More people coming up the avenue! Better dodge while the coast is clear! I'll head them off!' cried Teddy, looking back from the steps, as he was departing to school.

Mrs Jo flew upstairs, and having locked her door, calmly viewed a young ladies' seminary camp on the lawn, and being denied the house, proceed to enjoy themselves by picking the flowers, doing up their hair, eating lunch, and freely expressing their opinion of the place and its possessors before they went.

A few hours of quiet followed, and she was just settling down to a long afternoon of hard work, when Rob came home to tell her that the Young Men's Christian Union would visit the college, and two or three of the fellows whom she knew wanted to pay their respects to her on the way.

'It is going to rain, so they won't come, I dare say; but father thought you'd like to be ready, in case they do call. You always see the boys, you know, though you harden your heart to the poor girls,' said Rob, who had heard from his brother about the morning visitations.

'Boys don't gush, so I can stand it. The last time I let in a party of girls one fell into my arms and said, "Darling, love me!" I wanted to shake her,' answered Mrs Jo, wiping her pen with energy.

'You may be sure the fellows won't do it, but they will want autographs, so you'd better be prepared with a few dozen,' said Rob, laying out a quire of notepaper, being a hospitable youth and sympathizing with those who admired his mother.

'They can't outdo the girls. At X College I really believe I wrote three hundred during the day I was there, and I left a pile of cards and albums on my table when I came away. It is one of the most absurd and tiresome manias that ever afflicted the world.'

Nevertheless Mrs Jo wrote her name a dozen times, put on her black silk, and resigned herself to the impending call, praying for rain, however, as she returned to her work.

The shower came, and feeling quite secure, she rumpled up her hair, took off her cuffs, and hurried to finish her chapter; for thirty pages a day was her task, and she liked to have it well done before evening. Josie had brought some flowers for the vases, and was just putting the last touches when she saw several umbrellas bobbing down the hill.

'They are coming, Aunty! I see uncle hurrying across the field to receive them,' she called at the stair-foot.

'Keep an eye on them, and let me know when they enter the avenue. It will take but a minute to tidy up and run down,' answered Mrs Jo, scribbling away for dear life, because serials wait for no man, not even the whole Christian Union en masse.

'There are more than two or three. I see half a dozen at least,' called sister Ann from the hall door. 'No! a dozen, I do believe; Aunty, look out; they are all coming! What shall we do?' And Josie quailed at the idea of facing the black throng rapidly approaching.

'Mercy on us, there are hundreds! Run and put a tub in the back entry for their umbrellas to drip into. Tell them to go down the hall and leave them, and pile their hats on the table; the tree won't hold them all. No use to get mats; my poor carpets!' And down went Mrs Jo to prepare for the invasion, while Josie and the maids flew about dismayed at the prospect of so many muddy boots.

On they came, a long line of umbrellas, with splashed legs and flushed faces underneath; for the gentlemen had been having a good time all over the town, undisturbed by the rain. Professor Bhaer met them at the gate, and was making a little speech of welcome, when Mrs Jo, touched by their bedraggled state, appeared at the door, beckoning them in. Leaving their host to orate bareheaded in the wet, the young men hastened up the steps, merry, warm, and eager, clutching off their hats as they came, and struggling with their umbrellas, as the order was passed to march in and stack arms.

Tramp, tramp, tramp, down the hall went seventy-five pairs of boots; soon seventy-five umbrellas dripped sociably in the hospitable tub, while their owners swarmed all over the lower part of the house; and seventy-five hearty hands were shaken by the hostess without a murmur, though some were wet, some very warm, and nearly all bore trophies of the day's ramble. One impetuous party flourished a small turtle as he made his compliments; another had a load of sticks cut from noted spots; and all begged for some memento of Plumfield. A pile of cards mysteriously appeared on the table, with a written request for autographs; and despite her morning vow, Mrs Jo wrote everyone, while her husband and boys did the honours of the house.

Josie fled to the back parlour, but was discovered by exploring youths, and mortally insulted by one of them, who innocently inquired if she was Mrs Bhaer. The reception did not last long, and the end was better than the beginning; for the rain ceased, and a rainbow shone beautifully over them as the good fellows stood upon the lawn singing sweetly for a farewell. A happy omen, that bow of promise arched over the young heads, as if Heaven smiled upon their union, and showed them that above the muddy earth and rainy skies the blessed sun still shone for all. Three cheers, and then away they went, leaving a pleasant recollection of their visit to amuse the family as they scraped the mud off the carpets with shovels and emptied the tub half-full of water.

'Nice, honest, hard-working fellows, and I don't begrudge my half-hour at all; but I must finish, so don't let anyone disturb me till tea-time,' said Mrs Jo, leaving Mary to shut up the house; for papa and the boys had gone off with the guests, and Josie had run home to tell her mother about the fun at Aunt Jo's.

Peace reigned for an hour, then the bell rang and Mary came giggling up to say: 'A queer kind of a lady wants to know if she can catch a grasshopper in the garden.'

'A what?' cried Mrs Jo, dropping her pen with a blot; for of all the odd requests ever made, this was the oddest.

'A grasshopper, ma'am. I said you was busy, and asked what she wanted, and says she: "I've got grasshoppers from the grounds of several famous folks, and I want one from Plumfield to add to my collection." Did you ever?' And Mary giggled again at the idea.

'Tell her to take all there are and welcome. I shall be glad to get rid of them; always bouncing in my face and getting in my dress,' laughed Mrs Jo.

Mary retired, to return in a moment nearly speechless with merriment.

'She's much obliged, ma'am, and she'd like an old gown or a pair of stockings of yours to put in a rug she's making. Got a vest of Emerson's, she says, and a pair of Mr. Holmes's trousers, and a dress of Mrs Stowe's. She must be crazy!'

'Give her that old red shawl, then I shall make a gay show among the great ones in that astonishing rug. Yes, they are all lunatics, these lion-hunters; but this seems to be a harmless maniac, for she doesn't take my time, and gives me a good laugh,' said Mrs Jo, returning to her work after a glance from the window, which showed her a tall, thin lady in rusty black, skipping wildly to and fro on the lawn in pursuit of the lively insect she wanted.

No more interruptions till the light began to fade, then Mary popped her head in to say a gentleman wished to see Mrs Bhaer, and wouldn't take no for an answer.

'He must. I shall not go down. This has been an awful day, and I won't be disturbed again,' replied the harassed authoress, pausing in the midst of the grand finale of her chapter.

'I told him so, ma'am; but he walked right in as bold as brass. I guess he's another crazy one, and I declare I'm 'most afraid of him, he's so big and black, and cool as cucumbers, though I will say he's good-looking,' added Mary, with a simper; for the stranger had evidently found favour in her sight despite his boldness.

'My day has been ruined, and I will have this last half-hour to finish. Tell him to go away; I won't go down,' cried Mrs Jo, fiercely.

Mary went; and listening, in spite of herself, her mistress heard first a murmur of voices, then a cry from Mary, and remembering the ways of reporters, also that her maid was both pretty and timid, Mrs Bhaer flung down her pen and went to the rescue. Descending with her most majestic air she demanded in an awe-inspiring voice, as she paused to survey the somewhat brigandish intruder, who seemed to be storming the staircase which Mary was gallantly defending:

'Who is this person who insists on remaining when I have declined to see him?'

'I'm sure I don't know, ma'am. He won't give no name, and says you'll be sorry if you don't see him,' answered Mary, retiring flushed and indignant from her post.

'Won't you be sorry?' asked the stranger, looking up with a pair of black eyes full of laughter, the flash of white teeth through a long beard, and both hands out as he boldly approached the irate lady.

Mrs Jo gave one keen look, for the voice was familiar; then completed Mary's bewilderment by throwing both arms round the brigand's neck, exclaiming joyfully: 'My dearest boy, where did you come from?'

'California, on purpose to see you, Mother Bhaer. Now won't you be sorry if I go away?' answered Dan, with a hearty kiss.

'To think of my ordering you out of the house when I've been longing to see you for a year,' laughed Mrs Jo, and she went down to have a good talk with her returned wanderer, who enjoyed the joke immensely.



Chapter 4. DAN

Mrs Jo often thought that Dan had Indian blood in him, not only because of his love of a wild, wandering life, but his appearance; for as he grew up, this became more striking. At twenty-five he was very tall, with sinewy limbs, a keen, dark face, and the alert look of one whose senses were all alive; rough in manner, full of energy, quick with word and blow, eyes full of the old fire, always watchful as if used to keep guard, and a general air of vigour and freshness very charming to those who knew the dangers and delights of his adventurous life. He was looking his best as he sat talking with 'Mother Bhaer', one strong brown hand in hers, and a world of affection in his voice as he said:

'Forget old friends! How could I forget the only home I ever knew? Why, I was in such a hurry to come and tell my good luck that I didn't stop to fix up, you see; though I knew you'd think I looked more like a wild buffalo than ever,' with a shake of his shaggy black head, a tug at his beard, and a laugh that made the room ring.

'I like it; I always had a fancy for banditti -- and you look just like one. Mary, being a newcomer, was frightened at your looks and manners. Josie won't know you, but Ted will recognize his Danny in spite of the big beard and flowing mane. They will all be here soon to welcome you; so before they come tell me more about yourself. Why, Dan, dear! it's nearly two years since you were here! Has it gone well with you?' asked Mrs Jo, who had been listening with maternal interest to his account of life in California, and the unexpected success of a small investment he had made.

'First-rate! I don't care for the money, you know. I only want a trifle to pay my way -- rather earn as I go, and not be bothered with the care of a lot. It's the fun of the thing coming to me, and my being able to give away, that I like. No use to lay up; I shan't live to be old and need it, -- my sort never do,' said Dan, looking as if his little fortune rather oppressed him.

'But if you marry and settle somewhere, as I hope you will, you must have something to begin with, my son. So be prudent and invest your money; don't give it away, for rainy days come to all of us, and dependence would be very hard for you to bear,' answered Mrs Jo with a sage air, though she liked to see that the money-making fever had not seized her lucky boy yet.

Dan shook his head, and glanced about the room as if he already found it rather confined and longed for all out-of-doors again.

'Who would marry a jack-o'-lantern like me? Women like a steady-going man; I shall never be that.'

'My dear boy, when I was a girl I liked just such adventurous fellows as you are. Anything fresh and daring, free and romantic, is always attractive to us womenfolk. Don't be discouraged; you'll find an anchor some day, and be content to take shorter voyages and bring home a good cargo.'

'What should you say if I brought you an Indian squaw some day?' asked Dan, with a glimmer of mischief in the eyes that rested on a marble bust of Galatea gleaming white and lovely in the corner.

'Welcome her heartily, if she was a good one. Is there a prospect of it?' and Mrs Jo peered at him with the interest which even literary ladies take in love affairs.

'Not at present, thank you. I'm too busy "to gallivant", as Ted calls it. How is the boy?' asked Dan, skilfully turning the conversation, as if he had had enough of sentiment.

Mrs Jo was off at once, and expatiated upon the talents and virtues of her sons till they came bursting in and fell upon Dan like two affectionate young bears, finding a vent for their joyful emotions in a sort of friendly wrestling-match; in which both got worsted, of course, for the hunter soon settled them. The Professor followed, and tongues went like mill-clappers while Mary lighted up and cook devoted herself to an unusually good supper, instinctively divining that this guest was a welcome one.

After tea Dan was walking up and down the long rooms as he talked, with occasional trips into the hall for a fresher breath of air, his lungs seeming to need more than those of civilized people. In one of these trips he saw a white figure framed in the dark doorway, and paused to look at it. Bess paused also, not recognizing her old friend, and quite unconscious of the pretty picture she made standing, tall and slender, against the soft gloom of the summer night, with her golden hair like a halo round her head, and the ends of a white shawl blown out like wings by the cool wind sweeping through the hail. 'Is it Dan?' she asked, coming in with a gracious smile and outstretched hand.

'Looks like it; but I didn't know you, Princess. I thought it was a spirit,' answered Dan, looking down at her with a curious softness and wonder in his face.

'I've grown very much, but two years have changed you entirely'; and Bess looked up with girlish pleasure at the picturesque figure before her -- for it was a decided contrast to the well-dressed people about her.

Before they could say more, Josie rushed in, and, forgetfull of the newly acquired dignity of her teens, let Dan catch her up and kiss her like a child. Not till he set her down did he discover she also was changed, and exclaimed in comic dismay:

'Hallo! Why, you are growing up too! What am I going to do, with no young one to play with? Here's Ted going it like a beanstalk, and Bess a young lady, and even you, my mustard-seed, letting down your frocks and putting on airs.'

The girls laughed, and Josie blushed as she stared at the tall man, conscious that she had leaped before she looked. They made a pretty contrast, these two young cousins -- one as fair as a lily, the other a little wild rose. And Dan gave a nod of satisfaction as he surveyed them; for he had seen many bonny girls in his travels, and was glad that these old friends were blooming so beautifully.

'Here! we can't allow any monopoly of Dan!' called Mrs Jo. 'Bring him back and keep an eye on him, or he will be slipping off for another little run of a year or two before we have half seen him.'

Led by these agreeable captors, Dan returned to the parlour to receive a scolding from Josie for getting ahead of all the other boys and looking like a man first.

'Emil is older; but he's only a boy, and dances jigs and sings sailor songs just as he used to. You look about thirty, and as big and black as a villain in a play. Oh, I've got a splendid idea! You are just the thing for Arbaces in The Last Days of Pompeii. We want to act it; have the lion and the gladiators and the eruption. Tom and Ted are going to shower bushels of ashes down and roll barrels of stones about. We wanted a dark man for the Egyptian; and you will be gorgeous in red and white shawls. Won't he, Aunt Jo?'

This deluge of words made Dan clap his hands over his ears; and before Mrs Bhaer could answer her impetuous niece the Laurences, with Meg and her family, arrived, soon followed by Tom and Nan, and all sat down to listen to Dan's adventures -- told in brief yet effective manner, as the varying expressions of interest, wonder, merriment, and suspense painted on the circle of faces round him plainly showed. The boys all wanted to start at once for California and make fortunes; the girls could hardly wait for the curious and pretty things he had picked up for them in his travels; while the elders rejoiced heartily over the energy and good prospects of their wild boy.

'Of course you will want to go back for another stroke of luck; and I hope you will have it. But speculation is a dangerous game, and you may lose all you've won,' said Mr Laurie, who had enjoyed the stirring tale as much as any of the boys, and would have liked to rough it with Dan as well as they.

'I've had enough of it, for a while at least; too much like gambling. The excitement is all I care for, and it isn't good for me. I have a notion to try farming out West. It's grand on a large scale; and I feel as if steady work would be rather jolly after loafing round so long. I can make a beginning, and you can send me your black sheep to stock my place with. I tried sheep-farming in Australia, and know something about black ones, any way.'

A laugh chased away the sober look in Dan's face as he ended; and those who knew him best guessed that he had learned a lesson there in San Francisco, and dared not try again.

'That is a capital idea, Dan!' cried Mrs Jo, seeing great hope in this desire to fix himself somewhere and help others. 'We shall know where you are, and can go and see you, and not have half the world between us. I'll send my Ted for a visit. He's such a restless spirit, it would do him good. With you he would be safe while he worked off his surplus energies and learned a wholesome business.'

'I'll use the "shubble and de hoe" like a good one, if I get a chance out there; but the Speranza mines sound rather jollier,' said Ted, examining the samples of ore Dan had brought for the Professor.

'You go and start a new town, and when we are ready to swarm we will come out and settle there. You will want a newspaper very soon, and I like the idea of running one myself much better than grinding away as I do now,' observed Demi, panting to distinguish himself in the journalistic line.

'We could easily plant a new college there. These sturdy Westerners are hungry for learning, and very quick to see and choose the best,' added ever-young Mr March, beholding with his prophetic eye many duplicates of their own flourishing establishment springing up in the wide West.

'Go on, Dan. It is a fine plan, and we will back you up. I shouldn't mind investing in a few prairies and cowboys myself,' said Mr Laurie, always ready to help the lads to help themselves, both by his cheery words and ever-open purse.

'A little money sort of ballasts a fellow, and investing it in land anchors him -- for a while, at least. I'd like to see what I can do, but I thought I'd consult you before I decided. Have my doubts about it suiting me for many years; but I can cut loose when I'm tired,' answered Dan, both touched and pleased at the eager interest of these friends in his plans.

'I know you won't like it. After having the whole world to roam over, one farm will seem dreadfully small and stupid,' said Josie, who much preferred the romance of the wandering life which brought her thrilling tales and pretty things at each return.

'Is there any art out there?' asked Bess, thinking what a good study in black and white Dan would make as he stood talking, half turned from the light.

'Plenty of nature, dear; and that is better. You will find splendid animals to model, and scenery such as you never saw in Europe to paint. Even prosaic pumpkins are grand out there. You can play Cinderella in one of them, Josie, when you open your theatre in Dansville,' said Mr Laurie, anxious that no cold water should be thrown on the new plan.

Stage-struck Josie was caught at once, and being promised all the tragic parts on the yet unbuilt stage, she felt a deep interest in the project and begged Dan to lose no time in beginning his experiment. Bess also confessed that studies from nature would be good for her, and wild scenery improve her taste, which might grow over-nice if only the delicate and beautiful were set before her.

'I speak for the practice of the new town,' said Nan, always eager for fresh enterprises. 'I shall be ready by the time you get well started -- towns grow so fast out there.'

'Dan isn't going to allow any woman under forty in his place. He doesn't like them, 'specially young and pretty ones,' put in Tom, who was raging with jealousy, because he read admiration for Nan in Dan's eyes.

'That won't affect me, because doctors are exceptions to all rules. There won't be much sickness in Dansville, everyone will lead such active, wholesome lives, and only energetic young people will go there. But accidents will be frequent, owing to wild cattle, fast riding, Indian scrimmages, and the recklessness of Western life. That will just suit me. I long for broken bones, surgery is so interesting and I get so little here,' answered Nan, yearning to put out her shingle and begin.

'I'll have you, Doctor, and be glad of such a good sample of what we can do in the East. Peg away, and I'll send for you as soon as I have a roof to cover you. I'll scalp a few red fellows or smash up a dozen or so of cowboys for your special benefit,' laughed Dan, well pleased with the energy and fine physique which made Nan a conspicuous figure among other girls.

'Thanks. I'll come. Would you just let me feel your arm? Splendid biceps! Now, boys, see here: this is what I call muscle.' And Nan delivered a short lecture with Dan's sinewy arm to illustrate it. Tom retired to the alcove and glowered at the stars, while he swung his own right arm with a vigour suggestive of knocking someone down.

'Make Tom sexton; he'll enjoy burying the patients Nan kills. He's trying to get up the glum expression proper to the business. Don't forget him, Dan,' said Ted, directing attention to the blighted being in the corner.

But Tom never sulked long, and came out from his brief eclipse with the cheerful proposition:

'Look here, we'll get the city to ship out to Dansville all the cases of yellow fever, smallpox, and cholera that arrive; then Nan will be happy and her mistakes won't matter much with emigrants and convicts.'

'I should advise settling near Jacksonville, or some such city, that you might enjoy the society of cultivated persons. The Plato Club is there, and a most ardent thirst for philosophy. Everything from the East is welcomed hospitably, and new enterprises would flourish in such kindly soil,' observed Mr March, mildly offering a suggestion, as he sat among the elders enjoying the lively scene.

The idea of Dan studying Plato was very funny; but no one except naughty Ted smiled, and Dan made haste to unfold another plan seething in that active brain of his.

'I'm not sure the farming will succeed, and have a strong leaning towards my old friends the Montana Indians. They are a peaceful tribe, and need help awfully; hundreds have died of starvation because they don't get their share. The Sioux are fighters, thirty thousand strong, so Government fears 'em, and gives 'em all they want. I call that a damned shame!' Dan stopped short as the oath slipped out, but his eyes flashed, and he went on quickly: 'It is just that, and I won't beg pardon. If I'd had any money when I was there I'd have given every cent to those poor devils, cheated out of everything, and waiting patiently, after being driven from their own land to places where nothing will grow. Now, honest agents could do much, and I've a feeling that I ought to go and lend a hand. I know their lingo, and I like 'em. I've got a few thousands, and I ain't sure I have any right to spend it on myself and settle down to enjoy it. Hey?'

Dan looked very manly and earnest as he faced his friends, flushed and excited by the energy of his words; and all felt that little thrill of sympathy which links hearts together by the tie of pity for the wronged.

'Do it, do it!' cried Mrs Jo, fired at once; for misfortune was much more interesting to her than good luck.

'Do it, do it!' echoed Ted, applauding as if at a play, 'and take me along to help. I'm just raging to get among those fine fellows and hunt.'

'Let us hear more and see if it is wise,' said Mr Laurie, privately resolving to people his as yet unbought prairies with Montana Indians, and increase his donations to the society that sent missionaries to this much wronged people.

Dan plunged at once into the history of what he saw among the Dakotas, and other tribes in the Northwest, telling of their wrongs, patience, and courage as if they were his brothers.

'They called me Dan Fire Cloud, because my rifle was the best they ever saw. And Black Hawk was as good a friend as a fellow would want; saved my life more than once, and taught me just what will be useful if I go back. They are down on their luck, now, and I'd like to pay my debts.'

By this time everyone was interested, and Dansville began to lose its charm. But prudent Mr Bhaer suggested that one honest agent among many could not do much, and noble as the effort would be, it was wiser to think over the matter carefully, get influence and authority from the right quarters, and meantime look at lands before deciding.

'Well, I will. I'm going to take a run to Kansas and see how that promises. Met a fellow in 'Frisco who'd been there, and he spoke well of it. The fact is, there's so much to be done every where that I don't know where to catch on, and half wish I hadn't any money,' answered Dan, knitting his brows in the perplexity all kind souls feel when anxious to help at the great task of the world's charity.

'I'll keep it for you till you decide. You are such an impetuous lad you'll give it to the first beggar that gets hold of you. I'll turn it over while you are prospecting, and hand it back when you are ready to invest, shall I?' asked Mr Laurie, who had learned wisdom since the days of his own extravagant youth.

'Thanky, sir, I'd be glad to get rid of it. You just hold on till I say the word; and if anything happens to me this time, keep it to help some other scamp as you helped me. This is my will, and you all witness it. Now I feel better.' And Dan squared his shoulders as if relieved of a burden, after handing over the belt in which he carried his little fortune.

No one dreamed how much was to happen before Dan came to take his money back, nor how nearly that act was his last will and testament; and while Mr Laurie was explaining how he would invest it, a cheery voice was heard singing:

'Oh, Peggy was a jolly lass, Ye heave ho, boys, ye heave ho! She never grudged her Jack a glass, Ye heave ho, boys, ye heave ho! And when he sailed the raging main, She faithful was unto her swain, Ye heave ho, boys, ye heave ho!'

Emil always announced his arrival in that fashion, and in a moment he came hurrying in with Nat, who had been giving lessons in town all day. It was good to see the latter beam at his friend as he nearly shook his hand off; better still to see how Dan gratefully remembered all he owed Nat, and tried to pay the debt in his rough way; and best of all to hear the two travellers compare notes and reel off yarns to dazzle the land-lubbers and home-keepers.

After this addition the house would not contain the gay youngsters, so they migrated to the piazza and settled on the steps, like a flock of night-loving birds. Mr March and the Professor retired to the study, Meg and Amy went to look after the little refection of fruit and cake which was to come, and Mrs Jo and Mr Laurie sat in the long window listening to the chat that went on outside.

'There they are, the flower of our flock!' she said, pointing to the group before them. 'The others are dead or scattered, but these seven boys and four girls are my especial comfort and pride. Counting Alice Heath, my dozen is made up, and my hands are full trying to guide these young lives as far as human skill can do it.'

'When we remember how different they are, from what some of them came, and the home influences about others, I think we may feel pretty well satisfied so far,' answered Mr Laurie soberly, as his eyes rested on one bright head among the black and brown ones, for the young moon shone alike on all.

'I don't worry about the girls; Meg sees to them, and is so wise and patient and tender they can't help doing well; but my boys are more care every year, and seem to drift farther away from me each time they go,' sighed Mrs Jo. 'They will grow up, and I can only hold them by one little thread, which may snap at any time, as it has with Jack and Ned. Dolly and George still like to come back, and I can say my word to them; and dear old Franz is too true ever to forget his own. But the three who are soon going out into the world again I can't help worrying about. Emil's good heart will keep him straight, I hope, and

'"A sweet little cherub sits up aloft, To look out for the life of poor Jack."'

Nat is to make his first flight, and he's weak in spite of your strengthening influence; and Dan is still untamed. I fear it will take some hard lesson to do that.'

'He's a fine fellow, Jo, and I almost regret this farming project. A little polish would make a gentleman of him, and who knows what he might become here among us,' answered Mr Laurie, leaning over Mrs Bhaer's chair, just as he used to do years ago when they had mischievous secrets together.

'It wouldn't be safe, Teddy. Work and the free life he loves will make a good man of him, and that is better than any amount of polish, with the dangers an easy life in a city would bring him. We can't change his nature -- only help it to develop in the right direction. The old impulses are there, and must be controlled, or he will go wrong. I see that; but his love for us is a safeguard, and we must keep a hold on him till he is older or has a stronger tie to help him.'

Mrs Jo spoke earnestly, for, knowing Dan better than anyone else, she saw that her colt was not thoroughly broken yet, and feared while she hoped, knowing that life would always be hard for one like him. She was sure that before he went away again, in some quiet moment he would give her a glimpse of his inner self, and then she could say the word of warning or encouragement that he needed. So she bided her time, studying him meanwhile, glad to see all that was promising, and quick to detect the harm the world was doing him. She was very anxious to make a success of her 'firebrand' because others predicted failure; but having learned that people cannot be moulded like clay, she contented herself with the hope that this neglected boy might become a good man, and asked no more. Even that was much to expect, so full was he of wayward impulses, strong passions, and the lawless nature born in him. Nothing held him but the one affection of his life -- the memory of Plumfield, the fear of disappointing these faithful friends, the pride, stronger than principle, that made him want to keep the regard of the mates who always had admired and loved him in spite of all his faults.

'Don't fret, old dear; Emil is one of the happy-go-lucky sort who always fall on their legs. I'll see to Nat, and Dan is in a good way now. Let him take a look at Kansas, and if the farm plan loses its charm, he can fall back on poor Lo, and really do good out there. He's unusually fitted for that peculiar task and I hope he'll decide to do it. Fighting oppressors, and befriending the oppressed will keep those dangerous energies of his busy, and the life will suit him better than sheep-folds and wheat-fields.'

'I hope so. What is that?' and Mrs Jo leaned forward to listen, as exclamations from Ted and Josie caught her ear.

'A mustang! a real, live one; and we can ride it. Dan, you are a first-class trump!' cried the boy.

'A whole Indian dress for me! Now I can play Namioka, if the boys act Metamora,' added Josie, clapping her hands.

'A buffalo's head for Bess! Good gracious, Dan, why did you bring such a horrid thing as that to her?' asked Nan.

'Thought it would do her good to model something strong and natural. She'll never amount to anything if she keeps on making namby-pamby gods and pet kittens,' answered irreverent Dan, remembering that when he was last here Bess was vibrating distractedly between a head of Apollo and her Persian cat as models.

'Thank you; I'll try it, and if I fail we can put the buffalo up in the hall to remind us of you,' said Bess, indignant at the insult offered the gods of her idolatry, but too well bred to show it except in her voice, which was as sweet and as cold as ice-cream.

'I suppose you won't come out to see our new settlement when the rest do? Too rough for you?' asked Dan, trying to assume the deferential air all the boys used when addressing their Princess.

'I am going to Rome to study for years. All the beauty and art of the world is there, and a lifetime isn't long enough to enjoy it,' answered Bess.

'Rome is a mouldy old tomb compared to the "Garden of the gods" and my magnificent Rockies. I don't care a hang for art; nature is as much as I can stand, and I guess I could show you things that would knock your old masters higher than kites. Better come, and while Josie rides the horses you can model 'em. If a drove of a hundred or so of wild ones can't show you beauty, I'll give up,' cried Dan, waxing enthusiastic over the wild grace and vigour which he could enjoy but had no power to describe.

'I'll come some day with papa, and see if they are better than the horses of St Mark and those on Capitol Hill. Please don't abuse my gods, and I will try to like yours,' said Bess, beginning to think the West might be worth seeing, though no Raphael or Angelo had yet appeared there.

'That's a bargain! I do think people ought to see their own country before they go scooting off to foreign parts, as if the new world wasn't worth discovering,' began Dan, ready to bury the hatchet.

'It has some advantages, but not all. The women of England can vote, and we can't. I'm ashamed of America that she isn't ahead in all good things,' cried Nan, who held advanced views on all reforms, and was anxious about her rights, having had to fight for some of them.

'Oh, please don't begin on that. People always quarrel over that question, and call names, and never agree. Do let us be quiet and happy tonight,' pleaded Daisy, who hated discussion as much as Nan loved it.

'You shall vote as much as you like in our new town, Nan; be mayor and aldermen, and run the whole concern. It's going to be as free as air, or I can't live in it,' said Dan, adding, with a laugh, 'I see Mrs Giddygaddy and Mrs Shakespeare Smith don't agree any better than they used to.'

'If everyone agreed, we should never get on. Daisy is a dear, but inclined to be an old fogy; so I stir her up; and next fall she will go and vote with me. Demi will escort us to do the one thing we are allowed to do as yet.'

'Will you take 'em, Deacon?' asked Dan, using the old name as if he liked it. 'It works capitally in Wyoming.'

'I shall be proud to do it. Mother and the aunts go every year, and Daisy will come with me. She is my better half still; and I don't mean to leave her behind in anything,' said Demi, with an arm round his sister of whom he was fonder than ever.

Dan looked at them wistfully, thinking how sweet it must be to have such a tie; and his lonely youth seemed sadder than ever as he recalled its struggles. A gusty sigh from Tom made sentiment impossible, as he said pensively:

'I always wanted to be a twin. It's so sociable and so cosy to have someone glad to lean on a fellow and comfort him, if other girls are cruel.'

As Tom's unrequited passion was the standing joke of the family, this allusion produced a laugh, which Nan increased by whipping out a bottle of Nux, saying, with her professional air:

'I knew you ate too much lobster for tea. Take four pellets, and your dyspepsia will be all right. Tom always sighs and is silly when he's overeaten.'

'I'll take 'em. These are the only sweet things you ever give me.' And Tom gloomily crunched his dose.

'"Who can minister to a mind diseased, or pluck out a rooted sorrow?" quoted Josie tragically from her perch on the railing.

'Come with me, Tommy, and I'll make a man of you. Drop your pills and powders, and cavort round the world a spell, and you'll soon forget you've got a heart, or a stomach either,' said Dan, offering his one panacea for all ills.

'Ship with me, Tom. A good fit of seasickness will set you up, and a stiff north-easter blow your blue-devils away. Come along as surgeon -- easy berth, and no end of larks.'

'"And if your Nancy frowns, my lad, And scorns a jacket blue, Just hoist your sails for other ports, And find a maid more true."'

added Emil, who had a fragment of song to cheer every care and sorrow, and freely offered them to his friends.

'Perhaps I'll think of it when I've got my diploma. I'm not going to grind three mortal years and have nothing to show for it. Till then, -- '

'I'll never desert Mrs Micawber,' interrupted Teddy, with a gurgling sob. Tom immediately rolled him off the step into the wet grass below; and by the time this slight skirmish was over, the jingle of teaspoons suggested refreshments of a more agreeable sort. In former times the little girls waited on the boys, to save confusion; now the young men flew to serve the ladies, young and old; and that slight fact showed plainly how the tables were turned by time. And what a pleasant arrangement it was! Even Josie sat still, and let Emil bring her berries; enjoying her young lady-hood, till Ted stole her cake, when she forgot manners, and chastised him with a rap on the knuckles. As guest of honour, Dan was only allowed to wait on Bess, who still held the highest place in this small world. Tom carefully selected the best of everything for Nan, to be crushed by the remark:

'I never eat at this hour; and you will have a nightmare if you do.'

So, dutifully curbing the pangs of hunger, he gave the plate to Daisy, and chewed rose-leaves for his supper.

When a surprising quantity of wholesome nourishment had been consumed, someone said, 'Let's sing!' and a tuneful hour followed. Nat fiddled, Demi piped, Dan strummed the old banjo, and Emil warbled a doleful ballad about the wreck of the Bounding Betsey; then everybody joined in the old songs till there was very decidedly 'music in the air'; and passers-by said, as they listened smiling: 'Old Plum is gay tonight!'

When all had gone Dan lingered on the piazza, enjoying the balmy wind that blew up from the hayfields, and brought the breath of flowers from Parnassus; and as he leaned there romantically in the moonlight, Mrs Jo came to shut the door.

'Dreaming dreams, Dan?' she asked, thinking the tender moment might have come. Imagine the shock when, instead of some interesting confidence or affectionate word, Dan swung round, saying bluntly:

'I was wishing I could smoke.'

Mrs Jo laughed at the downfall of her hopes, and answered kindly:

'You may, in your room; but don't set the house afire.'

Perhaps Dan saw a little disappointment in her face, or the memory of the sequel of that boyish frolic touched his heart; for he stooped and kissed her, saying in a whisper: 'Good night, mother.' And Mrs Jo was half satisfied.



Chapter 5. VACATION

Everyone was glad of a holiday next morning, and all lingered over the breakfast-table, till Mrs Jo suddenly exclaimed:

'Why, there's a dog!' And on the threshold of the door appeared a great deer-hound, standing motionless, with his eyes fixed on Dan.

'Hallo, old boy! Couldn't you wait till I came for you? Have you cut away on the sly? Own up now, and take your whipping like a man,' said Dan, rising to meet the dog, who reared on his hind legs to look his master in the face and bark as if uttering an indignant denial of any disobedience.

'All right; Don never lies.' And Dan gave the tall beast a hug, adding as he glanced out of the window, where a man and horse were seen approaching:

'I left my plunder at the hotel over night, not knowing how I should find you. Come out and see Octoo, my mustang; she's a beauty.' And Dan was off, with the family streaming after him, to welcome the newcomer.

They found her preparing to go up the steps in her eagerness to reach her master, to the great dismay of the man, who was holding her back.

'Let her come,' called Dan; 'she climbs like a cat and jumps like a deer. Well, my girl, do you want a gallop?' he asked, as the pretty creature clattered up to him and whinnied with pleasure as he rubbed her nose and slapped her glossy flank.

'That's what I call a horse worth having,' said Ted, full of admiration and delight; for he was to have the care of her during Dan's absence.

'What intelligent eyes! She looks as if she would speak,' said Mrs Jo.

'She talks like a human in her way. Very little that she don't know. Hey, old Lass?' and Dan laid his cheek to hers as if the little black mare was very dear to him.

'What does "Octoo" mean?' asked Rob.

'Lightning; she deserves it, as you'll see. Black Hawk gave her to me for my rifle, and we've had high times together out yonder. She's saved my life more than once. Do you see that scar?'

Dan pointed to a small one, half hidden by the long mane; and standing with his arm about Octoo's neck, he told the story of it.

'Black Hawk and I were after buffalo one time, but didn't find 'em as soon as we expected; so our food gave out, and there we were a hundred miles from Red Deer River, where our camp was. I thought we were done for, but my brave pal says: "Now I'll show you how we can live till we find the herds." We were unsaddling for the night by a little pond; there wasn't a living creature in sight anywhere, not even a bird, and we could see for miles over the prairies. What do you think we did?' And Dan looked into the faces round him.

'Ate worms like the Australian fellows,' said Rob. 'Boiled grass or leaves,' added Mrs Jo.

'Perhaps filled the stomach with clay, as we read of savages doing?' suggested Mr Bhaer.

'Killed one of the horses,' cried Ted, eager for bloodshed of some sort.

'No; but we bled one of them. See, just here; filled a tin cup, put some wild sage leaves in it, with water, and heated it over a fire of sticks. It was good, and we slept well.'

'I guess Octoo didn't.' And Josie patted the animal, with a face full of sympathy.

'Never minded it a bit. Black Hawk said we could live on the horses several days and still travel before they felt it. But by another morning we found the buffalo, and I shot the one whose head is in my box, ready to hang up and scare brats into fits. He's a fierce old fellow, you bet.'

'What is this strap for?' asked Ted, who was busily examining the Indian saddle, the single rein and snaffle, with lariat, and round the neck the leather band he spoke of.

'We hold on to that when we lie along the horse's flank farthest from the enemy, and fire under the neck as we gallop round and round. I'll show you.' And springing into the saddle, Dan was off down the steps, tearing over the lawn at a great pace, sometimes on Octoo's back, sometimes half hidden as he hung by stirrup and strap, and sometimes off altogether, running beside her as she loped along, enjoying the fun immensely; while Don raced after, in a canine rapture at being free again and with his mates.

It was a fine sight -- the three wild things at play, so full of vigour, grace, and freedom, that for the moment the smooth lawn seemed a prairie; and the spectators felt as if this glimpse of another life made their own seem rather tame and colourless.

'This is better than a circus!' cried Mrs Jo, wishing she were a girl again, that she might take a gallop on this chained lightning of a horse. 'I foresee that Nan will have her hands full setting bones, for Ted will break every one of his trying to rival Dan.'

'A few falls will not harm, and this new care and pleasure will be good for him in all ways. But I fear Dan will never follow a plough after riding a Pegasus like that,' answered Mr Bhaer, as the black mare leaped the gate and came flying up the avenue, to stop at a word and stand quivering with excitement, while Dan swung himself off and looked up for applause.

He received plenty of it, and seemed more pleased for his pet's sake than for his own. Ted clamoured for a lesson at once, and was soon at ease in the queer saddle, finding Octoo gentle as a lamb, as he trotted away to show off at college. Bess came hastening down the hill, having seen the race from afar; and all collected on the piazza while Dan 'yanked' the cover off the big box the express had 'dumped' before the door -- to borrow his own words.

Dan usually travelled in light marching order, and hated to have more luggage than he could carry in his well-worn valise. But now that he had a little money of his own, he had cumbered himself with a collection of trophies won by his bow and spear, and brought them home to bestow upon his friends.

'We shall be devoured with moths,' thought Mrs Jo, as the shaggy head appeared, followed by a wolf-skin rug for her feet, a bear-skin ditto for the Professor's study, and Indian garments bedecked with foxes' tails for the boys.

All nice and warm for a July day, but received with delight nevertheless. Ted and Josie immediately 'dressed up', learned the war-whoop, and proceeded to astonish their friends by a series of skirmishes about the house and grounds, with tomahawks and bows and arrows, till weariness produced a lull.

Gay birds' wings, plumy pampas grass, strings of wampum, and pretty work in beads, bark, and feathers, pleased the girls. Minerals, arrow-heads, and crude sketches interested the Professor; and when the box was empty, Dan gave Mr Laurie, as his gift, several plaintive Indian songs written on birch-bark.

'We only want a tent over us to be quite perfect. I feel as if I ought to give you parched corn and dried meat for dinner, my braves. Nobody will want lamb and green peas after this splendid pow-wow,' said Mrs Jo, surveying the picturesque confusion of the long hall, where people lay about on the rugs, all more or less bedecked with feathers, moccasins, or beads.

'Moose noses, buffalo tongues, bear steaks, and roasted marrow-bones would be the thing, but I don't mind a change; so bring on your baa-baa and green meat,' answered Dan from the box, where he sat in state like a chief among his tribe, with the great hound at his feet.

The girls began to clear up, but made little headway; for everything they touched had a story, and all were thrilling, comical, or wild; so they found it hard to settle to their work, till Dan was carried off by Mr Laurie.

This was the beginning of the summer holiday, and it was curious to see what a pleasant little stir Dan's and Emil's coming made in the quiet life of the studious community; for they seemed to bring a fresh breeze with them that enlivened everyone. Many of the collegians remained during vacation; and Plumfield and Parnassus did their best to make these days pleasant for them, since most came from distant States, were poor, and had few opportunities but this for culture or amusement. Emil was hail-fellow-well-met with men and maids, and went rollicking about in true sailor fashion; but Dan stood rather in awe of the 'fair girl-graduates', and was silent when among them, eyeing them as an eagle might a flock of doves. He got on better with the young men, and was their hero at once. Their admiration for his manly accomplishments did him good; because he felt his educational defects keenly, and often wondered if he could find anything in books to satisfy him as thoroughly as did the lessons he was learning from Nature's splendidly illustrated volume. In spite of his silence, the girls found out his good qualities, and regarded 'the Spaniard', as they named him, with great favour; for his black eyes were more eloquent than his tongue, and the kind creatures tried to show their friendly interests in many charming ways.

He saw this, and endeavoured to be worthy of it -- curbing his free speech, toning down his rough manners, and watching the effect of all he said and did, anxious to make a good impression. The social atmosphere warmed his lonely heart, the culture excited him to do his best, and the changes which had taken place during his absence, both in himself and others, made the old home seem like a new world. After the life in California, it was sweet and restful to be here, with these familiar faces round him, helping him to forget much that he regretted, and to resolve to deserve more entirely the confidence of these good fellows, the respect of these innocent girls.

So there was riding, rowing, and picnicking by day, music, dancing, and plays by night; and everyone said there had not been so gay a vacation for years. Bess kept her promise, and let the dust gather on her beloved clay while she went pleasuring with her mates or studied music with her father, who rejoiced over the fresh roses in her cheeks and the laughter which chased away the dreamy look she used to wear. Josie quarrelled less with Ted; for Dan had a way of looking at her which quelled her instantly, and had almost as good an effect upon her rebellious cousin. But Octoo did even more for the lively youth, who found that her charms entirely eclipsed those of the bicycle which had been his heart's delight before. Early and late he rode this untiring beast, and began to gain flesh -- to the great joy of his mother, who feared that her beanstalk was growing too fast for health.

Demi, finding business dull, solaced his leisure by photographing everybody he could induce to sit or stand to him, producing some excellent pictures among many failures; for he had a pretty taste in grouping, and endless patience. He might be said to view the world through the lens of his camera, and seemed to enjoy himself very much squinting at his fellow beings from under a bit of black cambric. Dan was a treasure to him; for he took well, and willingly posed in his Mexican costume, with horse and hound, and all wanted copies of these effective photographs. Bess, also, was a favourite sitter; and Demi received a prize at the Amateur Photographic Exhibition for one of his cousin with all her hair about her face, which rose from the cloud of white lace draping the shoulders. These were freely handed round by the proud artist; and one copy had a tender little history yet to be told.

Nat was snatching every minute he could get with Daisy before the long parting; and Mrs Meg relented somewhat, feeling sure that absence would quite cure this unfortunate fancy. Daisy said little; but her gentle face was sad when she was alone, and a few quiet tears dropped on the handkerchiefs she marked so daintily with her own hair. She was sure Nat would not forget her; and life looked rather forlorn without the dear fellow who had been her friend since the days of patty-pans and confidences in the willow-tree. She was an old-fashioned daughter, dutiful and docile, with such love and reverence for her mother that her will was law; and if love was forbidden, friendship must suffice. So she kept her little sorrow to herself, smiled cheerfully at Nat, and made his last days of home-life very happy with every comfort and pleasure she could give, from sensible advice and sweet words to a well-filled work-bag for his bachelor establishment and a box of goodies for the voyage.

Tom and Nan took all the time they could spare from their studies to enjoy high jinks at Plumfield with their old friends; for Emil's next voyage was to be a long one, Nat's absence was uncertain, and no one ever knew when Dan would turn up again. They all seemed to feel that life was beginning to grow serious; and even while they enjoyed those lovely summer days together they were conscious that they were children no longer, and often in the pauses of their fun talked soberly of their plans and hopes, as if anxious to know and help one another before they drifted farther apart on their different ways.

A few weeks were all they had; then the Brenda was ready, Nat was to sail from New York, and Dan went along to see him off; for his own plans fermented in his head, and he was eager to be up and doing. A farewell dance was given on Parnassus in honour of the travellers, and all turned out in their best array and gayest spirits. George and Dolly came with the latest Harvard airs and graces, radiant to behold, in dress-suits and 'crushed hats', as Josie called the especial pride and joy of their boyish souls. Jack and Ned sent regrets and best wishes, and no one mourned their absence; for they were among what Mrs Jo called her failures. Poor Tom got into trouble, as usual, by deluging his head with some highly scented preparation in the vain hope of making his tight curls lie flat and smooth, as was the style. Unhappily, his rebellious crop only kinked the closer, and the odour of many barbers' shops clung to him in spite of his frantic efforts to banish it. Nan wouldn't allow him near her, and flapped her fan vigorously whenever he was in sight; which cut him to the heart, and made him feel like the Peri shut out from Paradise. Of course his mates jeered at him, and nothing but the unquenchable jollity of his nature kept him from despair.

Emil was resplendent in his new uniform, and danced with an abandon which only sailors know. His pumps seemed to be everywhere, and his partners soon lost breath trying to keep up with him; but the girls all declared he steered like an angel, and in spite of his pace no collisions took place; so he was happy, and found no lack of damsels to ship with him.

Having no dress-suit, Dan had been coaxed to wear his Mexican costume, and feeling at ease in the many-buttoned trousers, loose jacket, and gay sash, flung his serape over his shoulder with a flourish and looked his best, doing great execution with his long spurs, as he taught Josie strange steps or rolled his black eyes admiringly after certain blonde damsels whom he dared not address.

The mammas sat in the alcove, supplying pins, smiles, and kindly words to all, especially the awkward youths new to such scenes, and the bashful girls conscious of faded muslins and cleaned gloves. It was pleasant to see stately Mrs Amy promenade on the arm of a tall country boy, with thick boots and a big forehead, or Mrs Jo dance like a girl with a shy fellow whose arms went like pump-handles, and whose face was scarlet with confusion and pride at the honour of treading on the toes of the president's wife. Mrs Meg always had room on her sofa for two or three girls, and Mr Laurie devoted himself to these plain, poorly dressed damsels with a kindly grace that won their hearts and made them happy. The good Professor circulated like refreshments, and his cheerful face shone on all alike, while Mr March discussed Greek comedy in the study with such serious gentlemen as never unbent their mighty minds to frivolous joys.

The long music-room, parlour, hall, and piazza were full of white-gowned maidens with attendant shadows; the air was full of lively voices, and hearts and feet went lightly together as the home band played vigorously, and the friendly moon did her best to add enchantment to the scene.

'Pin me up, Meg; that dear Dunbar boy has nearly rent me "in sunder", as Mr Peggotty would say. But didn't he enjoy himself, bumping against his fellow men and swinging me round like a mop. On these occasions I find that I'm not as young as I was, nor as light of foot. In ten years more we shall be meal-bags, sister; so be resigned.' And Mrs Jo subsided into a corner, much dishevelled by her benevolent exertions.

'I know I shall be stout; but you won't keep still long enough to get much flesh on your bones, dear; and Amy will always keep her lovely figure. She looks about eighteen tonight, in her white gown and roses,' answered Meg, busily pinning up one sister's torn frills, while her eyes fondly followed the other's graceful movements; for Meg still adored Amy in the old fashion.

It was one of the family jokes that Jo was getting fat, and she kept it up, though as yet she had only acquired a matronly outline, which was very becoming. They were laughing over the impending double chins, when Mr Laurie came off duty for a moment.

'Repairing damages as usual, Jo? You never could take a little gentle exercise without returning in rags. Come and have a quiet stroll with me and cool off before supper. I've a series of pretty tableaux to show you while Meg listens to the raptures of lisping Miss Carr, whom I made happy by giving her Demi for a partner.'

As he spoke, Laurie led Jo to the music-room, nearly empty now after a dance which sent the young people into garden and hall. Pausing before the first of the four long windows that opened on a very wide piazza, he pointed to a group outside, saying: 'The name of this is "Jack Ashore".'

A pair of long, blue legs, ending in very neat pumps, hung from the veranda roof among the vines; and roses, gathered by unseen hands, evidently appertaining to aforesaid legs, were being dropped into the laps of several girls perched like a flock of white birds on the railing below; while a manly voice 'fell like a falling star', as it sung this pensive ditty to a most appreciative audience:

Mary's Dream

The moon had climbed the eastern hill Which rises o'er the sands of Dee, And from its highest summit shed A silver light on tower and tree, When Mary laid her down to sleep (Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea); When soft and low a voice was heard, Saying, 'Mary, weep no more for me.'

She from her pillow gently raised Her head, to see who there might be, And saw young Sandy, shivering stand With visage pale and hollow e'e. 'Oh Mary dear, cold is my clay; It lies beneath the stormy sea; Far, far from thee, I sleep in death. Dear Mary, weep no more for me.

'Three stormy nights and stormy days We tossed upon the raging main. And long we strove our bark to save; But all our striving was in vain. E'en then, when terror chilled my blood, My heart was filled with love of thee. The storm is past, and I'm at rest; So, Mary, weep no more for me.

'Oh maiden dear, yourself prepare; We soon shall meet upon that shore Where love is free from doubt and care, And you and I shall part no more.' Loud crew the cock, the shadow fled; No more her Sandy did she see; But soft the passing spirit said, 'Sweet Mary, weep no more for me.'

'The constant jollity of that boy is worth a fortune to him. He'll never sink with such a buoyant spirit to keep him afloat through life,' said Mrs Jo, as the roses were tossed back with much applause when the song ended.

'Not he; and it's a blessing to be grateful for, isn't it? We moody people know its worth. Glad you like my first tableau. Come and see number two. Hope it isn't spoilt; it was very pretty just now. This is "Othello telling his adventures to Desdemona".'

The second window framed a very picturesque group of three. Mr March in an arm-chair, with Bess on a cushion at his feet, was listening to Dan, who, leaning against a pillar, was talking with unusual animation. The old man was in shadow, but little Desdemona was looking up with the moonlight full upon her into young Othello's face, quite absorbed in the story he was telling so well. The gay drapery over Dan's shoulder, his dark colouring, and the gesture of his arm made the picture very striking, and both spectators enjoyed it with silent pleasure, till Mrs Jo said in a quick whisper:

'I'm glad he's going away. He's too picturesque to have here among so many romantic girls. Afraid his "grand, gloomy, and peculiar" style will be too much for our simple maids.'

'No danger; Dan is in the rough as yet, and always will be, I fancy; though he is improving in many ways. How well Queenie looks in that soft light!'

'Dear little Goldilocks looks well everywhere.' And with a backward glance full of pride and fondness, Mrs Jo went on. But that scene returned to her long afterward and her own prophetic words also.

Number three was a tragical tableau at first sight; and Mr Laurie stifled a laugh as he whispered 'The Wounded Knight', pointing to Tom with his head enveloped in a large handkerchief, as he knelt before Nan, who was extracting a thorn or splinter from the palm of his hand with great skill, to judge from the patient's blissful expression of countenance.

'Do I hurt you?' she asked, turning the hand to the moonlight for a better view.

'Not a bit; dig away; I like it,' answered Tom, regardless of his aching knees and the damage done to his best trousers.

'I won't keep you long.'

'Hours, if you please. Never so happy as here.'

Quite unmoved by this tender remark, Nan put on a pair of large, round-eyed glasses, saying in a matter-of-fact tone: 'Now I see it. Only a splinter, and there it is.

'My hand is bleeding; won't you bind it up?' asked Tom, wishing to prolong the situation.

'Nonsense; suck it. Only take care of it tomorrow if you dissect. Don't want any more blood-poisoning.'

'That was the only time you were kind to me. Wish I'd lost my arm.'

'I wish you'd lost your head; it smells more like turpentine and kerosene than ever. Do take a run in the garden and air it.'

Fearing to betray themselves by laughter, the watchers went on, leaving the Knight to rush away in despair, and the Lady to bury her nose in the cup of a tall lily for refreshment.

'Poor Tom, his fate is a hard one, and he's wasting his time! Do advise him to quit philandering and go to work, Jo.'

'I have, Teddy, often; but it will take some great shock to make that boy wise. I wait with interest to see what it will be. Bless me! what is all this?'

She might well ask; for on a rustic stool stood Ted trying to pose on one foot, with the other extended, and both hands waving in the air. Josie, with several young mates, was watching his contortions with deep interest as they talked about 'little wings', 'gilded wire twisted', and a 'cunning skull-cap'.

'This might be called "Mercury Trying to Fly",' said Mr Laurie, as they peeped through the lace curtains.

'Bless the long legs of that boy! how does he expect to manage them? They are planning for the Owlsdark Marbles, and a nice muddle they will make of my gods and goddesses with no one to show them how,' answered Mrs Jo, enjoying this scene immensely. 'Now, he's got it!' 'That's perfectly splendid!' 'See how long you can keep so!' cried the girls, as Ted managed to maintain his equilibrium a moment by resting one toe on the trellis. Unfortunately this brought all his weight on the other foot; the straw seat of the stool gave way, and the flying Mercury came down with a crash, amid shrieks of laughter from the girls. Being accustomed to ground and lofty tumbling, he quickly recovered himself, and hopped gaily about, with one leg through the stool as he improvised a classic jig.

'Thanks for four nice little pictures. You have given me an idea, and I think some time we will get up regular tableaux of this sort and march our company round a set of dissolving views. New and striking; I'll propose it to our manager and give you all the glory,' said Mrs Jo, as they strolled towards the room whence came the clash of glass and china, and glimpses of agitated black coats.

Let us follow the example of our old friends and stroll about among the young people, eavesdropping, so gathering up various little threads to help in the weaving of the story. George and Dolly were at supper, and having served the ladies in their care stood in a corner absorbing nourishment of all kinds with a vain attempt to conceal hearty appetites under an air of elegant indifference.

'Good spread, this; Laurence does things in style. First-rate coffee, but no wine, and that's a mistake,' said Stuffy, who still deserved his name, and was a stout youth with a heavy eye and bilious complexion.

'Bad for boys, he says. Jove! wish he could see us at some of our wines. Don't we just "splice the main brace" as Emil says,' answered Dolly, the dandy, carefully spreading a napkin over the glossy expanse of shirt-front whereon a diamond stud shone like a lone star. His stutter was nearly outgrown; but he, as well as George, spoke in the tone of condescension, which, with the blase airs they assumed, made a very funny contrast to their youthful faces and foolish remarks. Good-hearted little fellows both, but top-heavy with the pride of being Sophs and the freedom that college life gave them.

'Little Jo is getting to be a deuced pretty girl, isn't she?' said George, with a long sigh of satisfaction as his first mouthful of ice went slowly down his throat.

'H'm -- well, fairish. The Princess is rather more to my taste. I like 'em blonde and queenly and elegant, don't you know.'

'Yes, Jo is too lively; might as well dance with a grasshopper. I've tried her, and she's one too many for me. Miss Perry is a nice, easy-going girl. Got her for the german.'

'You'll never be a dancing man. Too lazy. Now I'll undertake to steer any girl and dance down any fellow you please. Dancing's my forte.' And Dolly glanced from his trim feet to his flashing gem with the defiant air of a young turkey-cock on parade.

'Miss Grey is looking for you. Wants more grub. Just see if Miss Nelson's plate is empty, there's a good fellow. Can't eat ice in a hurry.' And George remained in his safe corner, while Dolly struggled through the crowd to do his duty, coming back in a fume, with a splash of salad dressing on his coat-cuff.

'Confound these country chaps! they go blundering round like so many dor-bugs, and make a deuce of a mess. Better stick to books and not try to be society men. Can't do it. Beastly stain. Give it a rub, and let me bolt a mouthful, I'm starved. Never saw girls eat such a lot. It proves that they ought not to study so much. Never liked co-ed,' growled Dolly, much ruffled in spirit.

'So they do. 'Tisn't ladylike. Ought to be satisfied with an ice and a bit of cake, and eat it prettily. Don't like to see a girl feed. We hard-working men need it, and, by Jove, I mean to get some more of that meringue if it's not all gone. Here, waiter! bring along that dish over there, and be lively,' commanded Stuffy, poking a young man in a rather shabby dress-suit, who was passing with a tray of glasses.

His order was obeyed promptly; but George's appetite was taken away the next moment by Dolly's exclaiming, as he looked up from his damaged coat, with a scandalized face:

'You've put your foot in it now, old boy! that's Morton, Mr Bhaer's crack man. Knows everything, no end of a "dig", and bound to carry off all the honours. You won't hear the last of it in a hurry.' And Dolly laughed so heartily that a spoonful of ice flew upon the head of a lady sitting below him, and got him into a scrape also.

Leaving them to their despair, let us listen to the whispered chat of two girls comfortably seated in a recess waiting till their escorts were fed.

'I do think the Laurences give lovely parties. Don't you enjoy them?' asked the younger, looking about her with the eager air of one unused to this sort of pleasure.

'Very much, only I never feel as if I was dressed right. My things seemed elegant at home, and I thought I'd be over over-dressed if anything; but I look countrified and dowdy here. No time or money to change now, even if I knew how to do it,' answered the other, glancing anxiously at her bright pink silk grown, trimmed with cheap lace.

'You must get Mrs Brooke to tell you how to fix your things. She was very kind to me. I had a green silk, and it looked so cheap and horrid by the side of the nice dresses here I felt regularly unhappy about it, and asked her how much a dress like one Mrs Laurence had would cost. That looked so simple and elegant I thought it wouldn't be costly; but it was India mull and Valenciennes lace, so, of course, I couldn't have it. Then Mrs Brooke said: "Get some muslin to cover the green silk, and wear hops or some white flowers, instead of pink, in your hair, and you will have a pretty suit." Isn't it lovely and becoming?' And Miss Burton surveyed herself with girlish satisfaction; for a little taste had softened the harsh green, and hop-bells became her red hair better than roses.

'It's sweet: I've been admiring it. I'll do mine so and ask about my purple one. Mrs Brooke has helped me to get rid of my headaches, and Mary Clay's dyspepsia is all gone since she gave up coffee and hot bread.'

'Mrs Laurence advised me to walk and run and use the gymnasium to cure my round shoulders and open my chest, and I'm a much better figure than I was.'

'Did you know that Mr Laurence pays all Amelia Merrill's bills? Her father failed, and she was heartbroken at having to leave college; but that splendid man just stepped in and made it all right.' 'Yes, and Professor Bhaer has several of the boys down at his house evenings to help them along so they can keep up with the rest; and Mrs Bhaer took care of Charles Mackey herself when he had a fever last year. I do think they are the best and kindest people in the world.'

'So do I, and my time here will be the happiest and most useful years of my life.'

And both girls forgot their gowns and their suppers for a moment to look with grateful, affectionate eyes at the friends who tried to care for bodies and for souls as well as minds.

Now come to a lively party supping on the stairs, girls like foam at the top, and a substratum of youths below, where the heaviest particles always settle. Emil, who never sat if he could climb or perch, adorned the newel-post; Tom, Nat, Demi, and Dan were camped on the steps, eating busily, as their ladies were well served and they had earned a moment's rest, which they enjoyed with their eyes fixed on the pleasing prospect above them.

'I'm so sorry the boys are going. It will be dreadfully dull without them. Now they have stopped teasing and are polite, I really enjoy them,' said Nan, who felt unusually gracious tonight as Tom's mishap kept him from annoying her.

'So do I; and Bess was mourning about it today, though as a general thing she doesn't like boys unless they are models of elegance. She has been doing Dan's head, and it is not quite finished. I never saw her so interested in any work, and it's very well done. He is so striking and big he always makes me think of the Dying Gladiator or some of those antique creatures. There's Bess now. Dear child, how sweet she looks tonight!' answered Daisy, waving her hand as the Princess went by with Grandpa on her arm.

'I never thought he would turn out so well. Don't you remember how we used to call him "the bad boy" and be sure he would become a pirate or something awful because he glared at us and swore sometimes? Now he is the handsomest of all the boys, and very entertaining with his stories and plans. I like him very much; he's so big and strong and independent. I'm tired of mollycoddles and book-worms,' said Nan in her decided way.

'Not handsomer that Nat!' cried loyal Daisy, contrasting two faces below, one unusually gay, the other sentimentally sober even in the act of munching cake. 'I like Dan, and am glad he is doing well; but he tires me, and I'm still a little afraid of him. Quiet people suit me best.'

'Life is a fight, and I like a good soldier. Boys take things too easily, don't see how serious it all is and go to work in earnest. Look at that absurd Tom, wasting his time and making an object of himself just because he can't have what he wants, like a baby crying for the moon. I've no patience with such nonsense,' scolded Nan, looking down at the jovial Thomas, who was playfully putting macaroons in Emil's shoes, and trying to beguile his exile as best he could.

'Most girls would be touched by such fidelity. I think it's beautiful,' said Daisy behind her fan; for other girls sat just below.

'You are a sentimental goose and not a judge. Nat will be twice the man when he comes back after his trip. I wish Tom was going with him. My idea is that if we girls have any influence we should use it for the good of these boys, and not pamper them up, making slaves of ourselves and tyrants of them. Let them prove what they can do and be before they ask anything of us, and give us a chance to do the same. Then we know where we are, and shall not make mistakes to mourn over all our lives.'

'Hear, hear!' cried Alice Heath, who was a girl after Nan's own heart, and had chosen a career, like a brave and sensible young woman. 'Only give us a chance, and have patience till we can do our best. Now we are expected to be as wise as men who have had generations of all the help there is, and we scarcely anything. Let us have equal opportunities, and in a few generations we will see what the judgement is. I like justice, and we get very little of it.'

'Still shouting the battle-cry of freedom?' asked Demi, peering through the banisters at this moment. 'Up with your flag! I'll stand by and lend a hand if you want it. With you and Nan to lead the van, I think you won't need much help.'

'You are a great comfort, Demi, and I'll call on you in all emergencies; for you are an honest boy, and don't forget that you owe much to your mother and your sisters and your aunts,' continued Nan. 'I do like men who come out frankly and own that they are not gods. How can we think them so when such awful mistakes are being made all the time by these great creatures? See them sick, as I do, then you know them.'

'Don't hit us when we are down; be merciful, and set us up to bless and believe in you evermore,' pleaded Demi from behind the bars.

'We'll be kind to you if you will be just to us. I don't say generous, only just. I went to a suffrage debate in the Legislature last winter; and of all the feeble, vulgar twaddle I ever heard, that was the worst; and those men were our representatives. I blushed for them, and the wives and mothers. I want an intelligent man to represent me, if I can't do it myself, not a fool.'

'Nan is on the stump. Now we shall catch it,' cried Tom, putting up an umbrella to shield his unhappy head; for Nan's earnest voice was audible, and her indignant eye happened to rest on him as she spoke.

'Go on, go on! I'll take notes, and put in "great applause" liberally,' added Demi, producing his ball-book and pencil, with his Jenkins air.

Daisy pinched his nose through the bars, and the meeting was rather tumultuous for a moment, for Emil called: 'Avast, avast, here's a squall to wind'ard'; Tom applauded wildly; Dan looked up as if the prospect of a fight, even with words, pleased him, and Nat went to support Demi, as his position seemed to be a good one. At this crisis, when everyone laughed and talked at once, Bess came floating through the upper hall and looked down like an angel of peace upon the noisy group below, as she asked, with wondering eyes and smiling lips:

'What is it?'

'An indignation meeting. Nan and Alice are on the rampage, and we are at the bar to be tried for our lives. Will Your Highness preside and judge between us?' answered Demi, as a lull at once took place; for no one rioted in the presence of the Princess.

'I'm not wise enough. I'll sit here and listen. Please go on.' And Bess took her place above them all as cool and calm as a little statue of Justice, with fan and nosegay in place of sword and scales.

'Now, ladies, free your minds, only spare us till morning; for we've got a german to dance as soon as everyone is fed, and Parnassus expects every man to do his duty. Mrs President Giddy-gaddy has the floor,' said Demi, who liked this sort of fun better than the very mild sort of flirtation which was allowed at Plumfield, for the simple reason that it could not be entirely banished, and is a part of all education, co - or otherwise.

'I have only one thing to say, and it is this,' began Nan soberly, though her eyes sparkled with a mixture of fun and earnestness. 'I want to ask every boy of you what you really think on this subject. Dan and Emil have seen the world and ought to know their own minds. Tom and Nat have had five examples before them for years. Demi is ours and we are proud of him. So is Rob. Ted is a weathercock, and Dolly and George, of course, are fogies in spite of the Annex, and girls at Girton going ahead of the men. Commodore, are you ready for the question?'

'Ay, ay, skipper.'

'Do you believe in Woman's Suffrage?'

'Bless your pretty figger head! I do, and I'll ship a crew of girls any time you say so. Aren't they worse than a press-gang to carry a fellow out of his moorings? Don't we all need one as pilot to steer us safe to port? and why shouldn't they share our mess afloat and ashore since we are sure to be wrecked without 'em?'

'Good for you, Emil! Nan will take you for first mate after that handsome speech,' said Demi, as the girls applauded, and Tom glowered. 'Now, Dan, you love liberty so well yourself, are you willing we should have it?'

'All you can get, and I'll fight any man who's mean enough to say you don't deserve it.'

This brief and forcible reply delighted the energetic President, and she beamed upon the member from California, as she said briskly:

'Nat wouldn't dare to say he was on the other side even if he were, but I hope he has made up his mind to pipe for us, at least when we take the field, and not be one of those who wait till the battle is won, and then beat the drums and share the glory.'

Mrs Giddy-gaddy's doubts were most effectually removed, and her sharp speech regretted, as Nat looked up blushing, but with a new sort of manliness in face and manner, saying, in a tone that touched them all:

'I should be the most ungrateful fellow alive if I did not love, honour, and serve women with all my heart and might, for to them I owe everything I am or ever shall be.'

Daisy clapped her hands, and Bess threw her bouquet into Nat's lap, while the other girls waved their fans, well pleased; for real feeling made his little speech eloquent.

'Thomas B. Bangs, come into court, and tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, if you can,' commanded Nan, with a rap to call the meeting to order.

Tom shut the umbrella, and standing up raised his hand, saying solemnly:

'I believe in suffrage of all kinds. I adore all women, and will die for them at any moment if it will help the cause.'

'Living and working for it is harder, and therefore more honourable. Men are always ready to die for us, but not to make our lives worth having. Cheap sentiment and bad logic. You will pass, Tom, only don't twaddle. Now, having taken the sense of the meeting we will adjourn, as the hour for festive gymnastics has arrived. I am glad to see that old Plum has given six true men to the world, and hope they will continue to be staunch to her and the principles she has taught them, wherever they may go. Now, girls, don't sit in draughts, and, boys, beware of ice-water when you are warm.'

With this characteristic close Nan retired from office, and the girls went to enjoy one of the few rights allowed them.



Chapter 6. LAST WORDS

The next day was Sunday, and a goodly troop of young and old set forth to church. -- some driving, some walking, all enjoying the lovely weather and the happy quietude which comes to refresh us when the work and worry of the week are over. Daisy had a headache; and Aunt Jo remained at home to keep her company, knowing very well that the worst ache was in the tender heart struggling dutifully against the love that grew stronger as the parting drew nearer.

'Daisy knows my wishes, and I trust her. You must keep an eye on Nat, and let him clearly understand that there is to be no "lovering", or I shall forbid the letter-writing. I hate to seem cruel, but it is too soon for my dear girl to bind herself in any way,' said Mrs Meg, as she rustled about in her best grey silk, while waiting for Demi, who always escorted his pious mother to church as a peace-offering for crossing her wishes in other things.

'I will, dear; I'm lying in wait for all three boys today, like an old spider; and I will have a good talk with each. They know I understand them, and they always open their hearts sooner or later. You look like a nice, plump little Quakeress, Meg; and no one will believe that big boy is your son,' added Mrs Jo, as Demi came in shining with Sunday neatness, from his well-blacked boots to his smooth brown head.

'You flatter me, to soften my heart toward your boy. I know your ways, Jo, and I don't give in. Be firm, and spare me a scene by and by. As for John, as long as he is satisfied with his old mother, I don't care what people think,' answered Mrs Meg, accepting with a smile the little posy of sweet peas and mignonette Demi brought her.

Then, having buttoned her dove-coloured gloves with care, she took her son's arm and went proudly away to the carriage, where Amy and Bess waited, while Jo called after them, just as Marmee used to do:

'Girls, have you got nice pocket-handkerchiefs?' They all smiled at the familiar words, and three white banners waved as they drove away, leaving the spider to watch for her first fly. She did not wait long. Daisy was lying down with a wet cheek on the little hymnbook out of which she and Nat used to sing together; so Mrs Jo strolled about the lawn, looking very like a wandering mushroom with her large buff umbrella.

Dan had gone for a ten-mile stroll; and Nat was supposed to have accompanied him, but presently came sneaking back, unable to tear himself away from the Dovecote or lose a moment of nearness to his idol that last day. Mrs Jo saw him at once, and beckoned him to a rustic seat under the old elm, where they could have their confidences undisturbed, and both keep an eye on a certain white-curtained window, half hidden in vines.

'Nice and cool here. I'm not up to one of Dan's tramps today -- it's so warm, and he goes so like a steam-engine. He headed for the swamp where his pet snakes used to live, and I begged to be excused,' said Nat, fanning himself with his straw hat, though the day was not oppressive.

'I'm glad you did. Sit and rest with me, and have one of our good old talks. We've both been so busy lately, I feel as if I didn't half know your plans; and I want to,' answered Mrs Jo, feeling sure that though they might start with Leipzig they would bring up at Plumfield.

'You are very kind, and there's nothing I'd like better. I don't realize I'm going so far -- suppose I shan't till I get afloat. It's a splendid start, and I don't know how I can ever thank Mr Laurie for all he's done, or you either,' added Nat, with a break in his voice; for he was a tender-hearted fellow, and never forgot a kindness.

'You can thank us beautifully by being and doing all we hope and expect of you, my dear. In the new life you are going to there will be a thousand trials and temptations, and only your own wit and wisdom to rely on. That will be the time to test the principles we have tried to give you, and see how firm they are. Of course, you will make mistakes -- we all do; but don't let go of your conscience and drift along blindly. Watch and pray, dear Nat; and while your hand gains skill, let your head grow wiser, and keep your heart as innocent and warm as it is now.'

'I'll try, Mother Bhaer, my very best to be a credit to you. I know I shall improve in my music -- can't help it there; but I never shall be very wise, I'm afraid. As for my heart, you know, I leave it behind me in good keeping.'

As he spoke, Nat's eyes were fixed on the window with a look of love and longing that made his quiet face both manly and sad -- plainly showing how strong a hold this boyish affection had upon him.

'I want to speak of that; and I know you will forgive what seems hard, because I do most heartily sympathize with you,' said Mrs Jo, glad to have her say.

'Yes, do talk about Daisy! I think of nothing but leaving and losing her. I have no hope -- I suppose it is too much to ask; only I can't help loving her, wherever I am!' cried Nat, with a mixture of defiance and despair in his face that rather startled Mrs Jo.

'Listen to me and I'll try to give you both comfort and good advice. We all know that Daisy is fond of you, but her mother objects, and being a good girl she tries to obey. Young people think they never can change, but they do in the most wonderful manner, and very few die of broken hearts.' Mrs Jo smiled as she remembered another boy whom she had once tried to comfort, and then went soberly on while Nat listened as if his fate hung upon her lips.

'One of two things will happen. You will find someone else to love, or, better still, be so busy and happy in your music that you will be willing to wait for time to settle the matter for you both. Daisy will perhaps forget when you are gone, and be glad you are only friends. At any rate it is much wiser to have no promises made; then both are free, and in a year or two may meet to laugh over the little romance nipped in the bud.'

'Do you honestly think that?' asked Nat, looking at her so keenly that the truth had to come; for all his heart was in those frank blue eyes of his.

'No, I don't!' answered Mrs Jo. 'Then if you were in my place, what would you do?' he added, with a tone of command never heard in his gentle voice before.

'Bless me! the boy is in dead earnest, and I shall forget prudence in sympathy I'm afraid,' thought Mrs Jo, surprised and pleased by the unexpected manliness Nat showed.

'I'll tell you what I should do. I'd say to myself:

"I'll prove that my love is strong and faithful, and make Daisy's mother proud to give her to me by being not only a good musician but an excellent man, and so command respect and confidence. This I will try for; and if I fail, I shall be the better for the effort, and find comfort in the thought that I did my best for her sake."'

'That is what I meant to do. But I wanted a word of hope to give me courage,' cried Nat, firing up as if the smouldering spark was set ablaze by a breath of encouragement. 'Other fellows, poorer and stupider than I, have done great things and come to honour. Why may not I, though I'm nothing now? I know Mrs Brooke remembers what I came from, but my father was honest though everything went wrong; and I have nothing to be ashamed of though I was a charity boy. I never will be ashamed of my people or myself, and I'll make other folks respect me if I can.'

'Good! that's the right spirit, Nat. Hold to it and make yourself a man. No one will be quicker to see and admire the brave work than my sister Meg. She does not despise your poverty or your past; but mothers are very tender over their daughters, and we Marches, though we have been poor, are, I confess, a little proud of our good family. We don't care for money; but a long line of virtuous ancestors is something to desire and to be proud of.'

'Well, the Blakes are a good lot. I looked 'em up, and not one was ever in prison, hanged, or disgraced in any way. We used to be rich and honoured years ago, but we've died out and got poor, and father was a street musician rather than beg; and I'll be one again before I'll do the mean things some men do and pass muster.'

Nat was so excited that Mrs Jo indulged in a laugh to calm him, and both went on more quietly.

'I told my sister all that and it pleased her. I am sure if you do well these next few years that she will relent and all be happily settled, unless that wonderful change, which you don't believe possible, should occur. Now, cheer up; don't be lackadaisical and blue. Say good-bye cheerfully and bravely, show a manly front, and leave a pleasant memory behind you. We all wish you well and hope much for you. Write to me every week and I'll send a good, gossipy answer. Be careful what you write to Daisy; don't gush or wail, for sister Meg will see the letters; and you can help your cause very much by sending sensible, cheery accounts of your life to us all.'

'I will; I will; it looks brighter and better already, and I won't lose my one comfort by any fault of my own. Thank you so much, Mother Bhaer, for taking my side. I felt so ungrateful and mean and crushed when I thought you all considered me a sneak who had no business to love such a precious girl as Daisy. No one said anything, but I knew how you felt, and that Mr Laurie sent me off partly to get me out of the way. Oh dear, life is pretty tough sometimes, isn't it?' And Nat took his head in both hands as if it ached with the confusion of hopes and fears, passions and plans that proved boyhood was past and manhood had begun.

'Very tough, but it is that very struggle with obstacles which does us good. Things have been made easy for you in many ways, but no one can do everything. You must paddle your own canoe now, and learn to avoid the rapids and steer straight to the port you want to reach. I don't know just what your temptations will be for you have no bad habits and seem to love music so well, nothing can lure you from it. I only hope you won't work too hard.'

'I feel as if I could work like a horse, I'm so eager to get on; but I'll take care. Can't waste time being sick, and you've given me doses enough to keep me all right, I guess.' Nat laughed as he remembered the book of directions Mrs Jo had written for him to consult on all occasions.

She immediately added some verbal ones on the subject of foreign messes, and having mounted one of her pet hobbies, was in full gallop when Emil was seen strolling about on the roof of the old house, that being his favourite promenade; for there he could fancy himself walking the deck, with only blue sky and fresh air about him.

'I want a word with the Commodore, and up there we shall be nice and quiet. Go and play to Daisy: it will put her to sleep and do you both good. Sit in the porch, so I can keep an eye on you as I promised'; and with a motherly pat on the shoulder Mrs Jo left Nat to his delightful task and briskly ascended to the house-top, not up the trellis as of old but by means of the stairs inside.

Emerging on the platform she found Emil cutting his initials afresh in the wood-work and singing 'Pull for the Shore', like the tuneful mariner he was.

'Come aboard and make yourself at home, Aunty,' he said, with a playful salute. 'I'm just leaving a P.P.C. in the old place, so when you fly up here for refuge you'll remember me.'

'Ah, my dear, I'm not likely to forget you. It doesn't need E. B. H. cut on all the trees and railings to remind me of my sailor boy'; and Mrs Jo took the seat nearest the blue figure astride the balustrade, not quite sure how to begin the little sermon she wanted to preach.

'Well, you don't pipe your eye and look squally when I sheer off as you used to, and that's a comfort. I like to leave port in fair weather and have a jolly send-off all round. Specially this time, for it will be a year or more before we drop anchor here again,' answered Emil, pushing his cap back, and glancing about him as if he loved old Plum and would be sorry never to see it any more.

'You have salt water enough without my adding to it. I'm going to be quite a Spartan mother, and send my sons to battle with no wailing, only the command:

"With your shield or on it",' said Mrs Jo cheerfully, adding after a pause: 'I often wish I could go too, and some day I will, when you are captain and have a ship of your own -- as I've no doubt you will before long, with Uncle Herman to push you on.'

'When I do I'll christen her the Jolly Jo and take you as first mate. It would be regular larks to have you aboard, and I'd be a proud man to carry you round the world you've wanted to see so long and never could,' answered Emil, caught at once by this splendid vision.

'I'll make my first voyage with you and enjoy myself immensely in spite of seasickness and all the stormy winds that blow. I've always thought I'd like to see a wreck, a nice safe one with all saved after great danger and heroic deeds, while we clung like Mr Pillicoddy to main-top jibs and lee scuppers.'

'No wrecks yet, ma'am, but we'll try to accommodate customers. Captain says I'm a lucky dog and bring fair weather, so we'll save the dirty weather for you if you want it,' laughed Emil, digging at the ship in full sail which he was adding to his design.

'Thanks, I hope you will. This long voyage will give you new experiences, and being an officer, you will have new duties and responsibilities. Are you ready for them? You take everything so gaily, I've been wondering if you realized that now you will have not only to obey but to command also, and power is a dangerous thing. Be careful that you don't abuse it or let it make a tyrant of you.'

'Right you are, ma'am. I've seen plenty of that, and have got my bearings pretty well, I guess. I shan't have very wide swing with Peters over me, but I'll see that the boys don't get abused when he's bowsed up his jib. No right to speak before, but now I won't stand it.'

'That sounds mysteriously awful; could I ask what nautical torture "bowsing jibs" is?' asked Mrs Jo, in a tone of deep interest.

'Getting drunk. Peters can hold more grog than any man I ever saw; he keeps right side up, but is as savage as a norther, and makes things lively all round. I've seen him knock a fellow down with a belaying pin, and couldn't lend a hand. Better luck now, I hope.' And Emil frowned as if he already trod the quarter-deck, lord of all he surveyed.

'Don't get into trouble, for even Uncle Herman's favour won't cover insubordination, you know. You have proved yourself a good sailor; now be a good officer, which is a harder thing, I fancy. It takes a fine character to rule justly and kindly; you will have to put by your boyish ways and remember your dignity. That will be excellent training for you, Emil, and sober you down a bit. No more skylarking except here, so mind your ways, and do honour to your buttons,' said Mrs Jo, tapping one of the very bright brass ones that ornamented the new suit Emil was so proud of.

'I'll do my best. I know my time for skirmshander (chaff) is over, and I must steer a straighter course; but don't you fear, Jack ashore is a very different craft from what he is with blue water under his keel. I had a long talk with Uncle last night and got my orders; I won't forget 'em nor all I owe him. As for you, I'll name my first ship as I say, and have your bust for the figurehead, see if I don't,' and Emil gave his aunt a hearty kiss to seal the vow, which proceeding much amused Nat, playing softly in the porch of the Dovecote.

'You do me proud, Captain. But, dear, I want to say one thing and then I'm done; for you don't need much advice of mine after my good man has spoken. I read somewhere that every inch of rope used in the British Navy has a strand of red in it, so that wherever a bit of it is found it is known. That is the text of my little sermon to you. Virtue, which means honour, honesty, courage, and all that makes character, is the red thread that marks a good man wherever he is. Keep that always and everywhere, so that even if wrecked by misfortune, that sign shall still be found and recognized. Yours is a rough life, and your mates not all we could wish, but you can be a gentleman in the true sense of the word; and no matter what happens to your body, keep your soul clean, your heart true to those who love you, and do your duty to the end.'

As she spoke Emil had risen and stood listening with his cap off and a grave, bright look as if taking orders from a superior officer; when she ended, he answered briefly, but heartily:

'Please God, I will!'

'That's all; I have little fear for you, but one never knows when or how the weak moment may come, and sometimes a chance word helps us, as so many my dear mother spoke come back to me now for my own comfort and the guidance of my boys,' said Mrs Jo, rising; for the words had been said and no more were needed.

'I've stored 'em up and know where to find 'em when wanted. Often and often in my watch I've seen old Plum, and heard you and Uncle talking so plainly, I'd have sworn I was here. It is a rough life, Aunty, but a wholesome one if a fellow loves it as I do, and has an anchor to windward as I have. Don't worry about me, and I'll come home next year with a chest of tea that will cheer your heart and give you ideas enough for a dozen novels. Going below? All right, steady in the gangway! I'll be along by the time you've got out the cake-box. Last chance for a good old lunch ashore.'

Mrs Jo descended laughing, and Emil finished his ship whistling cheerfully, neither dreaming when and where this little chat on the house-top would return to the memory of one of them.

Dan was harder to catch, and not until evening did a quiet moment come in that busy family; when, while the rest were roaming about, Mrs Jo sat down to read in the study, and presently Dan looked in at the window.

'Come and rest after your long tramp; you must be tired,' she called, with an inviting nod towards the big sofa where so many boys had reposed -- as much as that active animal ever does.

'Afraid I shall disturb you'; but Dan looked as if he wanted to stay his restless feet somewhere.

'Not a bit; I'm always ready to talk, shouldn't be a woman if I were not,' laughed Mrs Jo, as Dan swung himself in and sat down with an air of contentment very pleasant to see.

'Last day is over, yet somehow I don't seem to hanker to be off. Generally, I'm rather anxious to cut loose after a short stop. Odd, ain't it?' asked Dan, gravely picking grass and leaves out of his hair and beard; for he had been lying on the grass, thinking many thoughts in the quiet summer night.

'Not at all; you are beginning to get civilized. It's a good sign, and I'm glad to see it,' answered Mrs Jo promptly. 'You've had your swing, and want a change. Hope the farming will give it to you, though helping the Indians pleases me more: it is so much better to work for others than for one's self alone.'

'So 'tis,' assented Dan heartily. 'I seem to want to root somewhere and have folks of my own to take care of. Tired of my own company, I suppose, now I've seen so much better. I'm a rough, ignorant lot, and I've been thinking maybe I've missed it loafing round creation, instead of going in for education as the other chaps did. Hey?'

He looked anxiously at Mrs Jo; and she tried to hide the surprise this new outburst caused her; for till now Dan had scorned books and gloried in his freedom.

'No; I don't think so in your case. So far I'm sure the free life was best. Now that you are a man you can control that lawless nature better; but as a boy only great activity and much adventure could keep you out of mischief. Time is taming my colt, you see, and I shall yet be proud of him, whether he makes a pack-horse of himself to carry help to the starving or goes to ploughing as Pegasus did.'

Dan liked the comparison, and smiled as he lounged in the sofa-corner, with the new thoughtfulness in his eyes.

'Glad you think so. The fact is it's going to take a heap of taming to make me go well in harness anywhere. I want to, and I try now and then, but always kick over the traces and run away. No lives lost yet; but I shouldn't wonder if there was some time, and a general smash-up.'

'Why, Dan, did you have any dangerous adventures during this last absence? I fancied so, but didn't ask before, knowing you'd tell me if I could help in any way. Can I?' And Mrs Jo looked anxiously at him; for a sudden lowering expression had come into his face, and he leaned forward as if to hide it.

'Nothing very bad; but 'Frisco isn't just a heaven on earth, you know, and it's harder to be a saint there than here,' he answered slowly; then, as if he had made up his mind to ''fess', as the children used to say, he sat up, and added rapidly, in a half-defiant, half-shamefaced way, 'I tried gambling, and it wasn't good for me.'

'Was that how you made your money?'

'Not a penny of it! That's all honest, if speculation isn't a bigger sort of gambling. I won a lot; but I lost or gave it away, and cut the whole concern before it got the better of me.'

'Thank heaven for that! Don't try it again; it may have the terrible fascination for you it has for so many. Keep to your mountains and prairies, and shun cities, if these things tempt you, Dan. Better lose your life than your soul, and one such passion leads to worse sins, as you know better than I.'

Dan nodded, and seeing how troubled she was, said, in a lighter tone, though still the shadow of that past experience remained:

'Don't be scared; I'm all right now; and a burnt dog dreads the fire. I don't drink, or do the things you dread; don't care for 'em; but I get excited, and then this devilish temper of mine is more than I can manage. Fighting a moose or a buffalo is all right; but when you pitch into a man, no matter how great a scamp he is, you've got to look out. I shall kill someone some day; that's all I'm afraid of. I do hate a sneak!' And Dan brought his fist down on the table with a blow that made the lamp totter and the books skip.

'That always was your trial, Dan, and I can sympathize with you; for I've been trying to govern my own temper all my life, and haven't learnt yet,' said Mrs Jo, with a sigh. 'For heaven's sake, guard your demon well, and don't let a moment's fury ruin all your life. As I said to Nat, watch and pray, my dear boy. There is no other help or hope for human weakness but God's love and patience.'

Tears were in Mrs Jo's eyes as she spoke; for she felt this deeply, and knew how hard a task it is to rule these bosom sins of ours. Dan looked touched, also uncomfortable, as he always did when religion of any sort was mentioned, though he had a simple creed of his own, and tried to live up to it in his blind way.

'I don't do much praying; don't seem to come handy to me; but I can watch like a redskin, only it's easier to mount guard over a lurking grizzly than my own cursed temper. It's that I'm afraid of, if I settle down. I can get on with wild beasts first-rate; but men rile me awfully, and I can't take it out in a free fight, as I can with a bear or a wolf. Guess I'd better head for the Rockies, and stay there a spell longer -- till I'm tame enough for decent folks, if I ever am.' And Dan leaned his rough head on his hands in a despondent attitude.

'Try my sort of help, and don't give up. Read more, study a little, and try to meet a better class of people, who won't "rile", but soothe and strengthen you. We don't make you savage, I'm sure; for you have been as meek as a lamb, and made us very happy.'

'Glad of it; but I've felt like a hawk in a hen-house all the same, and wanted to pounce and tear more than once. Not so much as I used, though,' added Dan, after a short laugh at Mrs Jo's surprised face. 'I'll try your plan, and keep good company this bout if I can; but a man can't pick and choose, knocking about as I do.'

'Yes, you can this time; for you are going on a peaceful errand and can keep clear of temptation if you try. Take some books and read; that's an immense help; and books are always good company if you have the right sort. Let me pick out some for you.' And Mrs Jo made a bee-line to the well-laden shelves, which were the joy of her heart and the comfort of her life.

'Give me travels and stories, please; don't want any pious works, can't seem to relish 'em, and won't pretend I do,' said Dan, following to look over her head with small favour at the long lines of well-worn volumes.

Mrs Jo turned short round, and putting a hand on either broad shoulder, looked him in the eye, saying soberly:

'Now, Dan, see here; never sneer at good things or pretend to be worse than you are. Don't let false shame make you neglect the religion without which no man can live. You needn't talk about it if you don't like, but don't shut your heart to it in whatever shape it comes. Nature is your God now; she has done much for you; let her do more, and lead you to know and love a wiser and more tender teacher, friend, and comforter than she can ever be. That is your only hope; don't throw it away, and waste time; for sooner or later you will feel the need of Him, and He will come to you and hold you up when all other help fails.'

Dan stood motionless, and let her read in his softened eyes the dumb desire that lived in his heart, though he had no words to tell it, and only permitted her to catch a glimpse of the divine spark which smoulders or burns clearly in every human soul. He did not speak; and glad to be spared some answer which should belie his real feelings, Mrs Jo hastened to say, with her most motherly smile:

'I saw in your room the little Bible I gave you long ago; it was well worn outside, but fresh within, as if not much read. Will you promise me to read a little once a week, dear, for my sake? Sunday is a quiet day everywhere, and this book is never old nor out of place. Begin with the stories you used to love when I told them to you boys. David was your favourite, you remember? Read him again; he'll suit you even better now, and you'll find his sins and repentance useful reading till you come to the life and work of a diviner example than he. You will do it, for love of mother Bhaer, who always loved her "firebrand" and hoped to save him?'

'I will,' answered Dan, with a sudden brightening of face that was like a sunburst through a cloud, full of promise though so short-lived and rare.

Mrs Jo turned at once to the books and began to talk of them, knowing well that Dan would not hear any more just then. He seemed relieved; for it was always hard for him to show his inner self, and he took pride in hiding it as an Indian does in concealing pain or fear.

'Hallo, here's old Sintram! I remember him; used to like him and his tantrums, and read about 'em to Ted. There he is riding ahead with Death and the Devil alongside.'

As Dan looked at the little picture of the young man with horse and hound going bravely up the rocky defile, accompanied by the companions who ride beside most men through this world, a curious impulse made Mrs Jo say quickly:

'That's you, Dan, just you at this time! Danger and sin are near you in the life you lead; moods and passions torment you; the bad father left you to fight alone, and the wild spirit drives you to wander up and down the world looking for peace and self-control. Even the horse and hound are there, your Octoo and Don, faithful friends, unscared by the strange mates that go with you. You have not got the armour yet, but I'm trying to show you where to find it. Remember the mother Sintram loved and longed to find, and did find when his battle was bravely fought, his reward well earned? You can recollect your mother; and I have always felt that all the good qualities you possess come from her. Act out the beautiful old story in this as in the other parts, and try to give her back a son to be proud of.'

Quite carried away by the likeness of the quaint tale to Dan's life and needs, Mrs Jo went on pointing to the various pictures which illustrated it, and when she looked up was surprised to see how struck and interested he seemed to be. Like all people of his temperament he was very impressionable, and his life among hunters and Indians had made him superstitious; he believed in dreams, liked weird tales, and whatever appealed to the eye or mind, vividly impressed him more than the wisest words. The story of poor, tormented Sintram came back clearly as he looked and listened, symbolizing his secret trials even more truly than Mrs Jo knew; and just at that moment this had an effect upon him that never was forgotten. But all he said was:

'Small chance of that. I don't take much stock in the idea of meeting folks in heaven. Guess mother won't remember the poor little brat she left so long ago; why should she?'

'Because true mothers never forget their children; and I know she was one, from the fact that she ran away from the cruel husband, to save her little son from bad influences. Had she lived, life would have been happier for you, with this tender friend to help and comfort you. Never forget that she risked everything for your sake, and don't let it be in vain.'

Mrs Jo spoke very earnestly, knowing that this was the one sweet memory of Dan's early life, and glad to have recalled it at this moment; for suddenly a great tear splashed down on the page where Sintram kneels at his mother's feet, wounded, but victorious over sin and death. She looked up, well pleased to have touched Dan to the heart's core, as that drop proved; but a sweep of the arm brushed away the tell-tale, and his beard hid the mate to it, as he shut the book, saying with a suppressed quiver in his strong voice:

'I'll keep this, if nobody wants it. I'll read it over, and maybe it will do me good. I'd like to meet her anywhere, but don't believe I ever shall.'

'Keep it and welcome. My mother gave it to me; and when you read it try to believe that neither of your mothers will ever forget you.'

Mrs Jo gave the book with a caress; and simply saying: 'Thanks; good night,' Dan thrust it into his pocket, and walked straight away to the river to recover from this unwonted mood of tenderness and confidence.

Next day the travellers were off. All were in good spirits, and a cloud of handkerchiefs whitened the air as they drove away in the old bus, waving their hats to everyone and kissing their hands, especially to mother Bhaer, who said in her prophetic tone as she wiped her eyes, when the familiar rumble died away:

'I have a feeling that something is going to happen to some of them, and they will never come back to me, or come back changed. Well, I can only say, God be with my boys!'

And He was.



Chapter 7. THE LION AND THE LAMB

When the boys were gone a lull fell upon Plumfield, and the family scattered to various places for brief outings, as August had come and all felt the need of change. The Professor took Mrs Jo to the mountains. The Laurences were at the seashore, and there Meg's family and the Bhaer boys took turns to visit, as someone must always be at home to keep things in order.

Mrs Meg, with Daisy, was in office when the events occurred which we are about to relate. Rob and Ted were just up from Rocky Nook, and Nan was passing a week with her friend as the only relaxation she allowed herself. Demi was off on a run with Tom, so Rob was man of the house, with old Silas as general overseer. The sea air seemed to have gone to Ted's head, for he was unusually freakish, and led his gentle aunt and poor Rob a life of it with his pranks. Octoo was worn out with the wild rides he took, and Don openly rebelled when ordered to leap and show off his accomplishments; while the girls at college were both amused and worried by the ghosts who haunted the grounds at night, the unearthly melodies that disturbed their studious hours, and the hairbreadth escapes of this restless boy by flood and field and fire. Something happened at length which effectually sobered Ted and made a lasting impression on both the boys; for sudden danger and a haunting fear turned the Lion into a lamb and the Lamb into a lion, as far as courage went.

On the first of September -- the boys never forgot the date -- after a pleasant tramp and good luck with their fishing, the brothers were lounging in the barn; for Daisy had company, and the lads kept out of the way.

'I tell you what it is, Bobby, that dog is sick. He won't play, nor eat, nor drink, and acts queerly. Dan will kill us if anything happens to him,' said Ted, looking at Don, who lay near his kennel resting a moment after one of the restless wanderings which kept him vibrating between the door of Dan's room and the shady corner of the yard, where his master had settled him with an old cap to guard till he came back.

'It's the hot weather, perhaps. But I sometimes think he's pining for Dan. Dogs do, you know, and the poor fellow has been low in his mind ever since the boys went. Maybe something has happened to Dan. Don howled last night and can't rest. I've heard of such things,' answered Rob thoughtfully.

'Pooh! he can't know. He's cross. I'll stir him up and take him for a run. Always makes me feel better. Hi, boy! wake up and be jolly'; and Ted snapped his fingers at the dog, who only looked at him with grim indifference.

'Better let him alone. If he isn't right tomorrow, we'll take him to Dr Watkins and see what he says.' And Rob went on watching the swallows as he lay in the hay polishing up some Latin verses he had made.

The spirit of perversity entered into Ted, and merely because he was told not to tease Don he went on doing it, pretending that it was for the dog's good. Don took no heed of his pats, commands, reproaches, or insults, till Ted's patience gave out; and seeing a convenient switch near by he could not resist the temptation to conquer the great hound by force, since gentleness failed to win obedience. He had the wisdom to chain Don up first; for a blow from any hand but his master's made him savage, and Ted had more than once tried the experiment, as the dog remembered. This indignity roused Don and he sat up with a growl. Rob heard it, and seeing Ted raise the switch, ran to interfere, exclaiming:

'Don't touch him! Dan forbade it! Leave the poor thing in peace; I won't allow it.'

Rob seldom commanded, but when he did Master Ted had to give in. His temper was up, and Rob's masterful tone made it impossible to resist one cut at the rebellious dog before he submitted. Only a single blow, but it was a costly one; for as it fell, the dog sprang at Ted with a snarl, and Rob, rushing between the two, felt the sharp teeth pierce his leg. A word made Don let go and drop remorsefully at Rob's feet, for he loved him and was evidently sorry to have hurt his friend by mistake. With a forgiving pat Rob left him, to limp to the barn followed by Ted, whose wrath was changed to shame and sorrow when he saw the red drops on Rob's sock and the little wounds in his leg.

'I'm awfully sorry. Why did you get in the way? Here, wash it up, and I'll get a rag to tie on it,' he said quickly filling a sponge with water and pulling out a very demoralized handkerchief. Rob usually made light of his own mishaps and was over ready to forgive if others were to blame; but now he sat quite still, looking at the purple marks with such a strange expression on his white face that Ted was troubled, though he added with a laugh: 'Why, you're not afraid of a little dig like that, are you, Bobby?'

'I am afraid of hydrophobia. But if Don is mad I'd rather be the one to have it,' answered Rob, with a smile and a shiver.

At that dreadful word Ted turned whiter than his brother, and, dropping sponge and handkerchief, stared at him with a frightened face, whispering in a tone of despair:

'Oh, Rob, don't say it! What shall we do, what shall we do?'

'Call Nan; she will know. Don't scare Aunty, or tell a soul but Nan; she's on the back piazza; get her out here as quick as you can. I'll wash it till she comes. Maybe it's nothing; don't look so staggered, Ted. I only thought it might be, as Don is queer.'

Rob tried to speak bravely; but Ted's long legs felt strangely weak as he hurried away, and it was lucky he met no one, for his face would have betrayed him. Nan was swinging luxuriously in a hammock, amusing herself with a lively treatise on croup, when an agitated boy suddenly clutched her, whispering, as he nearly pulled her overboard:

'Come to Rob in the barn! Don's mad and he's bitten him, and we don't know what to do; it's all my fault; no one must know. Oh, do be quick!'

Nan was on her feet at once, startled, but with her wits about her, and both were off without more words as they dodged round the house where unconscious Daisy chatted with her friends in the parlour and Aunt Meg peacefully took her afternoon nap upstairs.

Rob was braced up, and was as calm and steady as ever when they found him in the harness-room, whither he had wisely retired, to escape observation. The story was soon told, and after a look at Don, now in his kennel, sad and surly, Nan said slowly, with her eye on the full water-pan:

'Rob, there is one thing to do for the sake of safety, and it must be done at once. We can't wait to see if Don is -- sick -- or to go for a doctor. I can do it, and I will; but it is very painful, and I hate to hurt you, dear.'

A most unprofessional quiver got into Nan's voice as she spoke, and her keen eyes dimmed as she looked at the two anxious young faces turned so confidingly to her for help.

'I know, burn it; well, do it, please; I can bear it. But Ted better go away,' said Rob, with a firm setting of his lips, and a nod at his afflicted brother.

'I won't stir; I can stand it if he can, only it ought to be me!' cried Ted, with a desperate effort not to cry, so full of grief and fear and shame was he that it seemed as if he couldn't bear it like a man.

'He'd better stay and help; do him good,' answered Nan sternly, because, her heart was faint within her, knowing as she did all that might be in store for both poor boys. 'Keep quiet; I'll be back in a minute,' she added, going towards the house, while her quick mind hastily planned what was best to be done.

It was ironing day, and a hot fire still burned in the empty kitchen, for the maids were upstairs resting. Nan put a slender poker to heat, and as she sat waiting for it, covered her face with her hands, asking help in this sudden need for strength, courage, and wisdom; for there was no one else to call upon, and young as she was, she knew what was to be done if she only had the nerve to do it. Any other patient would have been calmly interesting, but dear, good Robin, his father's pride, his mother's comfort, everyone's favourite and friend, that he should be in danger was very terrible; and a few hot tears dropped on the well-scoured table as Nan tried to calm her trouble by remembering how very likely it was to be all a mistake, a natural but vain alarm.

'I must make light of it, or the boys will break down, and then there will be a panic. Why afflict and frighten everyone when all is in doubt? I won't. I'll take Rob to Dr Morrison at once, and have the dog man see Don. Then, having done all we can, we will either laugh at our scare -- if it is one -- or be ready for whatever comes. Now for my poor boy.'

Armed with the red-hot poker, a pitcher of ice-water, and several handkerchiefs from the clotheshorse, Nan went back to the barn ready to do her best in this her most serious 'emergency case'. The boys sat like statues, one of despair, the other of resignation; and it took all Nan's boasted nerve to do her work quickly and well.

'Now, Rob, only a minute, then we are safe. Stand by, Ted; he may be a bit faintish.'

Rob shut his eyes, clinched his hands, and sat like a hero. Ted knelt beside him, white as a sheet, and as weak as a girl; for the pangs of remorse were rending him, and his heart failed at the thought of all this pain because of his wilfulness. It was all over in a moment, with only one little groan; but when Nan looked to her assistant to hand the water, poor Ted needed it the most, for he had fainted away, and lay on the floor in a pathetic heap of arms and legs.

Rob laughed, and, cheered by that unexpected sound, Nan bound up the wound with hands that never trembled, though great drops stood on her forehead; and she shared the water with patient number one before she turned to patient number two. Ted was much ashamed, and quite broken in spirit, when he found how he had failed at the critical moment, and begged them not to tell, as he really could not help it; then by way of finishing his utter humiliation, a burst of hysterical tears disgraced his manly soul, and did him a world of good.

'Never mind, never mind, we are all right now, and no one need be the wiser,' said Nan briskly, as poor Ted hiccoughed on Rob's shoulder, laughing and crying in the most tempestuous manner, while his brother soothed him, and the young doctor fanned both with Silas's old straw hat.

'Now, boys, listen to me and remember what I say. We won't alarm anyone yet, for I've made up my mind our scare is all nonsense. Don was out lapping the water as I came by, and I don't believe he's mad any more than I am. Still, to ease our minds and compose our spirits, and get our guilty faces out of sight for a while, I think we had better drive into town to my old friend Dr Morrison, and let him just take a look at my work, and give us some quieting little dose; for we are all rather shaken by this flurry. Sit still, Rob; and Ted, you harness up while I run and get my hat and tell Aunty to excuse me to Daisy. I don't know those Penniman girls, and she will be glad of our room at tea, and we'll have a cosy bite at my house, and come home as gay as larks.'

Nan talked on as a vent for the hidden emotions which professional pride would not allow her to show, and the boys approved her plan at once; for action is always easier than quiet waiting. Ted went staggering away to wash his face at the pump, and rub some colour into his cheeks before he harnessed the horse. Rob lay tranquilly on the hay, looking up at the swallows again as he lived through some very memorable moments. Boy as he was, the thought of death coming suddenly to him, and in this way, might well make him sober; for it is a very solemn thing to be arrested in the midst of busy life by the possibility of the great change. There were no sins to be repented of, few faults, and many happy, dutiful years to remember with infinite comfort. So Rob had no fears to daunt him, no regrets to sadden, and best of all, a very strong and simple piety to sustain and cheer him.

'Mein Vater,' was his first thought; for Rob was very near the Professor's heart, and the loss of his eldest would have been a bitter blow. These words, whispered with a tremble of the lips that had been so firm when the hot iron burned, recalled that other Father who is always near, always tender and helpful; and, folding his hands, Rob said the heartiest little prayer he ever prayed, there on the hay, to the soft twitter of the brooding birds. It did him good; and wisely laying all his fear and doubt and trouble in God's hand, the boy felt ready for whatever was to come, and from that hour kept steadily before him the one duty that was plain -- to be brave and cheerful, keep silent, and hope for the best.

Nan stole her hat, and left a note on Daisy's pincushion, saying she had taken the boys to drive, and all would be out of the way till after tea. Then she hurried back and found her patients much better, the one for work, the other for rest. In they got, and, putting Rob on the back seat with his leg up drove away, looking as gay and care-free as if nothing had happened.

Dr Morrison made light of the affair, but told Nan she had done right; and as the much-relieved lads went downstairs, he added in a whisper: 'Send the dog off for a while, and keep your eye on the boy. Don't let him know it, and report to me if anything seems wrong. One never knows in these cases. No harm to be careful.'

Nan nodded, and feeling much relieved now that the responsibility was off her shoulders, took the lads to Dr Watkins, who promised to come out later and examine Don. A merry tea at Nan's house, which was kept open for her all summer, did them good, and by the time they got home in the cool of the evening no sign of the panic remained but Ted's heavy eyes, and a slight limp when Rob walked. As the guests were still chattering on the front piazza they retired to the back, and Ted soothed his remorseful soul by swinging Rob in the hammock, while Nan told stories till the dog man arrived.

He said Don was a little under the weather, but no more mad than the grey kitten that purred round his legs while the examination went on.

'He wants his master, and feels the heat. Fed too well, perhaps. I'll keep him a few weeks and send him home all right,' said Dr Watkins, as Don laid his great head in his hand, and kept his intelligent eyes on his face, evidently feeling that this man understood his trials, and knew what to do for him.

So Don departed without a murmur, and our three conspirators took counsel together how to spare the family all anxiety, and give Rob the rest his leg demanded. Fortunately, he always spent many hours in his little study, so he could lie on the sofa with a book in his hand as long as he liked, without exciting any remark. Being of a quiet temperament, he did not worry himself or Nan with useless fears, but believed what was told him, and dismissing all dark possibilities, went cheerfully on his way, soon recovering from the shock of what he called 'our scare'.

But excitable Ted was harder to manage, and it took all Nan's wit and wisdom to keep him from betraying the secret; for it was best to say nothing and spare all discussion of the subject for Rob's sake. Ted's remorse preyed upon him, and having no 'Mum' to confide in, he was very miserable. By day he devoted himself to Rob, waiting on him, talking to him, gazing anxiously at him, and worrying the good fellow very much; though he wouldn't own it, since Ted found comfort in it. But at night, when all was quiet, Ted's lively imagination and heavy heart got the better of him, and kept him awake, or set him walking in his sleep. Nan had her eye on him, and more than once administered a little dose to give him a rest, read to him, scolded him, and when she caught him haunting the house in the watches of the night, threatened to lock him up if he did not stay in his bed. This wore off after a while; but a change came over the freakish boy, and everyone observed it, even before his mother returned to ask what they had done to quench the Lion's spirits. He was gay, but not so heedless; and often when the old wilfulness beset him, he would check it sharply, look at Rob, and give up, or stalk away to have his sulk out alone. He no longer made fun of his brother's old-fashioned ways and bookish tastes, but treated him with a new and very marked respect, which touched and pleased modest Rob, and much amazed all observers. It seemed as if he felt that he owed him reparation for the foolish act that might have cost him his life; and love being stronger than will, Ted forgot his pride, and paid his debt like an honest boy.

'I don't understand it,' said Mrs Jo, after a week of home life, much impressed by the good behaviour of her younger son. 'Ted is such a saint, I'm afraid we are going to lose him. Is it Meg's sweet influence, or Daisy's fine cooking, or the pellets I catch Nan giving him on the sly? Some witchcraft has been at work during my absence, and this will-o'-the-wisp is so amiable, quiet, and obedient, I don't know him.'

'He is growing up, heart's-dearest, and being a precocious plant, he begins to bloom early. I also see a change in my Robchen. He is more manly and serious than ever, and is seldom far from me, as if his love for the old papa was growing with his growth. Our boys will often surprise us in this way, Jo, and we can only rejoice over them and leave them to become what Gott pleases.'

As the Professor spoke, his eyes rested proudly on the brothers, who came walking up the steps together, Ted's arm over Rob's shoulder as he listened attentively to some geological remarks Rob was making on a stone he held. Usually, Ted made fun of such tastes, and loved to lay boulders in the student's path, put brickbats under his pillow, gravel in his shoes, or send parcels of dirt by express to 'Prof. R. M. Bhaer'. Lately, he had treated Rob's hobbies respectfully, and had begun to appreciate the good qualities of this quiet brother whom he had always loved but rather undervalued, till his courage under fire won Ted's admiration, and made it impossible to forget a fault, the consequences of which might have been so terrible. The leg was still lame, though doing well, and Ted was always offering an arm as support, gazing anxiously at his brother, and trying to guess his wants; for regret was still keen in Ted's soul, and Rob's forgiveness only made it deeper. A fortunate slip on the stairs gave Rob an excuse for limping, and no one but Nan and Ted saw the wound; so the secret was safe up to this time.

'We are talking about you, my lads. Come in and tell us what good fairy has been at work while we were gone. Or is it because absence sharpens our eyes, that we find such pleasant changes when we come back?' said Mrs Jo, patting the sofa on either side, while the Professor forgot his piles of letters to admire the pleasing prospect of his wife in a bower of arms, as the boys sat down beside her, smiling affectionately, but feeling a little guilty; for till now 'Mum' and 'Vater' knew every event in their boyish lives.

'Oh, it's only because Bobby and I have been alone so much; we are sort of twins. I stir him up a bit, and he steadies me a great deal. You and father do the same, you know. Nice plan. I like it'; and Ted felt that he had settled the matter capitally.

'Mother won't thank you for comparing yourself to her, Ted. I'm flattered at being like father in any way. I try to be,' answered Rob, as they laughed at Ted's compliment.

'I do thank him, for it's true; and if you, Robin, do half as much for your brother as Papa has for me, your life won't be a failure,' said Mrs Jo heartily. 'I'm very glad to see you helping one another. It's the right way, and we can't begin too soon to try to understand the needs, virtues, and failings of those nearest us. Love should not make us blind to faults, nor familiarity make us too ready to blame the shortcomings we see. So work away, my sonnies, and give us more surprises of this sort as often as you like.'

'The liebe Mutter has said all. I too am well pleased at the friendly brother-warmth I find. It is good for everyone; long may it last!' and Professor Bhaer nodded at the boys, who looked gratified, but rather at a loss how to respond to these flattering remarks.

Rob wisely kept silent, fearing to say too much; but Ted burst out, finding it impossible to help telling something:

'The fact is I've been finding out what a brave good chap Bobby is, and I'm trying to make up for all the bother I've been to him. I knew he was awfully wise, but I thought him rather soft, because he liked books better than larks, and was always fussing about his conscience. But I begin to see that it isn't the fellows who talk the loudest and show off best that are the manliest. No, sir! quiet old Bob is a hero and a trump, and I'm proud of him; so would you be if you knew all about it.'

Here a look from Rob brought Ted up with a round turn; he stopped short, grew red, and clapped his hand on his mouth in dismay.

'Well, are we not to "know all about it"?' asked Mrs Jo quickly; for her sharp eye saw signs of danger and her maternal heart felt that something had come between her and her sons. 'Boys,' she went on solemnly, 'I suspect that the change we talk about is not altogether the effect of growing up, as we say. It strikes me that Ted has been in mischief and Rob has got him out of some scrape; hence the lovely mood of my bad boy and the sober one of my conscientious son, who never hides anything from his mother.'

Rob was as red as Ted now, but after a moment's hesitation he looked up and answered with an air of relief:

'Yes, mother, that's it; but it's all over and no harm done, and I think we'd better let it be, for a while at least. I did feel guilty to keep anything from you, but now you know so much I shall not worry and you needn't either. Ted's sorry, I don't mind, and it has done us both good.'

Mrs Jo looked at Ted, who winked hard but bore the look like a man; then she turned to Rob, who smiled at her so cheerfully that she felt reassured; but something in his face struck her, and she saw what it was that made him seem older, graver, yet more lovable than ever. It was the look pain of mind, as well as body, brings, and the patience of a sweet submission to some inevitable trial. Like a flash she guessed that some danger had been near her boy, and the glances she had caught between the two lads and Nan confirmed her fears.

'Rob, dear, you have been ill, hurt, or seriously troubled by Ted? Tell me at once; I will not have any secrets now. Boys sometimes suffer all their lives from neglected accidents or carelessness. Fritz, make them speak out!'

Mr Bhaer put down his papers and came to stand before them, saying in a tone that quieted Mrs Jo, and gave the boys courage:

'My sons, give us the truth. We can bear it; do not hold it back to spare us. Ted knows we forgive much because we love him, so be frank, all two.'

Ted instantly dived among the sofa pillows and kept there, with only a pair of scarlet ears visible, while Rob in a few words told the little story, truthfully, but as gently as he could, hastening to add the comfortable assurance that Don was not mad, the wound nearly well, and no danger would ever come of it.

But Mrs Jo grew so pale he had to put his arms about her, and his father turned and walked away, exclaiming: 'Ach Himmel!' in a tone of such mingled pain, relief, and gratitude, that Ted pulled an extra pillow over his head to smother the sound. They were all right in a minute; but such news is always a shock, even if the peril is past, and Mrs Jo hugged her boy close till his father came and took him away, saying with a strong shake of both hands and a quiver in his voice:

'To be in danger of one's life tries a man's mettle, and you bear it well; but I cannot spare my good boy yet; thank Gott, we keep him safe!'

A smothered sound, between a choke and a groan, came from under the pillows, and the writhing of Ted's long legs so plainly expressed despair that his mother relented towards him, and burrowing till she found a tousled yellow head, pulled it out and smoothed it, exclaiming with an irrepressible laugh, though her cheeks were wet with tears:

'Come and be forgiven, poor sinner! I know you have suffered enough, and I won't say a word; only if harm had come to Rob you would have made me more miserable than yourself. Oh, Teddy, Teddy, do try to cure that wilful spirit of yours before it is too late!'

'Oh, Mum, I do try! I never can forget this -- I hope it's cured me; if it hasn't, I am afraid I ain't worth saving,' answered Ted, pulling his own hair as the only way of expressing his deep remorse.

'Yes, you are, my dear; I felt just so at fifteen when Amy was nearly drowned, and Marmee helped me as I'll help you. Come to me, Teddy, when the evil one gets hold of you, and together we'll rout him. Ah, me! I've had many a tussle with that old Apollyon, and often got worsted, but not always. Come under my shield, and we'll fight till we win.'

No one spoke for a minute as Ted and his mother laughed and cried in one handkerchief, and Rob stood with his father's arm round him so happy that all was told and forgiven, though never to be forgotten; for such experiences do one good, and knit hearts that love more closely together.

Presently Ted rose straight up and going to his father, said bravely and humbly:

'I ought to be punished. Please do it; but first say you forgive me, as Rob does.'

'Always that, mein Sohn, seventy time seven, if needs be, else I am not worthy the name you give me. The punishment has come; I can give no greater. Let it not be in vain. It will not with the help of the mother and the All Father. Room here for both, always!'

The good Professor opened his arms and embraced his boys like a true German, not ashamed to express by gesture or by word the fatherly emotions an American would have compressed into a slap on the shoulder and a brief 'All right'.

Mrs Jo sat and enjoyed the prospect like a romantic soul as she was, and then they had a quiet talk together, saying freely all that was in their hearts, and finding much comfort in the confidence which comes when love casts out fear. It was agreed that nothing be said except to Nan, who was to be thanked and rewarded for her courage, discretion, and fidelity.

'I always knew that girl had the making of a fine woman in her, and this proves it. No panics and shrieks and faintings and fuss, but calm sense and energetic skill. Dear child, what can I give or do to show my gratitude?' said Mrs Jo enthusiastically.

'Make Tom clear out and leave her in peace,' suggested Ted, almost himself again, though a pensive haze still partially obscured his native gaiety.

'Yes, do! he frets her like a mosquito. She forbade him to come out here while she stayed, and packed him off with Demi. I like old Tom, but he is a regular noodle about Nan,' added Rob, as he went away to help his father with the accumulated letters.

'I'll do it!' said Mrs Jo decidedly. 'That girl's career shall not be hampered by a foolish boy's fancy. In a moment of weariness she may give in, and then it's all over. Wiser women have done so and regretted it all their lives. Nan shall earn her place first, and prove that she can fill it; then she may marry if she likes, and can find a man worthy of her.'

But Mrs Jo's help was not needed; for love and gratitude can work miracles, and when youth, beauty, accident, and photography are added, success is sure; as was proved in the case of the unsuspecting but too susceptible Thomas.



Chapter 8. JOSIE PLAYS MERMAID

While the young Bhaers were having serious experiences at home, Josie was enjoying herself immensely at Rocky Nook; for the Laurences knew how to make summer idleness both charming and wholesome. Bess was very fond of her little cousin; Mrs Amy felt that whether her niece was an actress or not she must be a gentlewoman, and gave her the social training which marks the well-bred woman everywhere; while Uncle Laurie was never happier than when rowing, riding, playing, or lounging with two gay girls beside him. Josie bloomed like a wild flower in this free life, Bess grew rosy, brisk, and merry, and both were great favourites with the neighbours, whose villas were by the shore or perched on the cliffs along the pretty bay.

One crumpled rose-leaf disturbed Josie's peace, one baffled wish filled her with a longing which became a mania, and kept her as restless and watchful as a detective with a case to 'work up'. Miss Cameron, the great actress, had hired one of the villas and retired thither to rest and 'create' a new part for next season. She saw no one but a friend or two, had a private beach, and was invisible except during her daily drive, or when the opera-glasses of curious gazers were fixed on a blue figure disporting itself in the sea. The Laurences knew her, but respected her privacy, and after a call left her in peace till she expressed a wish for society -- a courtesy which she remembered and repaid later, as we shall see.

But Josie was like a thirsty fly buzzing about a sealed honey-pot, for this nearness to her idol was both delightful and maddening. She pined to see, hear, talk with, and study this great and happy woman who could thrill thousands by her art, and win friends by her virtue, benevolence, and beauty. This was the sort of actress the girl meant to be, and few could object if the gift was really hers; for the stage needs just such women to purify and elevate the profession which should teach as well as amuse. If kindly Miss Cameron had known what passionate love and longing burned in the bosom of the little girl whom she idly observed skipping over the rocks, splashing about the beach, or galloping past her gate on a Shetland pony, she would have made her happy by a look or a word. But being tired with her winter's work and busy with her new part, the lady took no more notice of this young neighbour than of the sea-gulls in the bay or the daisies dancing in the fields. Nosegays left on her doorstep, serenades under her garden-wall, and the fixed stare of admiring eyes were such familiar things that she scarcely minded them; and Josie grew desperate when all her little attempts failed.

'I might climb that pine-tree and tumble off on her piazza roof, or get Sheltie to throw me just at her gate and be taken in fainting. It's no use to try to drown myself when she is bathing. I can't sink, and she'd only send a man to pull me out. What can I do? I will see her and tell her my hopes and make her say I can act some day. Mamma would believe her; and if -- oh, if she only would let me study with her, what perfect joy that would be!'

Josie made these remarks one afternoon as she and Bess prepared for a swim, a fishing party having prevented their morning bathe.

'You must bide your time, dear, and not be so impatient. Papa promised to give you a chance before the season is over, and he always manages things nicely. That will be better than any queer prank of yours,' answered Bess, tying her pretty hair in a white net to match her suit, while Josie made a little lobster of herself in scarlet.

'I hate to wait; but I suppose I must. Hope she will bathe this afternoon, though it is low tide. She told Uncle she should have to go in then because in the morning people stared so and went on her beach. Come and have a good dive from the big rock. No one round but nurses and babies, so we can romp and splash as much as we like.'

Away they went to have a fine time; for the little bay was free from other bathers, and the babies greatly admired their aquatic gymnastics, both being expert swimmers.

As they sat dripping on the big rock Josie suddenly gave a clutch that nearly sent Bess overboard, as she cried excitedly:

'There she is! Look! coming to bathe. How splendid! Oh, if she only would drown a little and let me save her! or even get her toe nipped by a crab; anything so I could go and speak!'

'Don't seem to look; she comes to be quiet and enjoy herself. Pretend we don't see her, that's only civil,' answered Bess, affecting to be absorbed in a white-winged yacht going by.

'Let's carelessly float that way as if going for seaweed on the rocks. She can't mind if we are flat on our backs, with only our noses out. Then when we can't help seeing her, we'll swim back as if anxious to retire. That will impress her, and she may call to thank the very polite young ladies who respect her wishes,' proposed Josie, whose lively fancy was always planning dramatic situations.

Just as they were going to slip from their rock, as if Fate relented at last, Miss Cameron was seen to beckon wildly as she stood waist-deep in the water, looking down. She called to her maid, who seemed searching along the beach for something, and not finding what she sought, waved a towel towards the girls as if summoning them to help her.

'Run, fly! she wants us, she wants us!' cried Josie, tumbling into the water like a very energetic turtle, and swimming away in her best style towards this long desired haven of joy. Bess followed more slowly, and both came panting and smiling up to Miss Cameron, who never lifted her eyes, but said in that wonderful voice of hers:

'I've dropped a bracelet. I see it, but can't get it. Will the little boy find me a long stick? I'll keep my eye on it, so the water shall not wash it away.'

'I'll dive for it with pleasure; but I'm not a boy,' answered Josie, laughing as she shook the curly head which at a distance had deceived the lady.

'I beg your pardon. Dive away, child; the sand is covering it fast. I value it very much. Never forgot to take it off before.'

'I'll get it!' and down went Josie, to come up with a handful of pebbles, but no bracelet.

'It's gone; never mind -- my fault,' said Miss Cameron, disappointed, but amused at the girl's dismay as she shook the water out of her eyes and gasped bravely:

'No, it isn't. I'll have it, if I stay down all night!' and with one long breath Josie dived again, leaving nothing but a pair of agitated feet to be seen.

'I'm afraid she will hurt herself,' said Miss Cameron, looking at Bess, whom she recognized by her likeness to her mother.

'Oh, no; Josie is a little fish. She likes it'; and Bess smiled happily at this wonderful granting of her cousin's desire.

'You are Mr Laurence's daughter, I think? How d'ye do, dear? Tell papa I'm coming to see him soon. Too tired before. Quite savage. Better now. Ah! here's our pearl of divers. What luck?' she asked, as the heels went down and a dripping head came up.

Josie could only choke and splutter at first, being half strangled; but though her hands had failed again, her courage had not; and with a resolute shake of her wet hair, a bright look at the tall lady, and a series of puffs to fill her lungs, she said calmly:

'"Never give up" is my motto. I'm going to get it, if I go to Liverpool for it! Now, then!' and down went the mermaid quite out of sight this time, groping like a real lobster at the bottom of the sea.

'Plucky little girl! I like that. Who is she?' asked the lady, sitting down on a half-covered stone to watch her diver, since the bracelet was lost sight of.

Bess told her, adding, with the persuasive smile of her father: 'Josie longs to be an actress, and has waited for a month to see you. This is a great happiness for her.'

'Bless the child! why didn't she come and call? I'd have let her in; though usually I avoid stage-struck girls as I do reporters,' laughed Miss Cameron.

There was no time for more; a brown hand, grasping the bracelet, rose out of the sea, followed by a purple face as Josie came up so blind and dizzy she could only cling to Bess, half drowned but triumphant.

Miss Cameron drew her to the rock where she sat, and pushing the hair out of her eyes, revived her with a hearty 'Bravo! bravo!' which assured the girl that her first act was a hit. Josie had often imagined her meeting with the great actress -- the dignity and grace with which she would enter and tell her ambitious hopes, the effective dress she would wear, the witty things she would say, the deep impression her budding genius would make. But never in her wildest moments had she imagined an interview like this; scarlet, sandy, streaming, and speechless she leaned against the illustrious shoulder, looking like a beautiful seal as she blinked and wheezed till she could smile joyfully and exclaim proudly:

'I did get it! I'm so glad!'

'Now get your breath, my dear; then I shall be glad also. It was very nice of you to take all that trouble for me. How shall I thank you?' asked the lady, looking at her with the beautiful eyes that could say so many things without words.

Josie clasped her hands with a wet spat which rather destroyed the effect of the gesture, and answered in a beseeching tone that would have softened a far harder heart than Miss Cameron's:

'Let me come and see you once -- only once! I want you to tell me if I can act; you will know. I'll abide by what you say; and if you think I can -- by and by, when I've studied very hard -- I shall be the happiest girl in the world. May I?'

'Yes; come tomorrow at eleven. We'll have a good talk; you shall show me what you can do, and I'll give you my opinion. But you won't like it.'

'I will, no matter if you tell me I'm a fool. I want it settled; so does mamma. I'll take it bravely if you say no; and if you say yes, I'll never give up till I've done my best -- as you did.'

'Ah, my child, it's a weary road, and there are plenty of thorns among the roses when you've won them. I think you have the courage, and this proves that you have perseverance. Perhaps you'll do. Come, and we'll see.'

Miss Cameron touched the bracelet as she spoke, and smiled so kindly that impetuous Josie wanted to kiss her; but wisely refrained, though her eyes were wet with softer water than any in the sea as she thanked her.

'We are keeping Miss Cameron from her bath, and the tide is going out. Come, Josie,' said thoughtful Bess, fearing to outstay their welcome.

'Run over the beach and get warm. Thank you very much, little mermaid. Tell papa to bring his daughter to see me any time. Good-bye'; and with a wave of her hand the tragedy queen dismissed her court, but remained on her weedy throne watching the two lithe figures race over the sand with twinkling feet till they were out of sight. Then, as she calmly bobbed up and down in the water, she said to herself: 'The child has a good stage face, vivid, mobile; fine eyes, abandon, pluck, will. Perhaps she'll do. Good stock -- talent in the family. We shall see.'

Of course Josie never slept a wink, and was in a fever of joyful excitement next day. Uncle Laurie enjoyed the episode very much, and Aunt Amy looked out her most becoming white dress for the grand occasion; Bess lent her most artistic hat, and Josie ranged the wood and marsh for a bouquet of wild roses, sweet white azalea, ferns, and graceful grasses, as the offering of a very grateful heart.

At ten she solemnly arrayed herself, and then sat looking at her neat gloves and buckled shoes till it was time to go, growing pale and sober with the thought that her fate was soon to be decided; for, like all young people she was sure that her whole life could be settled by one human creature, quite forgetting how wonderfully Providence trains us by disappointment, surprises us with unexpected success, and turns our seeming trials into blessings.

'I will go alone: we shall be freer so. Oh, Bess, pray that she may tell me rightly! So much depends on that! Don't laugh, uncle! It is a very serious moment for me. Miss Cameron knows that, and will tell you so. Kiss me, Aunt Amy, since mamma isn't here. If you say I look nice, I'm quite satisfied. Good-bye.' And with a wave of the hand as much like her model's as she could make it, Josie departed, looking very pretty and feeling very tragical.

Sure now of admittance, she boldly rang at the door which excluded so many, and being ushered into a shady parlour, feasted her eyes upon several fine portraits of great actors while she waited. She had read about most of them, and knew their trials and triumphs so well that she soon forgot herself, and tried to imitate Mrs Siddons as Lady Macbeth, looking up at the engraving as she held her nosegay like the candle in the sleep-walking scene, and knit her youthful brows distressfully while murmuring the speech of the haunted queen. So busy was she that Miss Cameron watched her for several minutes unseen, then startled her by suddenly sweeping in with the words upon her lips, the look upon her face, which made that one of her greatest scenes.

'I never can do it like that; but I'll keep trying, if you say I may,' cried Josie, forgetting her manners in the intense interest of the moment.

'Show me what you can do,' answered the actress, wisely plunging into the middle of things at once, well knowing that no common chat would satisfy this very earnest little person.

'First let me give you these. I thought you'd like wild things better than hot-house flowers; and I loved to bring them, as I'd no other way to thank you for your great kindness to me,' said Josie, offering her nosegay with a simple warmth that was very sweet.

'I do love them best, and keep my room full of the posies some good fairy hangs on my gate. Upon my word, I think I've found the fairy out -- these are so like,' she added quickly, as her eye went from the flowers in her hand to others that stood near by, arranged with the same taste.

Josie's blush and smile betrayed her before she said, with a look full of girlish adoration and humility: 'I couldn't help it; I admire you so much. I know it was a liberty; but as I couldn't get in myself, I loved to think my posies pleased you.'

Something about the child and her little offering touched the woman, and, drawing Josie to her, she said, with no trace of actress in face or voice:

'They did please me, dear, and so do you. I'm tired of praise; and love is very sweet, when it is simple and sincere like this.'

Josie remembered to have heard, among many other stories, that Miss Cameron lost her lover years ago, and since had lived only for art. Now she felt that this might have been true; and pity for the splendid, lonely life made her face very eloquent, as well as grateful. Then, as if anxious to forget the past, her new friend said, in the commanding way that seemed natural to her:

'Let me see what you can do. Juliet, of course. All begin with that. Poor soul, how she is murdered!'

Now, Josie had intended to begin with Romeo's much-enduring sweetheart, and follow her up with Bianca, Pauline, and several of the favourite idols of stage-struck girls; but being a shrewd little person, she suddenly saw the wisdom of Uncle Laurie's advice, and resolved to follow it. So instead of the rant Miss Cameron expected, Josie gave poor Ophelia's mad scene, and gave it very well, having been trained by the college professor of elocution and done it many times. She was too young, of course, but the white gown, the loose hair, the real flowers she scattered over the imaginary grave, added to the illusion; and she sung the songs sweetly, dropped her pathetic curtsies, and vanished behind the curtain that divided the rooms with a backward look that surprised her critical auditor into a quick gesture of applause. Cheered by that welcome sound, Josie ran back as a little hoyden in one of the farces she had often acted, telling a story full of fun and naughtiness at first, but ending with a sob of repentance and an earnest prayer for pardon.

'Very good! Try again. Better than I expected,' called the voice of the oracle.

Josie tried Portia's speech, and recited very well, giving due emphasis to each fine sentence. Then, unable to refrain from what she considered her greatest effort, she burst into Juliet's balcony scene, ending with the poison and the tomb. She felt sure that she surpassed herself, and waited for applause. A ringing laugh made her tingle with indignation and disappointment, as she went to stand before Miss Cameron, saying in a tone of polite surprise:

'I have been told that I did it very well. I'm sorry you don't think so.'

'My dear, it's very bad. How can it help being so? What can a child like you know of love and fear and death? Don't try it yet. Leave tragedy alone till you are ready for it.'

'But you clapped Ophelia.'

'Yes, that was very pretty. Any clever girl can do it effectively. But the real meaning of Shakespeare is far above you yet, child. The comedy bit was best. There you showed real talent. It was both comic and pathetic. That's art. Don't lose it. The Portia was good declamation. Go on with that sort of thing; it trains the voice -- teaches shades of expression. You've a good voice and natural grace -- great helps both, hard to acquire.'

'Well, I'm glad I've got something,' sighed Josie, sitting meekly on a stool, much crestfallen, but not daunted yet, and bound to have her say out.

'My dear little girl, I told you that you would not like what I should say to you; yet I must be honest if I would really help you. I've had to do it for many like you; and most of them have never forgiven me, though my words have proved true, and they are what I advised them to be -- good wives and happy mothers in quiet homes. A few have kept on, and done fairly well. One you will hear of soon, I think; for she has talent, indomitable patience, and mind as well as beauty. You are too young to show to which class you belong. Geniuses are very rare, and even at fifteen seldom give much promise of future power.'

'Oh, I don't think I'm a genius!' cried Josie, growing calm and sober as she listened to the melodious voice and looked into the expressive face that filled her with confidence, so strong, sincere, and kindly was it. 'I only want to find out if I have talent enough to go on, and after years of study to be able to act well in any of the good plays people never tire of seeing. I don't expect to be a Mrs Siddons or a Miss Cameron, much as I long to be; but it does seem as if I had something in me which can't come out in any way but this. When I act I'm perfectly happy. I seem to live, to be in my own world, and each new part is a new friend. I love Shakespeare, and am never tired of his splendid people. Of course, I don't understand it all; but it's like being alone at night with the mountains and the stars, solemn and grand, and I try to imagine how it will look when the sun comes up, and all is glorious and clear to me. I can't see, but I feel the beauty, and long to express it.'

As she spoke with the most perfect self-forgetfulness Josie was pale with excitement, her eyes shone, her lips trembled, and all her little soul seemed trying to put into words the emotions that filled it to overflowing. Miss Cameron understood, felt that this was something more than a girlish whim; and when she answered there was a new tone of sympathy in her voice, a new interest in her face, though she wisely refrained from saying all she thought, well knowing what splendid dreams young people build upon a word, and how bitter is the pain when the bright bubbles burst.

'If you feel this, I can give you no better advice than to go on loving and studying our great master,' she said slowly; but Josie caught the changed tone, and felt, with a thrill of joy, that her new friend was speaking to her now as to a comrade. 'It is an education in itself, and a lifetime is not long enough to teach you all his secret. But there is much to do before you can hope to echo his words. Have you the patience, courage, strength, to begin at the beginning, and slowly, painfully, lay the foundation for future work? Fame is a pearl many dive for and only a few bring up. Even when they do, it is not perfect, and they sigh for more, and lose better things in struggling for them.'

The last words seemed spoken more to herself than to her hearer, but Josie answered quickly, with a smile and an expressive gesture:

'I got the bracelet in spite of all the bitter water in my eyes.'

'You did! I don't forget it. A good omen. We will accept it.'

Miss Cameron answered the smile with one that was like sunshine to the girl, and stretched her white hands as if taking some invisible gift. Then added in a different tone, watching the effect of her words on the expressive face before her:

'Now you will be disappointed, for instead of telling you to come and study with me, or go and act in some second-rate theatre at once, I advise you to go back to school and finish your education. That is the first step, for all accomplishments are needed, and a single talent makes a very imperfect character. Cultivate mind and body, heart and soul, and make yourself an intelligent, graceful, beautiful, and healthy girl. Then, at eighteen or twenty, go into training and try your powers. Better start for the battle with your arms in order, and save the hard lesson which comes when we rush on too soon. Now and then genius carries all before it, but not often. We have to climb slowly, with many slips and falls. Can you wait as well as work?'

'I will!'

'We shall see. It would be pleasant to me to know that when I quit the stage I leave behind me a well-trained, faithful, gifted comrade to more than fill my place, and carry on what I have much at heart -- the purification of the stage. Perhaps you are she; but remember, mere beauty and rich costumes do not make an actress, nor are the efforts of a clever little girl to play great characters real art. It is all dazzle and sham, and a disgrace and disappointment now. Why will the public be satisfied with opera bouffe, or the trash called society plays when a world of truth and beauty, poetry and pathos lies waiting to be interpreted and enjoyed?'

Miss Cameron had forgotten to whom she spoke, and walked to and fro, full of the noble regret all cultivated people feel at the low state of the stage nowadays.

'That's what Uncle Laurie says; and he and Aunt Jo try to plan plays about true and lovely things -- simple domestic scenes that touch people's hearts, and make them laugh and cry and feel better. Uncle says that sort is my style, and I must not think of tragedy. But it's so much nicer to sweep about in crowns and velvet trains than to wear everyday clothes, and just be myself, though it is so easy.'

'Yet that is high art, child, and what we need for a time till we are ready for the masters. Cultivate that talent of yours. It is a special gift, this power to bring tears and smiles, and a sweeter task to touch the heart than to freeze the blood or fire the imagination. Tell your uncle he is right, and ask your aunt to try a play for you. I'll come and see it when you are ready.'

'Will you? Oh! will you? We are going to have some at Christmas, with a nice part for me. A simple little thing, but I can do it, and should be so proud, so happy to have you there.'

Josie rose as she spoke, for a glance at the clock showed her that her call was a long one; and hard as it was to end this momentous interview, she felt that she must go. Catching up her hat she went to Miss Cameron, who stood looking at her so keenly that she felt as transparent as a pane of glass, and coloured prettily as she looked up, saying, with a grateful little tremor in her voice:

'I can never thank you for this hour and all you have told me. I shall do just what you advise, and mamma will be very glad to see me settled at my books again. I can study now with all my heart, because it is to help me on; and I won't hope too much, but work and wait, and try to please you, as the only way to pay my debt.'

'That reminds me that I have not paid mine. Little friend, wear this for my sake. It is fit for a mermaid, and will remind you of your first dive. May the next bring up a better jewel, and leave no bitter water on your lips!'

As she spoke, Miss Cameron took from the lace at her throat a pretty pin of aquamarine, and fastened it like an order on Josie's proud bosom; then lifting the happy little face, she kissed it very tenderly, and watched it go smiling away with eyes that seemed to see into a future full of the trials and the triumphs which she knew so well.

Bess expected to see Josie come flying in, all raptures and excitement, or drowned in tears of disappointment, but was surprised at the expression of calm content and resolution which she wore. Pride and satisfaction, and a new feeling of responsibility both sobered and sustained her, and she felt that any amount of dry study and long waiting would be bearable, if in the glorious future she could be an honour to her profession and a comrade to the new friend whom she already adored with girlish ardour.

She told her little story to a deeply interested audience, and all felt that Miss Cameron's advice was good. Mrs Amy was relieved at the prospect of delay; for she did not want her niece to be an actress and hoped the fancy would die out.

Uncle Laurie was full of charming plans and prophecies and wrote one of his most delightful notes to thank their neighbour for her kindness; while Bess, who loved art of all kinds, fully sympathized with her cousin's ambitious hopes, only wondering why she preferred to act out her visions rather than embody them in marble.

That first interview was not the last; for Miss Cameron was really interested, and had several memorable conversations with the Laurences, while the girls sat by, drinking in every word with the delight all artists feel in their own beautiful world, and learning to see how sacred good gifts are, how powerful, and how faithfully they should be used for high ends, each in its own place helping to educate, refine, and refresh.

Josie wrote reams to her mother; and when the visit ended rejoiced her heart by bringing her a somewhat changed little daughter, who fell to work at the once-detested books with a patient energy which surprised and pleased everyone. The right string had been touched, and even French exercises and piano practice became endurable, since accomplishments would be useful by and by; dress, manners, and habits were all interesting now, because 'mind and body, heart and soul, must be cultivated', and while training to become an 'intelligent, graceful, healthy girl', little Josie was unconsciously fitting herself to play her part well on whatever stage the great Manager might prepare for her.



Chapter 9. THE WORM TURNS

Two very superior bicycles went twinkling up the road to Plumfield one September afternoon, bearing two brown and dusty riders evidently returning from a successful run, for though their legs might be a trifle weary, their faces beamed as they surveyed the world from their lofty perches with the air of calm content all wheelmen wear after they have learned to ride; before that happy period anguish of mind and body is the chief expression of the manly countenance.

'Go ahead and report, Tom; I'm due here. See you later,' said Demi, swinging himself down at the door of the Dovecote.

'Don't peach, there's a good fellow. Let me have it out with Mother Bhaer first,' returned Tom, wheeling in at the gate with a heavy sigh.

Demi laughed, and his comrade went slowly up the avenue, devoutly hoping that the coast was clear; for he was the bearer of tidings which would, he thought, convulse the entire family with astonishment and dismay.

To his great joy Mrs Jo was discovered alone in a grove of proof-sheets, which she dropped, to greet the returning wanderer cordially. But after the first glance she saw that something was the matter, recent events having made her unusually sharp-eyed and suspicious.

'What is it now, Tom?' she asked, as he subsided into an easy-chair with a curious expression of mingled fear, shame, amusement, and distress in his brick-red countenance.

'I'm in an awful scrape, ma'am.'

'Of course; I'm always prepared for scrapes when you appear. What is it? Run over some old lady who is going to law about it?' asked Mrs Jo cheerfully.

'Worse than that,' groaned Tom.

'Not poisoned some trusting soul who asked you to prescribe, I hope?'

'Worse than that.'

'You haven't let Demi catch any horrid thing and left him behind, have you?'

'Worse even than that.'

'I give it up. Tell me quick; I hate to wait for bad news.'

Having got his listener sufficiently excited, Tom launched his thunderbolt in one brief sentence, and fell back to watch the effect.

'I'm engaged!'

Mrs Jo's proof-sheets flew wildly about as she clasped her hands, exclaiming in dismay:

'If Nan has yielded, I'll never forgive her!'

'She hasn't; it's another girl.'

Tom's face was so funny as he said the words, that it was impossible to help laughing; for he looked both sheepish and pleased, besides very much perplexed and worried.

'I'm glad, very glad indeed! Don't care who it is; and I hope you'll be married soon. Now tell me all about it,' commanded Mrs Jo, so much relieved that she felt ready for anything.

'What will Nan say?' demanded Tom, rather taken aback at this view of his predicament.

'She will be rejoiced to get rid of the mosquito who has plagued her so long. Don't worry about Nan. Who is this "other girl"?'

'Demi hasn't written about her?'

'Only something about your upsetting a Miss West down at Quitno; I thought that was scrape enough.'

'That was only the beginning of a series of scrapes. Just my luck! Of course after sousing the poor girl I had to be attentive to her, hadn't I? Everyone seemed to think so, and I couldn't get away, and so I was lost before I knew it. It's all Demi's fault, he would stay there and fuss with his old photos, because the views were good and all the girls wanted to be taken. Look at these, will you, ma'am? That's the way we spent our time when we weren't playing tennis'; and Tom pulled a handful of pictures from his pocket, displaying several in which he was conspicuous, either holding a sun-umbrella over a very pretty young lady on the rocks, reposing at her feet in the grass, or perched on a piazza railing with other couples in seaside costumes and effective attitudes.

'This is she of course?' asked Mrs Jo, pointing to the much-ruffled damsel with the jaunty hat, coquettish shoes, and racquet in her hand.

'That's Dora. Isn't she lovely?' cried Tom, forgetting his tribulations for a moment and speaking with lover-like ardour.

'Very nice little person to look at. Hope she is not a Dickens Dora? That curly crop looks like it.'

'Not a bit; she's very smart; can keep house, and sew, and do lots of things, I assure you, ma'am. All the girls like her, and she's sweet-tempered and jolly, and sings like a bird, and dances beautifully, and loves books. Thinks yours are splendid, and made me talk about you no end.'

'That last sentence is to flatter me and win my help to get you out of the scrape. Tell me first how you got in'; and Mrs Jo settled herself to listen with interest, never tired of boys' affairs.

Tom gave his head a rousing rub all over to clear his wits, and plunged into his story with a will.

'Well, we've met her before, but I didn't know she was there. Demi wanted to see a fellow, so we went, and finding it nice and cool rested over Sunday. Found some pleasant people and went out rowing; I had Dora, and came to grief on a confounded rock. She could swim, no harm done, only the scare and the spoilt gown. She took it well, and we got friendly at once -- couldn't help it, scrambling into that beast of a boat while the rest laughed at us. Of course we had to stay another day to see that Dora was all right. Demi wanted to. Alice Heath is down there and two other girls from our college, so we sort of lingered along, and Demi kept taking pictures, and we danced, and got into a tennis tournament; and that was as good exercise as wheeling, we thought. Fact is, tennis is a dangerous game, ma'am. A great deal of courting goes on in those courts, and we fellows find that sort of "serving" mighty agreeable, don't you know?'

'Not much tennis in my day, but I understand perfectly,' said Mrs Jo, enjoying it all as much as Tom did.

'Upon my word, I hadn't the least idea of being serious,' he continued slowly, as if this part of his tale was hard to tell; 'but everyone else spooned, so I did. Dora seemed to like it and expect it, and of course I was glad to be agreeable. She thought I amounted to something, though Nan does not, and it was pleasant to be appreciated after years of snubbing. Yes, it was right down jolly to have a sweet girl smile at you all day, and blush prettily when you said a neat thing to her, and look glad when you came, sorry when you left, and admire all you did, and make you feel like a man and act your best. That's the sort of treatment a fellow enjoys and ought to get if he behaves himself; not frowns and cold shoulders year in and year out, and made to look like a fool when he means well, and is faithful, and has loved a girl ever since he was a boy. No, by Jove, it's not fair, and I won't stand it!'

Tom waxed warm and eloquent as he thought over his wrongs, and bounced up to march about the room, wagging his head and trying to feel aggrieved as usual, but surprised to find that his heart did not ache a bit.

'I wouldn't. Drop the old fancy, for it was nothing more, and take up the new one, if it is genuine. But how came you to propose, Tom, as you must have done to be engaged?' asked Mrs Jo, impatient for the crisis of the tale.

'Oh, that was an accident. I didn't mean it at all; the donkey did it, and I couldn't get out of the scrape without hurting Dora's feelings, you see,' began Tom, seeing that the fatal moment had come.

'So there were two donkeys in it, were there?' said Mrs Jo, foreseeing fun of some sort.

'Don't laugh! It sounds funny, I know; but it might have been awful,' answered Tom darkly, though a twinkle of the eye showed that his love trials did not quite blind him to the comic side of the adventure.

'The girls admired our new wheels, and of course we liked to show off. Took 'em to ride, and had larks generally. Well, one day, Dora was on behind, and we were going nicely along a good bit of road, when a ridiculous old donkey got right across the way. I thought he'd move, but he didn't, so I gave him a kick; he kicked back, and over we went in a heap, donkey and all. Such a mess! I thought only of Dora, and she had hysterics; at least, she laughed till she cried, and that beast brayed, and I lost my head. Any fellow would, with a poor girl gasping in the road, and he wiping her tears and begging pardon, not knowing whether her bones were broken or not. I called her my darling, and went on like a fool in my flurry, till she grew calmer, and said, with such a look: "I forgive you, Tom. Pick me up, and let us go on again."

'Wasn't that sweet now, after I'd upset her for the second time? It touched me to the heart; and I said I'd like to go on for ever with such an angel to steer for, and -- well I don't know what I did say; but you might have knocked me down with a feather when she put her arm round my neck and whispered: "Tom, dear, with you I'm not afraid of any lions in the path." She might have said donkeys; but she was in earnest, and she spared my feelings. Very nice of the dear girl; but there I am with two sweethearts on my hands, and in a deuce of a scrape.'

Finding it impossible to contain herself another moment, Mrs Jo laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks at this characteristic episode; and after one reproachful look, which only added to her merriment, Tom burst into a jolly roar that made the room ring.

'Tommy Bangs! Tommy Bangs! who but you could ever get into such a catastrophe?' said Mrs Jo, when she recovered her breath.

'Isn't it a muddle all round, and won't everyone chaff me to death about it? I shall have to quit old Plum for a while,' answered Tom, as he mopped his face, trying to realize the full danger of his position.

'No, indeed; I'll stand by you, for I think it the best joke of the season. But tell me how things ended. Is it really serious, or only a summer flirtation? I don't approve of them, but boys and girls will play with edged tools and cut their fingers.'

'Well, Dora considers herself engaged, and wrote to her people at once. I couldn't say a word when she took it all in solemn earnest and seemed so happy. She's only seventeen, never liked anyone before, and is sure all will be all right; as her father knows mine, and we are both well off. I was so staggered that I said:

'"Why, you can't love me really when we know so little of one another?" But she answered right out of her tender little heart: "Yes, I do, dearly, Tom; you are so gay and kind and honest, I couldn't help it." Now, after that what could I do but go ahead and make her happy while I stayed, and trust to luck to straighten the snarl out afterwards?'

'A truly Tomian way of taking things easy. I hope you told your father at once.'

'Oh yes, I wrote off and broke it to him in three lines. I said: "Dear Father, I'm engaged to Dora West, and I hope she will suit the family. She suits me tip-top. Yours ever, Tom." He was all right, never liked Nan, you know; but Dora will suit him down to the ground.' And Tom looked entirely satisfied with his own tact and taste.

'What did Demi say to this rapid and funny lovemaking? Wasn't he scandalized?' asked Mrs Jo, trying not to laugh again as she thought of the unromantic spectacle of donkey, bicycle, boy, and girl all in the dust together.

'Not a bit. He was immensely interested and very kind; talked to me like a father; said it was a good thing to steady a fellow, only I must be honest with her and myself and not trifle a moment. Demi is a regular Solomon, especially when he is in the same boat,' answered Tom, looking wise.

'You don't mean -- ?' gasped Mrs Jo, in sudden alarm at the bare idea of more love-affairs just yet.

'Yes, I do, please, ma'am; it's a regular sell all the way through, and I owe Demi one for taking me into temptation blindfold. He said he went to Quitno to see Fred Wallace, but he never saw the fellow. How could he, when Wallace was off in his yacht all the time we were there? Alice was the real attraction, and I was left to my fate, while they were maundering round with that old camera. There were three donkeys in this affair, and I'm not the worst one, though I shall have to bear the laugh. Demi will look innocent and sober, and no one will say a word to him.'

'The midsummer madness has broken out, and no one knows who will be stricken next. Well, leave Demi to his mother, and let us see what you are going to do, Tom.'

'I don't know exactly; it's awkward to be in love with two girls at once. What do you advise?'

'A common-sense view of the case, by all means. Dora loves you and thinks you love her. Nan does not care for you, and you only care for her as a friend, though you have tried to do more. It is my opinion, Tom, that you love Dora, or are on the way to it; for in all these years I've never seen you look or speak about Nan as you do about Dora. Opposition has made you obstinately cling to her till accident has shown you a more attractive girl. Now, I think you had better take the old love for a friend, the new one for a sweetheart, and in due time, if the sentiment is genuine, marry her.'

If Mrs Jo had any doubts about the matter, Tom's face would have proved the truth of her opinion; for his eyes shone, his lips smiled, and in spite of dust and sunburn a new expression of happiness quite glorified him as he stood silent for a moment, trying to understand the beautiful miracle which real love works when it comes to a young man's heart.

'The fact is I meant to make Nan jealous, for she knows Dora, and I was sure would hear of our doings. I was tired of being walked on, and I thought I'd try to break away and not be a bore and a laughing-stock any more,' he said slowly, as if it relieved him to pour out his doubts and woes and hopes and joys to his old friend. 'I was regularly astonished to find it so easy and so pleasant. I didn't mean to do any harm, but drifted along beautifully, and told Demi to mention things in his letters to Daisy, so Nan might know. Then I forgot Nan altogether, and saw, heard, felt, cared for no one but Dora, till the donkey -- bless his old heart! -- pitched her into my arms and I found she loved me. Upon my soul, I don't see why she should! I'm not half good enough.'

'Every honest man feels that when an innocent girl puts her hand in his. Make yourself worthy of her, for she isn't an angel, but a woman with faults of her own for you to bear, and forgive, and you must help one another,' said Mrs Jo, trying to realize that this sober youth was her scapegrace Tommy.

'What troubles me is that I didn't mean it when I began, and was going to use the dear girl as an instrument of torture for Nan. It wasn't right, and I don't deserve to be so happy. If all my scrapes ended as well as this, what a state of bliss I should be in!' and Tom beamed again at the rapturous prospect.

'My dear boy, it is not a scrape, but a very sweet experience suddenly dawning upon you,' answered Mrs Jo, speaking very soberly; for she saw he was in earnest. 'Enjoy it wisely and be worthy of it, for it is a serious thing to accept a girl's love and trust, and let her look up to you for tenderness and truth in return. Don't let little Dora look in vain, but be a man in all things for her sake, and make this affection a blessing to you both.'

'I'll try. Yes, I do love her, only I can't believe it just yet. Wish you knew her. Dear little soul, I long to see her already! She cried when we parted last night and I hated to go.' Tom's hand went to his cheek as if he still felt the rosy little seal Dora had set upon his promise not to forget her, and for the first time in his happy-go-lucky life Tommy Bangs understood the difference between sentiment and sentimentality. The feeling recalled Nan, for he had never known that tender thrill when thinking of her, and the old friendship seemed rather a prosaic affair beside this delightful mingling of romance, surprise, love, and fun. 'I declare, I feel as if a weight was off me, but what the dickens will Nan say when she knows it!' he exclaimed with a chuckle.

'Knows what?' asked a clear voice that made both start and turn, for there was Nan calmly surveying them from the doorway.

Anxious to put Tom out of suspense and see how Nan would take the news, Mrs Jo answered quickly:

'Tom's engagement to Dora West.'

'Really?' and Nan looked so surprised that Mrs Jo was afraid she might be fonder of her old playmate than she knew; but her next words set the fear at rest, and made everything comfortable and merry at once.

'I knew my prescription would work wonders if he only took it long enough. Dear old Tom, I'm so glad. Bless you! bless you!' And she shook both his hands with hearty affection.

'It was an accident, Nan. I didn't mean to, but I'm always getting into messes, and I couldn't seem to get out of this any other way. Mother Bhaer will tell you all about it. I must go and make myself tidy. Going to tea with Demi. See you later.'

Stammering, blushing, and looking both sheepish and gratified, Tom suddenly bolted, leaving the elder lady to enlighten the younger at length, and have another laugh over this new sort of courtship, which might well be called accidental. Nan was deeply interested, for she knew Dora, thought her a nice little thing, and predicted that in time she would make Tom an excellent wife, since she admired and 'appreciated' him so much.

'I shall miss him of course, but it will be a relief to me and better for him; dangling is so bad for a boy. Now he will go into business with his father and do well, and everyone be happy. I shall give Dora an elegant family medicine-chest for a wedding-present, and teach her how to use it. Tom can't be trusted, and is no more fit for the profession than Silas.'

The latter part of this speech relieved Mrs Jo's mind, for Nan had looked about her as if she had lost something valuable when she began; but the medicine-chest seemed to cheer her, and the thought of Tom in a safe profession was evidently a great comfort.

'The worm has turned at last, Nan, and your bond-man is free. Let him go, and give your whole mind to your work; for you are fitted for the profession, and will be an honour to it by and by,' she said approvingly.

'I hope so. That reminds me -- measles are in the village, and you had better tell the girls not to call where there are children. It would be bad to have a run of them just as term begins. Now I'm off to Daisy. Wonder what she will say to Tom. Isn't he great fun?' And Nan departed, laughing over the joke with such genuine satisfaction that it was evident no sentimental regrets disturbed her 'maiden meditation, fancy-free'.

'I shall have my eye on Demi, but won't say a word. Meg likes to manage her children in her own way, and a very good way it is. But the dear Pelican will be somewhat ruffled if her boy has caught the epidemic which seems to have broken out among us this summer.'

Mrs Jo did not mean the measles, but that more serious malady called love, which is apt to ravage communities, spring and autumn, when winter gaiety and summer idleness produce whole bouquets of engagements, and set young people to pairing off like the birds. Franz began it, Nat was a chronic and Tom a sudden case; Demi seemed to have the symptoms; and worst of all, her own Ted had only the day before calmly said to her: 'Mum, I think I should be happier if I had a sweetheart, like the other boys.' If her cherished son had asked her for dynamite to play with, she would hardly have been more startled, or have more decidedly refused the absurd request.

'Well, Barry Morgan said I ought to have one and offered to pick me out a nice one among our set. I asked Josie first, and she hooted at the idea, so I thought I'd let Barry look round. You say it steadies a fellow, and I want to be steady,' explained Ted in a serious tone, which would have convulsed his parent at any other time.

'Good lack! What are we coming to in this fast age when babes and boys make such demands and want to play with one of the most sacred things in life?' exclaimed Mrs Jo, and having in a few words set the matter in its true light, sent her son away to wholesome baseball and Octoo for a safe sweetheart.

Now, here was Tom's bomb-shell to explode in their midst, carrying widespread destruction, perhaps; for though one swallow does not make a summer, one engagement is apt to make several, and her boys were, most of them, at the inflammable age when a spark ignites the flame, which soon flickers and dies out, or burns warm and clear for life. Nothing could be done about it but to help them make wise choices, and be worthy of good mates. But of all the lessons Mrs Jo had tried to teach her boys, this great one was the hardest; for love is apt to make lunatics of even saints and sages, so young people cannot be expected to escape the delusions, disappointments, and mistakes, as well as the delights, of this sweet madness.

'I suppose it is inevitable, since we live in America, so I won't borrow trouble, but hope that some of the new ideas of education will produce a few hearty, happy, capable, and intelligent girls for my lads. Lucky for me that I haven't the whole twelve on my hands, I should lose my wits if I had, for I foresee complications and troubles ahead worse than Tom's boats, bicycles, donkeys, and Doras,' meditated Mrs Jo, as she went back to her neglected proof-sheets.

Tom was quite satisfied with the tremendous effect his engagement produced in the little community at Plumfield.

'It was paralysing,' as Demi said; and astonishment left most of Tom's mates little breath for chaff. That he, the faithful one, should turn from the idol to strange goddesses, was a shock to the romantic and a warning to the susceptible. It was comical to see the airs our Thomas put on; for the most ludicrous parts of the affair were kindly buried in oblivion by the few who knew them, and Tom burst forth as a full-blown hero who had rescued the maiden from a watery grave, and won her gratitude and love by his daring deed. Dora kept the secret, and enjoyed the fun when she came to see Mother Bhaer and pay her respects to the family generally. Everyone liked her at once, for she was a gay and winning little soul; fresh, frank, and so happy, it was beautiful to see her innocent pride in Tom, who was a new boy, or man rather; for with this change in his life a great change took place in him. Jolly he would always be, and impulsive, but he tried to become all that Dora believed him, and his best side came uppermost for everyday wear. It was surprising to see how many good traits Tom had; and his efforts to preserve the manly dignity belonging to his proud position as an engaged man was very comical. So was the entire change from his former abasement and devotion to Nan to a somewhat lordly air with his little betrothed; for Dora made an idol of him, and resented the idea of a fault or a flaw in her Tom. This new state of things suited both, and the once blighted being bloomed finely in the warm atmosphere of appreciation, love, and confidence. He was very fond of the dear girl, but meant to be a slave no longer, and enjoyed his freedom immensely, quite unconscious that the great tyrant of the world had got hold of him for life.

To his father's satisfaction he gave up his medical studies, and prepared to go into business with the old gentleman, who was a flourishing merchant, ready now to make the way smooth and smile upon his marriage with Mr West's well-endowed daughter. The only thorn in Tom's bed of roses was Nan's placid interest in his affairs, and evident relief at his disloyalty. He did not want her to suffer, but a decent amount of regret at the loss of such a lover would have gratified him; a slight melancholy, a word of reproach, a glance of envy as he passed with adoring Dora on his arm, seemed but the fitting tribute to such years of faithful service and sincere affection. But Nan regarded him with a maternal sort of air that nettled him very much, and patted Dora's curly head with a worldlywise air worthy of the withered spinster, Julia Mills, in David Copperfield.

It took some time to get the old and the new emotions comfortably adjusted, but Mrs Jo helped him, and Mr Laurie gave him some wise advice upon the astonishing gymnastic feats the human heart can perform, and be all the better for it if it only held fast to the balancing-pole of truth and common sense. At last our Tommy got his bearings, and as autumn came on Plumfield saw but little of him; for his new lode star was in the city, and business kept him hard at work. He was evidently in his right place now, and soon throve finely, to his father's great contentment; for his jovial presence pervaded the once quiet office like a gale of fresh wind, and his lively wits found managing men and affairs much more congenial employment than studying disease, or playing unseemly pranks with skeletons.

Here we will leave him for a time and turn to the more serious adventures of his mates, though this engagement, so merrily made, was the anchor which kept our mercurial Tom happy, and made a man of him.



Chapter 10. DEMI SETTLES

'Mother, can I have a little serious conversation with you?' asked Demi one evening, as they sat together enjoying the first fire of the season, while Daisy wrote letters upstairs and Josie was studying in the little library close by.

'Certainly, dear. No bad news, I hope?' and Mrs Meg looked up from her sewing with a mixture of pleasure and anxiety on her motherly face; for she dearly loved a good talk with her son, and knew that he always had something worth telling.

'It will be good news for you, I think,' answered Demi, smiling as he threw away his paper and went to sit beside her on the little sofa which just held two.

'Let me hear it, then, at once.'

'I know you don't like the reporting, and will be glad to hear that I have given it up.'

'I am very glad! It is too uncertain a business, and there is no prospect of getting on for a long time. I want you settled in some good place where you can stay, and in time make money. I wish you liked a profession; but as you don't, any clean, well-established business will do.'

'What do you say to a railroad office?'

'I don't like it. A noisy, hurried kind of place, I know, with all sorts of rough men about. I hope it isn't that, dear?'

'I could have it; but does book-keeping in a wholesale leather business please you better?'

'No; you'll get round-shouldered writing at a tall desk; and they say, once a book-keeper always a book-keeper.'

'How does a travelling agent suit your views?'

'Not at all; with all those dreadful accidents, and the exposure and bad food as you go from place to place, you are sure to get killed or lose your health.'

'I could be private secretary to a literary man; but the salary is small, and may end any time.'

'That would be better, and more what I want. It isn't that I object to honest work of any kind; but I don't want my son to spend his best years grubbing for a little money in a dark office, or be knocked about in a rough-and-tumble scramble to get on. I want to see you in some business where your tastes and talents can be developed and made useful; where you can go on rising, and in time put in your little fortune and be a partner; so that your years of apprenticeship will not be wasted, but fit you to take your place among the honourable men who make their lives and work useful and respected. I talked it all over with your dear father when you were a child; and if he had lived he would have shown you what I mean, and helped you to be what he was.'

Mrs Meg wiped away a quiet tear as she spoke; for the memory of her husband was a very tender one, and the education of his children had been a sacred task to which she gave all her heart and life, and so far she had done wonderfully well -- as her good son and loving daughters tried to prove. Demi's arm was round her now, as he said, in a voice so like his father's that it was the sweetest music to her ear:

'Mother dear, I think I have got just what you want for me; and it shall not be my fault if I don't become the man you hope to see me. Let me tell you all about it. I didn't say anything till it was sure because it would only worry you; but Aunt Jo and I have been on the look-out for it some time, and now it has come. You know her publisher, Mr Tiber, is one of the most successful men in the business; also generous, kind, and the soul of honour -- as his treatment of Aunty proves. Well, I've rather hankered for that place; for I love books, and as I can't make them I'd like to publish them. That needs some literary taste and judgement, it brings you in contact with fine people, and is an education in itself. Whenever I go into that large, handsome room to see Mr Tiber for Aunt Jo, I always want to stay; for it's lined with books and pictures, famous men and women come and go, and Mr Tiber sits at his desk like a sort of king, receiving his subjects; for the greatest authors are humble to him, and wait his Yes or No with anxiety. Of course I've nothing to do with all that, and may never have; but I like to see it, and the atmosphere is so different from the dark offices and hurly-burly of many other trades, where nothing but money is talked about, that it seems another world, and I feel at home in it. Yes, I'd rather beat the door-mats and make fires there than be head clerk in the great hide and leather store at a big salary.' Here Demi paused for breath; and Mrs Meg, whose face had been growing brighter and brighter, exclaimed eagerly:

'Just what I should like! Have you got it? Oh, my dear boy! your fortune is made if you go to that well-established and flourishing place, with those good men to help you along!'

'I think I have, but we mustn't be too sure of anything yet. I may not suit; I'm only on trial, and must begin at the beginning and work my way up faithfully. Mr Tiber was very kind, and will push me on as fast as is fair to the other fellows, and as I prove myself fit to go up. I'm to begin the first of next month in the book-room, filling orders; and I go round and get orders, and do various other things of the sort. I like it. I am ready to do anything about books, if it's only to dust them,' laughed Demi, well pleased with his prospects, for, after trying various things, he seemed at last to have found the sort of work he liked, and a prospect that was very inviting to him.

'You inherit that love of books from grandpa; he can't live without them. I'm glad of it. Tastes of that kind show a refined nature, and are both a comfort and a help all one's life. I am truly glad and grateful, John, that at last you want to settle, and have got such an entirely satisfactory place. Most boys begin much earlier; but I don't believe in sending them out to face the world so young, just when body and soul need home care and watchfulness. Now you are a man, and must begin your life for yourself. Do your best, and be as honest, useful, and happy as your father, and I won't care about making a fortune.'

'I'll try, mother. Couldn't have a better chance; for Tiber & Co. treat their people like gentlemen, and pay generously for faithful work. Things are done in a businesslike way there, and that suits me. I hate promises that are not kept, and shiftless or tyrannical ways anywhere. Mr Tiber said: "This is only to teach you the ropes, Brooke; I shall have other work for you by and by." Aunty told him I had done book notices, and had rather a fancy for literature; so though I can't produce any "works of Shakespeare", as she says, I may get up some little things later. If I don't, I think it a very honourable and noble profession to select and give good books to the world; and I'm satisfied to be a humble helper in the work.'

'I'm glad you feel so. It adds so much to one's happiness to love the task one does. I used to hate teaching; but housekeeping for my own family was always sweet, though much harder in many ways. Isn't Aunt Jo pleased about all this?' asked Mrs Meg, already seeing in her mind's eye a splendid sign with 'Tiber, Brooke & Co.' over the door of a famous publishing house.

'So pleased that I could hardly keep her from letting the cat out of the bag too soon. I've had so many plans, and disappointed you so often, I wanted to be very sure this time. I had to bribe Rob and Ted to keep her at home tonight till I'd told my news, she was eager to rush down and tell you herself. The castles that dear woman has built for me would fill all Spain, and have kept us jolly while we waited to know our fate. Mr Tiber doesn't do things in a hurry; but when he makes up his mind, you are all right; and I feel that I am fairly launched.'

'Bless you, dear, I hope so! It is a happy day for me, because I've been so anxious lest, with all my care, I have been too easy and indulgent, and my boy, with his many good gifts, might fritter his time away in harmless but unsatisfactory things. Now I am at ease about you. If only Daisy can be happy, and Josie give up her dream, I shall be quite contented.'

Demi let his mother enjoy herself for a few minutes, while he smiled over a certain little dream of his own, not ready yet for the telling; then he said, in the paternal tone which he unconsciously used when speaking of his sisters:

'I'll see to the girls; but I begin to think grandpa is right in saying we must each be what God and nature makes us. We can't change it much -- only help to develop the good and control the bad elements in us. I have fumbled my way into my right place at last, I hope. Let Daisy be happy in her way, since it is a good and womanly one. If Nat comes home all right, I'd say: "Bless you, my children," and give them a nest of their own. Then you and I will help little Jo to find out if it is to be "All the world's a stage" or "Home, sweet home", for her.'

'I suppose we must, John; but I can't help making plans, and hoping they will come to pass. I see that Daisy is bound up in Nat; and if he is worthy of her I shall let them be happy in their own way, as my parents let me. But Josie will be a trial, I foresee; and much as I love the stage, and always did, I don't see how I can ever let my little girl be an actress, though she certainly has great talent for it.'

'Whose fault is that?' asked Demi, smiling, as he remembered his mother's early triumphs and unquenchable interest in the dramatic efforts of the young people round her.

'Mine, I know. How could it be otherwise when I acted Babes in the Wood with you and Daisy before you could speak, and taught Josie to declaim Mother Goose in her cradle. Ah, me! the tastes of the mother come out in her children, and she must atone for them by letting them have their own way, I suppose.' And Mrs Meg laughed, even while she shook her head over the undeniable fact that the Marches were a theatrical family.

'Why not have a great actress of our name, as well as an authoress, a minister, and an eminent publisher? We don't choose our talents, but we needn't hide them in a napkin because they are not just what we want. I say, let Jo have her way, and do what she can. Here am I to take care of her; and you can't deny you'd enjoy fixing her furbelows, and seeing her shine before the footlights, where you used to long to be. Come, mother, better face the music and march gaily, since your wilful children will "gang their ain gait".'

'I don't see but I must, and "leave the consequences to the Lord", as Marmee used to say when she had to decide, and only saw a step of the road. I should enjoy it immensely, if I could only feel that the life would not hurt my girl, and leave her unsatisfied when it was too late to change; for nothing is harder to give up than the excitements of that profession. I know something of it; and if your blessed father had not come along, I'm afraid I should have been an actress in spite of Aunt March and all our honoured ancestors.'

'Let Josie add new honour to the name, and work out the family talent in its proper place. I'll play dragon to her, and you play nurse, and no harm can come to our little Juliet, no matter how many Romeos spoon under her balcony. Really, ma'am, opposition comes badly from an old lady who is going to wring the hearts of our audience in the heroine's part in Aunty's play next Christmas. It's the most pathetic thing I ever saw, mother; and I'm sorry you didn't become an actress, though we should be nowhere if you had.'

Demi was on his legs now, with his back to the fire, in the lordly attitude men like to assume when things go well with them, or they want to lay down the law on any subject.

Mrs Meg actually blushed at her son's hearty praise, and could not deny that the sound of applause was as sweet now as when she played the Witch's Curse and The Moorish Maiden's Vow long years ago.

'It's perfectly absurd for me to do it, but I couldn't resist when Jo and Laurie made the part for me, and you children were to act in it. The minute I get on the old mother's dress I forget myself and feel the same thrill at the sound of the bell that I used to feel when we got up plays in the garret. If Daisy would only take the daughter's part it would be so complete; for with you and Josie I am hardly acting, it is all so real.'

'Especially the hospital scene, where you find the wounded son. Why, mother, do you know when we did that at last rehearsal my face was wet with real tears as you cried over me. It will bring down the house; but don't forget to wipe 'em off, or I shall sneeze,' said Demi, laughing at the recollection of his mother's hit.

'I won't; but it almost broke my heart to see you so pale and dreadful. I hope there will never be another war in my time, for I should have to let you go; and I never want to live through the same experience we had with father.'

'Don't you think Alice does the part better than Daisy would? Daisy hasn't a bit of the actress in her, and Alice puts life into the dullest words she speaks. I think the Marquise is just perfect in our piece,' said Demi, strolling about the room as if the warmth of the fire sent a sudden colour to his face.

'So do I. She is a dear girl, and I'm proud and fond of her. Where is she tonight?'

'Pegging away at her Greek, I suppose. She usually is in the evening. More's the pity,' added Demi, in a low tone, as he stared intently at the book-case, though he couldn't read a title.

'Now, there is a girl after my own heart. Pretty, well-bred, well-educated, and yet domestic, a real companion as well as help-meet for some good and intelligent man. I hope she will find one.'

'So do I,' muttered Demi.

Mrs Meg had taken up her work again, and was surveying a half-finished buttonhole with so much interest that her son's face escaped her eye. He shed a beaming smile upon the rows of poets, as if even in their glass prison they could sympathize and rejoice with him at the first rosy dawn of the great passion which they knew so well. But Demi was a wise youth, and never leaped before looking carefully. He hardly knew his own heart yet, and was contented to wait till the sentiment, the fluttering of those folded wings he began to feel, should escape from the chrysalis and be ready to soar away in the sunshine to seek and claim its lovely mate. He had said nothing; but the brown eyes were eloquent, and there was an unconscious underplot to all the little plays he and Alice Heath acted so well together. She was busy with her books, bound to graduate with high honours, and he was trying to do the same in that larger college open to all, and where each man has his own prize to win or lose. Demi had nothing but himself to offer and, being a modest youth, considered that a poor gift till he had proved his power to earn his living, and the right to take a woman's happiness into his keeping.

No one guessed that he had caught the fever except sharp-eyed Josie, and she, having a wholesome fear of her brother -- who could be rather awful when she went too far -- wisely contented herself with watching him like a little cat, ready to pounce on the first visible sign of weakness. Demi had taken to playing pensively upon his flute after he was in his room for the night, making this melodious friend his confidante, and breathing into it all the tender hopes and fears that filled his heart. Mrs Meg, absorbed in domestic affairs, and Daisy, who cared for no music but Nat's violin, paid no heed to these chamber concerts, but Josie always murmured to herself, with a naughty chuckle, 'Dick Swiveller is thinking of his Sophy Wackles,' and bided her time to revenge certain wrongs inflicted upon her by Demi, who always took Daisy's side when she tried to curb the spirits of her unruly little sister.

This evening she got her chance, and made the most of it. Mrs Meg was just rounding off her buttonhole, and Demi still strolling restlessly about the room, when a book was heard to slam in the study, followed by an audible yawn and the appearance of the student looking as if sleep and a desire for mischief were struggling which should be master.

'I heard my name; have you been saying anything bad about me?' she demanded, perching on the arm of an easychair.

Her mother told the good news, over which Josie duly rejoiced, and Demi received her congratulations with a benignant air which made her feel that too much satisfaction was not good for him, and incited her to put a thorn into his bed of roses at once.

'I caught something about the play just now, and I want to tell you that I'm going to introduce a song into my part to liven it up a bit. How would this do?' and seating herself at the piano she began to sing to these words the air of 'Kathleen Mavourneen':

'Sweetest of maidens, oh, how can I tell The love that transfigures the whole earth to me? The longing that causes my bosom to swell, When I dream of a life all devoted to thee?'

She got no further, for Demi, red with wrath, made a rush at her, and the next moment a very agile young person was seen dodging round tables and chairs with the future partner of Tiber & Co. in hot pursuit. 'You monkey, how dare you meddle with my papers?' cried the irate poet, making futile grabs at the saucy girl, who skipped to and fro, waving a bit of paper tantalizingly before him.

'Didn't; found it in the big "Dic". Serves you right if you leave your rubbish about. Don't you like my song? It's very pretty.'

'I'll teach you one that you won't like if you don't give me my property.'

'Come and get it if you can'; and Josie vanished into the study to have out her squabble in peace, for Mrs Meg was already saying:

'Children, children! don't quarrel.'

The paper was in the fire by the time Demi arrived and he at once calmed down, seeing that the bone of contention was out of the way.

'I'm glad it's burnt; I don't care for it, only some verse I was trying to set to music for one of the girls. But I'll trouble you to let my papers alone, or I shall take back the advice I gave mother tonight about allowing you to act as much as you like.'

Josie was sobered at once by this dire threat, and in her most wheedling tone begged to know what he had said. By way of heaping coals of fire on her head he told her, and this diplomatic performance secured him an ally on the spot.

'You dear old boy! I'll never tease you again though you moon and spoon both day and night. If you stand by me, I'll stand by you and never say a word. See here! I've got a note for you from Alice. Won't that be a peace-offering and soothe your little feelings?'

Demi's eyes sparkled as Josie held up a paper cocked hat, but as he knew what was probably in it, he took the wind out of Josie's sails, and filled her with blank astonishment by saying carelessly:

'That's nothing; it's only to say whether she will go to the concert with us tomorrow night. You can read it if you like.'

With the natural perversity of her sex Josie ceased to be curious the moment she was told to read it, and meekly handed it over; but she watched Demi as he calmly read the two lines it contained and then threw it into the fire. 'Why, Jack, I thought you'd treasure every scrap the "sweetest maid" touched. Don't you care for her?'

'Very much; we all do; but "mooning and spooning", as you elegantly express it, is not in my line. My dear little girl, your plays make you romantic, and because Alice and I act lovers sometimes you take it into your silly head that we are really so. Don't waste time hunting mares nests, but attend to your own affairs and leave me to mine. I forgive you, but don't do it again; it's bad taste, and tragedy queens don't romp.'

The last cut finished Josie; she humbly begged pardon and went off to bed, while Demi soon followed, feeling that he had not only settled himself but his too inquisitive little sister also. But if he had seen her face as she listened to the soft wailing of his flute he would not have been so sure, for she looked as cunning as a magpie as she said, with a scornful sniff: 'Pooh, you can't deceive me; I know Dick is serenading Sophy Wackles.'



Chapter 11. EMIL'S THANKSGIVING

The Brenda was scudding along with all sail set to catch the rising wind, and everyone on board was rejoicing, for the long voyage was drawing towards an end.

'Four weeks more, Mrs Hardy, and we'll give you a cup of tea such as you never had before,' said second mate Hoffmann, as he paused beside two ladies sitting in a sheltered corner of the deck.

'I shall be glad to get it, and still gladder to put my feet on solid ground,' answered the elder lady, smiling; for our friend Emil was a favourite, as well he might be, since he devoted himself to the captain's wife and daughter, who were the only passengers on board.

'So shall I, even if I have to wear a pair of shoes like Chinese junks. I've tramped up and down the deck so much, I shall be barefooted if we don't arrive soon,' laughed Mary, the daughter, showing two shabby little boots as she glanced up at the companion of these tramps, remembering gratefully how pleasant he had made them.

'Don't think there are any small enough in China,' answered Emil, with a sailor's ready gallantry, privately resolving to hunt up the handsomest shoes he could find the moment he landed.

'I don't know what you would have done for exercise, dear, if Mr Hoffmann had not made you walk every day. This lazy life is bad for young people, though it suits an old body like me well enough in calm weather. Is this likely to be a gale, think ye?' added Mrs Hardy, with an anxious glance at the west, where the sun was setting redly.

'Only a capful of wind, ma'am, just enough to send us along lively,' answered Emil, with a comprehensive glance aloft and alow.

'Please sing, Mr Hoffmann, it's so pleasant to have music at this time. We shall miss it very much when we get ashore,' said Mary, in a persuasive tone which would have won melody from a shark, if such a thing were possible.

Emil had often blessed his one accomplishment during these months, for it cheered the long days, and made the twilight hour his happiest time, wind and weather permitting. So now he gladly tuned his pipe, and leaning on the taffrail near the girl, watched the brown locks blowing in the wind as he sang her favourite song:

'Give me freshening breeze, my boys, A white and swelling sail, A ship that cuts the dashing waves, And weathers every gale. What life is like a sailor's life, So free, so bold, so brave? His home the ocean's wide expanse, A coral bed his grave.'

Just as the last notes of the clear, strong voice died away, Mrs Hardy suddenly exclaimed: 'What's that?' Emil's quick eye saw at once the little puff of smoke coming up a hatchway where no smoke should be, and his heart seemed to stand still for an instant as the dread word 'Fire!' flashed through his mind. Then he was quite steady, and strolled away saying quietly:

'Smoking not allowed there, I'll go and stop it.' But the instant he was out of sight his face changed, and he leaped down the hatchway, thinking, with a queer smile on his lips: 'If we are afire, shouldn't wonder if I did make a coral bed my grave!'

He was gone a few minutes, and when he came up, half stifled with smoke, he was as white as a very brown man could be, but calm and cool as he went to report to the captain.

'Fire in the hold, sir.'

'Don't frighten the women,' was Captain Hardy's first order; then both be stirred themselves to discover how strong the treacherous enemy was, and to rout it if possible.

The Brenda's cargo was a very combustible one, and in spite of the streams of water poured into the hold it was soon evident that the ship was doomed. Smoke began to ooze up between the planks everywhere, and the rising gale soon fanned the smouldering fire to flames that began to break out here and there, telling the dreadful truth too plainly for anyone to hide. Mrs Hardy and Mary bore the shock bravely when told to be ready to quit the ship at a minute's notice; the boats were hastily prepared, and the men worked with a will to batten down every loophole whence the fire might escape. Soon the poor Brenda was a floating furnace, and the order to 'Take to the boats!' came for all. The women first, of course, and it was fortunate that, being a merchantman, there were no more passengers on board, so there was no panic, and one after the other the boats pushed off. That in which the women were lingered near, for the brave captain would be the last to leave his ship.

Emil stayed by him till ordered away, and reluctantly obeyed; but it was well for him he went, for just as he had regained the boat, rocking far below, half hidden by a cloud of smoke, a mast, undermined by the fire now raging in the bowels of the ship, fell with a crash, knocking Captain Hardy overboard. The boat soon reached him as he floated out from the wreck, and Emil sprung into the sea to rescue him, for he was wounded and senseless. This accident made it necessary for the young man to take command, and he at once ordered the men to pull for their lives, as an explosion might occur at any moment.

The other boats were out of danger and all lingered to watch the splendid yet awesome spectacle of the burning ship alone on the wide sea, reddening the night and casting a lurid glare upon the water, where floated the frail boats filled with pale faces, all turned for a last look at the fated Brenda, slowly settling to her watery grave. No one saw the end, however, for the gale soon swept the watchers far away and separated them, some never to meet again till the sea gives up its dead.

The boat whose fortunes we must follow was alone when dawn came up, showing these survivors all the dangers of their situation. Food and water had been put in, and such provision for comfort and safety as time allowed; but it was evident that with a badly wounded man, two women, and seven sailors, their supply would not last long, and help was sorely needed. Their only hope was in meeting a ship, although the gale, which had raged all night, had blown them out of their course. To this hope all clung, and wiled away the weary hours, watching the horizon and cheering one another with prophecies of speedy rescue.

Second mate Hoffmann was very brave and helpful, though his unexpected responsibility weighed heavily on his shoulders; for the captain's state seemed desperate, the poor wife's grief wrung his heart, and the blind confidence of the young girl in his power to save them made him feel that no sign of doubt or fear must lessen it. The men did their part readily now, but Emil knew that if starvation and despair made brutes of them, his task might be a terrible one. So he clutched his courage with both hands, kept up a manly front, and spoke so cheerily of their good chances, that all instinctively turned to him for guidance and support.

The first day and night passed in comparative comfort, but when the third came, things looked dark and hope began to fail. The wounded man was delirious, the wife worn out with anxiety and suspense, the girl weak for want of food, having put away half her biscuit for her mother, and given her share of water to wet her father's feverish lips. The sailors ceased rowing and sat grimly waiting, openly reproaching their leader for not following their advice, others demanding more food, all waxing dangerous as privation and pain brought out the animal instincts lurking in them. Emil did his best, but mortal man was helpless there, and he could only turn his haggard face from the pitiless sky, that dropped no rain for their thirst, to the boundless sea where no sail appeared to gladden their longing eyes. All day he tried to cheer and comfort them, while hunger gnawed, thirst parched, and growing fear lay heavy at his heart. He told stories to the men, implored them to bear up for the helpless women's sake, and promised rewards if they would pull while they had strength to regain the lost route, as nearly as he could make it out, and increase their chance of rescue. He rigged an awning of sailcloth over the suffering man and tended him like a son, comforted the wife, and tried to make the pale girl forget herself, by singing every song he knew or recounting his adventures by land and sea, till she smiled and took heart; for all ended well.

The fourth day came and the supply of food and water was nearly gone. Emil proposed to keep it for the sick man and the women, but two of the men rebelled, demanding their share. Emil gave up his as an example, and several of the good fellows followed it, with the quiet heroism which so often crops up in rough but manly natures. This shamed the others, and for another day an ominous peace reigned in that little world of suffering and suspense. But during the night, while Emil, worn out with fatigue, left the watch to the most trustworthy sailor, that he might snatch an hour's rest, these two men got at the stores and stole the last of the bread and water, and the one bottle of brandy, which was carefully hoarded to keep up their strength and make the brackish water drinkable. Half mad with thirst, they drank greedily and by morning one was in a stupor, from which he never woke; the other so crazed by the strong stimulant, that when Emil tried to control him, he leaped overboard and was lost. Horror-stricken by this terrible scene, the other men were submissive henceforth, and the boat floated on and on with its sad freight of suffering souls and bodies.

Another trial came to them that left all more despairing than before. A sail appeared, and for a time a frenzy of joy prevailed, to be turned to bitterest disappointment when it passed by, too far away to see the signals waved to them or hear the frantic cries for help that rang across the sea. Emil's heart sank then, for the captain seemed dying, and the women could not hold out much longer. He kept up till night came; then in the darkness, broken only by the feeble murmuring of the sick man, the whispered prayers of the poor wife, the ceaseless swash of waves, Emil hid his face, and had an hour of silent agony that aged him more than years of happy life could have done. It was not the physical hardship that daunted him, though want and weakness tortured him; it was his dreadful powerlessness to conquer the cruel fate that seemed hanging over them. The men he cared little for, since these perils were but a part of the life they chose; but the master he loved, the good woman who had been so kind to him, the sweet girl whose winsome presence had made the long voyage so pleasant for them all -- if he could only save these dear and innocent creatures from a cruel death, he felt that he could willingly give his life for them.

As he sat there with his head in his hands, bowed down by the first great trial of his young life, the starless sky overhead, the restless sea beneath, and all around him suffering, for which he had no help, a soft sound broke the silence, and he listened like one in a dream. It was Mary singing to her mother, who lay sobbing in her arms, spent with this long anguish. A very faint and broken voice it was, for the poor girl's lips were parched with thirst; but the loving heart turned instinctively to the great Helper in this hour of despair, and He heard her feeble cry. It was a sweet old hymn often sung at Plumfield; and as he listened, all the happy past came back so clearly that Emil forgot the bitter present, and was at home again. His talk on the housetop with Aunt Jo seemed but yesterday, and, with a pang of self-reproach, he thought:

'The scarlet strand! I must remember it, and do my duty to the end. Steer straight, old boy; and if you can't come into port, go down with all sail set.'

Then, as the soft voice crooned on to lull the weary woman to a fitful sleep, Emil for a little while forgot his burden in a dream of Plumfield. He saw them all, heard the familiar voices, felt the grip of welcoming hands, and seemed to say to himself: 'Well, they shall not be ashamed of me if I never see them any more.'

A sudden shout startled him from that brief rest, and a drop on his forehead told him that the blessed rain had come at last, bringing salvation with it; for thirst is harder to bear than hunger, heat, or cold. Welcomed by cries of joy, all lifted up their parched lips, held out their hands, and spread their garments to catch the great drops that soon came pouring down to cool the sick man's fever, quench the agony of thirst, and bring refreshment to every weary body in the boat. All night it fell, all night the castaways revelled in the saving shower, and took heart again, like dying plants revived by heaven's dew. The clouds broke away at dawn, and Emil sprung up, wonderfully braced and cheered by those hours of silent gratitude for this answer to their cry for help. But this was not all; as his eye swept the horizon, clear against the rosy sky shone the white sails of a ship, so near that they could see the pennon at her mast-head and black figures moving on the deck.

One cry broke from all those eager throats, and rang across the sea, as every man waved hat or handkerchief and the women stretched imploring hands towards this great white angel of deliverance coming down upon them as if the fresh wind filled every sail to help her on.

No disappointment now; answering signals assured them of help; and in the rapture of that moment the happy women fell on Emil's neck, giving him his reward in tears and blessings as their grateful hearts overflowed. He always said that was the proudest moment of his life, as he stood there holding Mary in his arms; for the brave girl, who had kept up so long, broke down then, and clung to him half fainting; while her mother busied herself about the invalid, who seemed to feel the joyful stir, and gave an order, as if again on the deck of his lost ship.

It was soon over; and then all were safely aboard the good Urania, homeward bound. Emil saw his friends in tender hands, his men among their mates, and told the story of the wreck before he thought of himself. The savoury odour of the soup, carried by to the cabin for the ladies, reminded him that he was starving, and a sudden stagger betrayed his weakness. He was instantly borne away, to be half killed by kindness, and being fed, clothed, and comforted, was left to rest. Just as the surgeon left the state-room, he asked in his broken voice: 'What day is this? My head is so confused, I've lost my reckoning.'

'Thanksgiving Day, man! And we'll give you a regular New England dinner, if you'll eat it,' answered the surgeon heartily.

But Emil was too spent to do anything, except lie still and give thanks, more fervently and gratefully than ever before, for the blessed gift of life, which was the sweeter for a sense of duty faithfully performed.



Chapter 12. DAN'S CHRISTMAS

Where was Dan? In prison. Alas for Mrs Jo! how her heart would have ached if she had known that while old Plum shone with Christmas cheer her boy sat alone in his cell, trying to read the little book she gave him, with eyes dimmed now and then by the hot tears no physical suffering had ever wrung from him, and longing with a homesick heart for all that he had lost.

Yes, Dan was in prison; but no cry for help from him as he faced the terrible strait he was in with the dumb despair of an Indian at the stake; for his own bosom sin had brought him there, and this was to be the bitter lesson that tamed the lawless spirit and taught him self-control.

The story of his downfall is soon told; for it came, as so often happens, just when he felt unusually full of high hopes, good resolutions, and dreams of a better life. On his journey he met a pleasant young fellow, and naturally felt an interest in him, as Blair was on his way to join his elder brothers on a ranch in Kansas. Card-playing was going on in the smoking-car, and the lad -- for he was barely twenty -- tired with the long journey, beguiled the way with such partners as appeared, being full of spirits, and a little intoxicated with the freedom of the West. Dan, true to his promise, would not join, but watched with intense interest the games that went on, and soon made up his mind that two of the men were sharpers anxious to fleece the boy, who had imprudently displayed a well-filled pocket-book. Dan always had a soft spot in his heart for any younger, weaker creature whom he met, and something about the lad reminded him of Teddy; so he kept an eye on Blair, and warned him against his new friends.

Vainly, of course; for when all stopped overnight in one of the great cities, Dan missed the boy from the hotel whither he had taken him for safe-keeping; and learning who had come for him, went to find him, calling himself a fool for his pains, yet unable to leave the confiding boy to the dangers that surrounded him.

He found him gambling in a low place with the men, who were bound to have his money; and by the look of relief on Blair's anxious face when he saw him Dan knew without words that things were going badly with him, and he saw the peril too late.

'I can't come yet -- I've lost; it's not my money; I must get it back, or I dare not face my brothers,' whispered the poor lad, when Dan begged him to get away without further loss. Shame and fear made him desperate; and he played on, sure that he could recover the money confided to his care. Seeing Dan's resolute face, keen eye, and travelled air, the sharpers were wary, played fair, and let the boy win a little; but they had no mind to give up their prey, and finding that Dan stood sentinel at the boy's back, an ominous glance was exchanged between them, which meant:

'We must get this fellow out of the way.'

Dan saw it, and was on his guard; for he and Blair were strangers, evil deeds are easily done in such places, and no tales told. But he would not desert the boy, and still kept watch of every card till he plainly detected false play, and boldly said so. High words passed, Dan's indignation overcame his prudence; and when the cheat refused to restore his plunder with insulting words and drawn pistol, Dan's hot temper flashed out, and he knocked the man down with a blow that sent him crashing head first against a stove, to roll senseless and bleeding to the floor. A wild scene followed, but in the midst of it Dan whispered to the boy: 'Get away, and hold your tongue. Don't mind me.'

Frightened and bewildered, Blair quitted the city at once, leaving Dan to pass the night in the lock-up, and a few days later to stand in court charged with manslaughter; for the man was dead. Dan had no friends, and having once briefly told the story, held his peace, anxious to keep all knowledge of this sad affair from those at home. He even concealed his name -- giving that of David Kent, as he had done several times before in emergencies. It was all over very soon; but as there were extenuating circumstances his sentence was a year in prison, with hard labour.

Dazed by the rapidity with which this horrible change in his life came upon him, Dan did not fully realize it till the iron door clanged behind him and he sat alone in a cell as narrow, cold, and silent as a tomb. He knew that a word would bring Mr Laurie to help and comfort him; but he could not bear to tell of this disgrace, or see the sorrow and the shame it would cause the friends who hoped so much for him.

'No,' he said, clenching his fist, 'I'll let them think me dead first. I shall be if I am kept here long'; and he sprang up to pace the stone floor like a caged lion, with a turmoil of wrath and grief, rebellion and remorse, seething in heart and brain, till he felt as if he should go mad and beat upon the walls that shut him away from the liberty which was his life. For days he suffered terribly, then worn out, sank into a black melancholy sadder to see than his excitement.

The warden of this prison was a rough man who had won the ill will of all by unnecessary harshness, but the chaplain was full of sympathy, and did his hard duty faithfully and tenderly. He laboured with poor Dan, but seemed to make no impression, and was forced to wait till work had soothed the excited nerves and captivity tamed the proud spirit that would suffer but not complain.

Dan was put in the brush-shop, and feeling that activity was his only salvation, worked with a feverish energy that soon won the approval of the master and the envy of less skilful mates. Day after day he sat in his place, watched by an armed overseer, forbidden any but necessary words, no intercourse with the men beside him, no change but from cell to shop, no exercise but the dreary marches to and fro, each man's hand on the other's shoulder keeping step with the dreary tramp so different from the ringing tread of soldiers. Silent, gaunt, and grim, Dan did his daily task, ate his bitter bread, and obeyed commands with a rebellious flash of the eye, that made the warden say:

'That's a dangerous man. Watch him. He'll break out some day.'

There were others more dangerous than he, because older in crime and ready for any desperate outbreak to change the monotony of long sentences. These men soon divined Dan's mood, and in the mysterious way convicts invent, managed to convey to him before a month was over that plans were being made for a mutiny at the first opportunity. Thanksgiving Day was one of the few chances for them to speak together as they enjoyed an hour of freedom in the prison yard. Then all would be settled and the rash attempt made if possible, probably to end in bloodshed and defeat for most, but liberty for a few. Dan had already planned his own escape and bided his time, growing more and more moody, fierce, and rebellious, as loss of liberty wore upon soul and body; for this sudden change from his free, healthy life to such a narrow, gloomy, and miserable one, could not but have a terrible effect upon one of Dan's temperament and age.

He brooded over his ruined life, gave up all his happy hopes and plans, felt that he could never face dear old Plumfield again, or touch those friendly hands, with the stain of blood upon his own. He did not care for the wretched man whom he had killed, for such a life was better ended, he thought; but the disgrace of prison would never be wiped out of his memory, though the cropped hair would grow again, the grey suit easily be replaced, and the bolts and bars left far behind.

'It's all over with me; I've spoilt my life, now let it go. I'll give up the fight and get what pleasure I can anywhere, anyhow. They shall think me dead and so still care for me, but never know what I am. Poor Mother Bhaer! she tried to help me, but it's no use; the firebrand can't be saved.'

And dropping his head in his hands as he sat on his low bed, Dan would mourn over all he had lost in tearless misery, till merciful sleep would comfort him with dreams of the happy days when the boys played together, or those still later and happier ones when all smiled on him, and Plumfield seemed to have gained a new and curious charm.

There was one poor fellow in Dan's shop whose fate was harder than his, for his sentence expired in the spring, but there was little hope of his living till that time; and the coldest-hearted man pitied poor Mason as he sat coughing his life away in that close place and counting the weary days yet to pass before he could see his wife and little child again. There was some hope that he might be pardoned out, but he had no friends to bestir themselves in the matter, and it was evident that the great Judge's pardon would soon end his patient pain for ever.

Dan pitied him more than he dared to show, and this one tender emotion in that dark time was like the little flower that sprung up between the stones of the prison yard and saved the captive from despair, in the beautiful old story. Dan helped Mason with his work when he was too feeble to finish his task, and the grateful look that thanked him was a ray of sunshine to cheer his cell when he was alone. Mason envied the splendid health of his neighbour, and mourned to see it wasting there. He was a peaceful soul and tried, as far as a whispered word or warning glance could do it, to deter Dan from joining the 'bad lot', as the rebels were called. But having turned his face from the light, Dan found the downward way easy, and took a grim satisfaction in the prospect of a general outbreak during which he might revenge himself upon the tyrannical warden, and strike a blow for his own liberty, feeling that an hour of insurrection would be a welcome vent for the pent-up passions that tormented him. He had tamed many a wild animal, but his own lawless spirit was too much for him, till he found the curb that made him master of himself.

The Sunday before Thanksgiving, as he sat in chapel, Dan observed several guests in the seats reserved for them, and looked anxiously to see if any familiar face was there; for he had a mortal fear that someone from home would suddenly confront him. No, all were strangers, and he soon forgot them in listening to the chaplain's cheerful words, and the sad singing of many heavy hearts. People often spoke to the convicts, so it caused no surprise when, on being invited to address them, one of the ladies rose and said she would tell them a little story; which announcement caused the younger listeners to pack up their ears, and even the older ones to look interested; for any change in their monotonous life was welcome.

The speaker was a middle-aged woman in black, with a sympathetic face, eyes full of compassion, and a voice that seemed to warm the heart, because of certain motherly tones in it. She reminded Dan of Mrs Jo, and he listened intently to every word, feeling that each was meant for him, because by chance, they came at the moment when he needed a softening memory to break up the ice of despair which was blighting all the good impulses of his nature.

It was a very simple little story, but it caught the men's attention at once, being about two soldiers in a hospital during the late war, both badly wounded in the right arm, and both anxious to save these breadwinners and go home unmaimed. One was patient, docile, and cheerfully obeyed orders, even when told that the arm must go. He submitted and after much suffering recovered, grateful for life, though he could fight no more. The other rebelled, would listen to no advice, and having delayed too long, died a lingering death, bitterly regretting his folly when it was too late. 'Now, as all stories should have a little moral, let me tell you mine,' added the lady, with a smile, as she looked at the row of young men before her, sadly wondering what brought them there.

'This is a hospital for soldiers wounded in life's battle; here are sick souls, weak wills, insane passions, blind consciences, all the ills that come from broken laws, bringing their inevitable pain and punishment with them. There is hope and help for every one, for God's mercy is infinite and man's charity is great; but penitence and submission must come before the cure is possible. Pay the forfeit manfully, for it is just; but from the suffering and shame wring new strength for a nobler life. The scar will remain, but it is better for a man to lose both arms than his soul; and these hard years, instead of being lost, may be made the most precious of your lives, if they teach you to rule yourselves. O friends, try to outlive the bitter past, to wash the sin away, and begin anew. If not for your own sakes, for that of the dear mothers, wives, and children, who wait and hope so patiently for you. Remember them, and do not let them love and long in vain. And if there be any here so forlorn that they have no friend to care for them, never forget the Father whose arms are always open to receive, forgive, and comfort His prodigal sons, even at the eleventh hour.' There the little sermon ended; but the preacher of it felt that her few hearty words had not been uttered in vain, for one boy's head was down, and several faces wore the softened look which told that a tender memory was touched. Dan was forced to set his lips to keep them steady, and drop his eyes to hide the sudden dew that dimmed them when waiting, hoping friends were spoken of. He was glad to be alone in his cell again, and sat thinking deeply, instead of trying to forget himself in sleep. It seemed as if those words were just what he needed to show him where he stood and how fateful the next few days might be to him. Should he join the 'bad lot', and perhaps add another crime to the one already committed, lengthen the sentence already so terrible to bear, deliberately turn his back on all that was good, and mar the future that might yet be redeemed? Or should he, like the wiser man in the story, submit, bear the just punishment, try to be better for it; and though the scar would remain, it might serve as a reminder of a battle not wholly lost, since he had saved his soul though innocence was gone? Then he would dare go home, perhaps, confess, and find fresh strength in the pity and consolation of those who never gave him up.

Good and evil fought for Dan that night as did the angel and the devil for Sintram, and it was hard to tell whether lawless nature or loving heart would conquer. Remorse and resentment, shame and sorrow, pride and passion, made a battle-field of that narrow cell, and the poor fellow felt as if he had fiercer enemies to fight now than any he had met in all his wanderings. A little thing turned the scale, as it so often does in these mysterious hearts of ours, and a touch of sympathy helped Dan decide the course which would bless or ban his life.

In the dark hour before the dawn, as he lay wakeful on his bed, a ray of light shone through the bars, the bolts turned softly, and a man came in. It was the good chaplain, led by the same instinct that brings a mother to her sick child's pillow; for long experience as nurse of souls had taught him to see the signs of hope in the hard faces about him, and to know when the moment came for a helpful word and the cordial of sincere prayer that brings such comfort and healing to tried and troubled hearts. He had been to Dan before at unexpected hours, but always found him sullen, indifferent, or rebellious, and had gone away to patiently bide his time. Now it had come; a look of relief was in the prisoner's face as the light shone on it, and the sound of a human voice was strangely comfortable after listening to the whispers of the passions, doubts, and fears which had haunted the cell for hours, dismaying Dan by their power, and showing him how much he needed help to fight the good fight, since he had no armour of his own.

'Kent, poor Mason has gone. He left a message for you, and I felt impelled to come and give it now, because I think you were touched by what we heard today, and in need of the help Mason tried to give you,' said the chaplain, taking the one seat and fixing his kind eyes on the grim figure in the bed.

'Thank you, sir, I'd like to hear it,' was all Dan's answer; but he forgot himself in pity for the poor fellow dead in prison, with no last look at wife or child.

He went suddenly, but remembered you, and begged me to say these words: "Tell him not to do it, but to hold on, do his best, and when his time is out go right to Mary, and she'll make him welcome for my sake. He's got no friends in these parts and will feel lonesome, but a woman's always safe and comfortable when a fellow's down on his luck. Give him my love and good-bye for he was kind to me, and God will bless him for it." Then he died quietly, and tomorrow will go home with God's pardon, since man's came too late.'

Dan said nothing, but laid his arm across his face and lay quite still. Seeing that the pathetic little message had done its work even better than he hoped, the chaplain went on, unconscious how soothing his paternal voice was to the poor prisoner who longed to 'go home', but felt he had forfeited the right.

'I hope you won't disappoint this humble friend whose last thought was for you. I know that there is trouble brewing, and fear that you may be tempted to lend a hand on the wrong side. Don't do it, for the plot will not succeed -- it never does -- and it would be a pity to spoil your record which is fair so far. Keep up your courage, my son, and go out at the year's end better, not worse, for this hard experience. Remember a grateful woman waits to welcome and thank you if you have no friends of your own; if you have, do your best for their sake, and let us ask God to help you as He only can.'

Then waiting for no answer the good man prayed heartily, and Dan listened as he never had before; for the lonely hour, the dying message, the sudden uprising of his better self, made it seem as if some kind angel had come to save and comfort him. After that night there was a change in Dan, though no one knew it but the chaplain; for to all the rest he was the same silent, stern, unsocial fellow as before, and turning his back on the bad and the good alike, found his only pleasure in the books his friend brought him. Slowly, as the steadfast drop wears away the rock, the patient kindness of this man won Dan's confidence, and led by him he began to climb out of the Valley of Humiliation towards the mountains, whence, through the clouds, one can catch glimpses of the Celestial City whither all true pilgrims sooner or later turn their wistful eyes and stumbling feet. There were many back-slidings, many struggles with Giant Despair and fiery Apollyon, many heavy hours when life did not seem worth living and Mason's escape the only hope. But through all, the grasp of a friendly hand, the sound of a brother's voice, the unquenchable desire to atone for the past by a better future, and win the right to see home again, kept poor Dan to his great task as the old year drew to its end, and the new waited to turn another leaf in the book whose hardest lesson he was learning now.

At Christmas he yearned so for Plumfield that he devised a way to send a word of greeting to cheer their anxious hearts, and comfort his own. He wrote to Mary Mason, who lived in another State, asking her to mail the letter he enclosed. In it he merely said he was well and busy, had given up the farm, and had other plans which he would tell later; would not be home before autumn probably, nor write often, but was all right, and sent love and merry Christmas to everyone.

Then he took up his solitary life again, and tried to pay his forfeit manfully.



Chapter 13. NAT'S NEW YEAR

'I don't expect to hear from Emil yet, and Nat writes regularly, but where is Dan? Only two or three postals since he went. Such an energetic fellow as he is could buy up all the farms in Kansas by this time,' said Mrs Jo one morning when the mail came in and no card or envelope bore Dan's dashing hand.

'He never writes often, you know, but does his work and then comes home. Months and years seem to mean little to him, and he is probably prospecting in the wilderness, forgetful of time,' answered Mr Bhaer, deep in one of Nat's long letters from Leipzig.

'But he promised he would let me know how he got on, and Dan keeps his word if he can. I'm afraid something has happened to him'; and Mrs Jo comforted herself by patting Don's head, as he came at the sound of his master's name to look at her with eyes almost human in their wistful intelligence.

'Don't worry, Mum dear, nothing ever happens to the old fellow. He'll turn up all right, and come stalking in some day with a gold-mine in one pocket and a prairie in the other, as jolly as a grig,' said Ted, who was in no haste to deliver Octoo to her rightful owner.

'Perhaps he has gone to Montana and given up the farm plan. He seemed to like Indians best, I thought'; and Rob went to help his mother with her pile of letters and his cheerful suggestions.

'I hope so, it would suit him best. But I am sure he would have told us his change of plan and sent for some money to work with. No, I feel in my prophetic bones that something is wrong,' said Mrs Jo, looking as solemn as Fate in a breakfast-cap.

'Then we shall hear; ill news always travels fast. Don't borrow trouble, Jo, but hear how well Nat is getting on. I'd no idea the boy would care for anything but music. My good friend Baumgarten has launched him well, and it will do him good if he lose not his head. A good lad, but new to the world, and Leipzig is full of snares for the unwary. Gott be with him!'

The Professor read Nat's enthusiastic account of certain literary and musical parties he had been to, the splendours of the opera, the kindness of his new friends, the delight of studying under such a master as Bergmann, his hopes of rapid gain, and his great gratitude to those who had opened this enchanted world to him.

'That, now, is satisfactory and comfortable. I felt that Nat had unsuspected power in him before he went away; he was so manly and full of excellent plans,' said Mrs Jo, in a satisfied tone.

'We shall see. He will doubtless get his lesson and be the better for it. That comes to us all in our young days. I hope it will not be too hard for our good Jungling,' answered the Professor, with a wise smile, remembering his own student life in Germany.

He was right; and Nat was already getting his lesson in life with a rapidity which would have astonished his friends at home. The manliness over which Mrs Jo rejoiced was developing in unexpected ways, and quiet Nat had plunged into the more harmless dissipations of the gay city with all the ardour of an inexperienced youth taking his first sip of pleasure. The entire freedom and sense of independence was delicious, for many benefits began to burden him, and he longed to stand on his own legs and make his own way. No one knew his past here; and with a well-stocked wardrobe, a handsome sum at his banker's, and the best teacher in Leipzig, he made his debut as a musical young gentleman, presented by the much-respected Professor Bhaer and the wealthy Mr Laurence, who had many friends glad to throw open their houses to his protege. Thanks to these introductions, his fluent German, modest manners, and undeniable talent, the stranger was cordially welcomed, and launched at once into a circle which many an ambitious young man strove in vain to enter.

All this rather turned Nat's head; and as he sat in the brilliant opera-house, chatted among the ladies at some select coffee-party, or whisked an eminent professor's amiable daughter down the room, trying to imagine she was Daisy, he often asked himself if this gay fellow could be the poor homeless little Street musician who once stood waiting in the rain at the gates of Plumfield. His heart was true, his impulses good, and his ambitions high; but the weak side of his nature came uppermost here; vanity led him astray, pleasure intoxicated him, and for a time he forgot everything but the delights of this new and charming life. Without meaning to deceive, he allowed people to imagine him a youth of good family and prospects; he boasted a little of Mr Laurie's wealth and influence, of Professor Bhaer's eminence, and the flourishing college at which he himself had been educated. Mrs Jo was introduced to the sentimental Frauleins who read her books, and the charms and virtues of his own dear Madchen confided to sympathetic mammas. All these boyish boastings and innocent vanities were duly circulated among the gossips, and his importance much increased thereby, to his surprise and gratification, as well as some shame.

But they bore fruit that was bitter in the end; for, finding that he was considered one of the upper class, it very soon became impossible for him to live in the humble quarters he had chosen, or to lead the studious, quiet life planned for him. He met other students, young officers, and gay fellows of all sorts, and was flattered at being welcomed among them; though it was a costly pleasure, and often left a thorn of regret to vex his honest conscience. He was tempted to take better rooms in a more fashionable street, leaving good Frau Tetzel to lament his loss, and his artist neighbour, Fraulein Vogelstein, to shake her grey ringlets and predict his return, a sadder and a wiser man.

The sum placed at his disposal for expenses and such simple pleasures as his busy life could command seemed a fortune to Nat, though it was smaller than generous Mr Laurie first proposed. Professor Bhaer wisely counselled prudence, as Nat was unused to the care of money, and the good man knew the temptations that a well-filled purse makes possible at this pleasure-loving age. So Nat enjoyed his handsome little apartment immensely, and insensibly let many unaccustomed luxuries creep in. He loved his music and never missed a lesson; but the hours he should have spent in patient practice were too often wasted at theatre, ball, beer-garden, or club -- doing no harm beyond that waste of precious time, and money not his own; for he had no vices, and took his recreation like a gentleman, so far. But slowly a change for the worse was beginning to show itself, and he felt it. These first steps along the flowery road were downward, not upward; and the constant sense of disloyalty which soon began to haunt him made Nat feel, in the few quiet hours he gave himself, that all was not well with him, spite of the happy whirl in which he lived.

'Another month, and then I will be steady,' he said more than once, trying to excuse the delay by the fact that all was new to him, that his friends at home wished him to be happy, and that society was giving him the polish he needed. But as each month slipped away it grew harder to escape; he was inevitably drawn on, and it was so easy to drift with the tide that he deferred the evil day as long as possible. Winter festivities followed the more wholesome summer pleasures, and Nat found them more costly; for the hospitable ladies expected some return from the stranger; and carriages, bouquets, theatre tickets, and all the little expenses a young man cannot escape at such times, told heavily on the purse which seemed bottomless at first. Taking Mr Laurie for his model, Nat became quite a gallant, and was universally liked; for through all the newly acquired airs and graces the genuine honesty and simplicity of his character plainly shone, winning confidence and affection from all who knew him.

Among these was a certain amiable old lady with a musical daughter -- well-born but poor, and very anxious to marry the aforesaid daughter to some wealthy man. Nat's little fictions concerning his prospects and friends charmed the gnadige Frau as much as his music and devoted manners did the sentimental Minna. Their quiet parlour seemed homelike and restful to Nat, when tired of gayer scenes; and the motherly interest of the elder lady was sweet and comfortable to him; while the tender blue eyes of the pretty girl were always so full of welcome when he came, of regret when he left, and of admiration when he played to her, that he found it impossible to keep away from this attractive spot. He meant no harm, and feared no danger, having confided to the Frau Mamma that he was betrothed; so he continued to call, little dreaming what ambitious hopes the old lady cherished, nor the peril there was in receiving the adoration of a romantic German girl, till it was too late to spare her pain and himself great regret.

Of course some inkling of these new and agreeable experiences got into the voluminous letters he never was too gay, too busy, or too tired to write each week; and while Daisy rejoiced over his happiness and success, and the boys laughed at the idea of 'old Chirper coming out as a society man', the elders looked sober, and said among themselves:

'He is going too fast; he must have a word of warning, or trouble may come.'

But Mr Laurie said: 'Oh, let him have his fling; he's been dependent and repressed long enough. He can't go far with the money he has, and I've no fear of his getting into debt. He's too timid and too honest to be reckless. It is his first taste of freedom; let him enjoy it, and he'll work the better by and by; I know -- and I'm sure I'm right.'

So the warnings were very gentle, and the good people waited anxiously to hear more of hard study, and less of 'splendid times'. Daisy sometimes wondered, with a pang of her faithful heart, if one of the charming Minnas, Hildegardes, and Lottchens mentioned were not stealing her Nat away from her; but she never asked, always wrote calmly and cheerfully, and looked in vain for any hint of change in the letters that were worn out with much reading.

Month after month slipped away, till the holidays came with gifts, good wishes, and brilliant festivities. Nat expected to enjoy himself very much, and did at first; for a German Christmas is a spectacle worth seeing. But he paid dearly for the abandon with which he threw himself into the gaieties of that memorable week; and on New Year's Day the reckoning came. It seemed as if some malicious fairy had prepared the surprises that arrived, so unwelcome were they, so magical the change they wrought, turning his happy world into a scene of desolation and despair as suddenly as a transformation at the pantomime.

The first came in the morning when, duly armed with costly bouquets and bon-bons, he went to thank Minna and her mother for the braces embroidered with forget-me-nots and the silk socks knit by the old lady's nimble fingers, which he had found upon his table that day. The Frau Mamma received him graciously; but when he asked for the daughter the good lady frankly demanded what his intentions were, adding that certain gossip which had reached her ear made it necessary for him to declare himself or come no more, as Minna's peace must not be compromised.

A more panic-stricken youth was seldom seen than Nat as he received this unexpected demand. He saw too late that his American style of gallantry had deceived the artless girl, and might be used with terrible effect by the artful mother, if she chose to do it. Nothing but the truth could save him, and he had the honour and honesty to tell it faithfully. A sad scene followed; for Nat was obliged to strip off his fictitious splendour, confess himself only a poor student, and humbly ask pardon for the thoughtless freedom with which he had enjoyed their too confiding hospitality. If he had any doubts of Frau Schomburg's motives and desires, they were speedily set at rest by the frankness with which she showed her disappointment, the vigour with which she scolded him, and the scorn with which she cast him off when her splendid castles in the air collapsed.

The sincerity of Nat's penitence softened her a little and she consented to a farewell word with Minna, who had listened at the keyhole, and was produced drenched in tears, to fall on Nat's bosom, crying: 'Ah, thou dear one, never can I forget thee, though my heart is broken!'

This was worse than the scolding; for the stout lady also wept, and it was only after much German gush and twaddle that he escaped, feeling like another Werther; while the deserted Lotte consoled herself with the bonbons, her mother with the more valuable gifts.

The second surprise arrived as he dined with Professor Baumgarten. His appetite had been effectually taken away by the scene of the morning, and his spirits received another damper when a fellow student cheerfully informed him that he was about to go to America, and should make it his agreeable duty to call on the 'lieber Herr Professor Bhaer', to tell him how gaily his protege was disporting himself at Leipzig. Nat's heart died within him as he imagined the effect these glowing tales would have at Plumfield -- not that he had wilfully deceived them, but in his letters many things were left untold; and when Carlsen added, with a friendly wink, that he would merely hint at the coming betrothal of the fair Minna and his 'heart's friend', Nat found himself devoutly hoping that this other inconvenient heart's friend might go to the bottom of the sea before he reached Plumfield to blast all his hopes by these tales of a mis-spent winter. Collecting his wits, he cautioned Carlsen with what he flattered himself was Mephistophelian art, and gave him such confused directions that it would be a miracle if he ever found Professor Bhaer. But the dinner was spoilt for Nat, and he got away as soon as possible, to wander disconsolately about the streets, with no heart for the theatre or the supper he was to share with some gay comrades afterwards. He comforted himself a little by giving alms to sundry beggars, making two children happy with gilded gingerbread, and drinking a lonely glass of beer, in which he toasted his Daisy and wished himself a better year than the last had been.

Going home at length, he found a third surprise awaiting him in the shower of bills which had descended upon him like a snowstorm, burying him in an avalanche of remorse, despair, and self-disgust. These bills were so many and so large that he was startled and dismayed; for, as Mr Bhaer wisely predicted, he knew little about the value of money. It would take every dollar at the bankers to pay them all at once, and leave him penniless for the next six months, unless he wrote home for more. He would rather starve than do that; and his first impulse was to seek help at the gaming-table, whither his new friends had often tempted him. But he had promised Mr Bhaer to resist what then had seemed an impossible temptation; and now he would not add another fault to the list already so long. Borrow he would not, nor beg. What could he do? For these appalling bills must be paid, and the lessons go on; or his journey was an ignominious failure. But he must live meantime. And how? Bowed down with remorse for the folly of these months, he saw too late whither he was drifting, and for hours paced up and down his pretty rooms, floundering in a Slough of Despond, with no helping hand to pull him out -- at least he thought so till letters were brought in, and among fresh bills lay one well-worn envelope with an American stamp in the corner.

Ah, how welcome it was! how eagerly he read the long pages full of affectionate wishes from all at home! For everyone had sent a line, and as each familiar name appeared, his eyes grew dimmer and dimmer till, as he read the last -- 'God bless my boy! Mother Bhaer' -- he broke down; and laying his head on his arms, blistered the paper with a rain of tears that eased his heart and washed away the boyish sins that now lay so heavy on his conscience.

'Dear people, how they love and trust me! And how bitterly they would be disappointed if they knew what a fool I've been! I'll fiddle in the streets again before I'll ask for help from them!' cried Nat, brushing away the tears of which he was ashamed, although he felt the good they had done.

Now he seemed to see more clearly what to do; for the helping hand had been stretched across the sea, and Love, the dear Evangelist, had lifted him out of the slough and shown him the narrow gate, beyond which deliverance lay. When the letter had been reread, and one corner where a daisy was painted, passionately kissed, Nat felt strong enough to face the worst and conquer it. Every bill should be paid, every salable thing of his own sold, these costly rooms given up; and once back with thrifty Frau Tetzel, he would find work of some sort by which to support himself, as many another student did. He must give up the new friends, turn his back on the gay life, cease to be a butterfly, and take his place among the grubs. It was the only honest thing to do, but very hard for the poor fellow to crush his little vanities, renounce the delights so dear to the young, own his folly, and step down from his pedestal to be pitied, laughed at, and forgotten.

It took all Nat's pride and courage to do this, for his was a sensitive nature; esteem was very precious to him, failure very bitter, and nothing but the inborn contempt for meanness and deceit kept him from asking help or trying to hide his need by some dishonest device. As he sat alone that night, Mr Bhaer's words came back to him with curious clearness, and he saw himself a boy again at Plumfield, punishing his teacher as a lesson to himself, when timidity had made him lie.

'He shall not suffer for me again, and I won't be a sneak if I am a fool. I'll go and tell Professor Baumgarten all about it and ask his advice. I'd rather face a loaded cannon; but it must be done. Then I'll sell out, pay my debts, and go back where I belong. Better be an honest pauper than a jackdaw among peacocks'; and Nat smiled in the midst of his trouble, as he looked about him at the little elegancies of his room, remembering what he came from.

He kept his word manfully, and was much comforted to find that his experience was an old story to the professor, who approved his plan, thinking wisely that the discipline would be good for him, and was very kind in offering help and promising to keep the secret of his folly from his friend Bhaer till Nat had redeemed himself.

The first week of the new year was spent by our prodigal in carrying out his plan with penitent dispatch, and his birthday found him alone in the little room high up at Frau Tetzel's, with nothing of his former splendour, but sundry unsalable keepsakes from the buxom maidens, who mourned his absence deeply. His male friends had ridiculed, pitied, and soon left him alone, with one or two exceptions, who offered their purses generously and promised to stand by him. He was lonely and heavy-hearted, and sat brooding over his small fire as he remembered the last New Year's Day at Plumfield, when at this hour he was dancing with his Daisy.

A tap at the door roused him, and with a careless 'Herein', he waited to see who had climbed so far for his sake. It was the good Frau proudly bearing a tray, on which stood a bottle of wine and an astonishing cake bedecked with sugar-plums of every hue, and crowned with candles. Fraulein Vogelstein followed, embracing a blooming rose-tree, above which her grey curls waved and her friendly face beamed joyfully as she cried:

'Dear Herr Blak, we bring you greetings and a little gift or two in honour of this ever-to-be-remembered day. Best wishes! and may the new year bloom for you as beautifully as we your heart-warm friends desire.'

'Yes, yes, in truth we do, dear Herr,' added Frau Tetzel. 'Eat of this with-joy-made Kuchen, and drink to the health of the far-away beloved ones in the good wine.'

Amused, yet touched by the kindness of the good souls, Nat thanked them both, and made them stay to enjoy the humble feast with him. This they gladly did, being motherly women full of pity for the dear youth, whose straits they knew, and having substantial help to offer, as well as kind words and creature comforts.

Frau Tetzel, with some hesitation, mentioned a friend of hers who, forced by illness to leave his place in the orchestra of a second-rate theatre, would gladly offer it to Nat, if he could accept so humble a position. Blushing and toying with the roses like a shy girl, good old Vogelstein asked if in his leisure moments he could give English lessons in the young ladies' school where she taught painting, adding that a small but certain salary would be paid him.

Gratefully Nat accepted both offers, finding it less humiliating to be helped by women than by friends of his own sex. This work would support him in a frugal way, and certain musical drudgery promised by his master assured his own teaching. Delighted with the success of their little plot, these friendly neighbours left him with cheery words, warm hand-grasps, and faces beaming with feminine satisfaction at the hearty kiss Nat put on each faded cheek, as the only return he could make for all their helpful kindness.

It was strange how much brighter the world looked after that; for hope was a better cordial than the wine, and good resolutions bloomed as freshly as the little rose-tree that filled the room with fragrance, as Nat woke the echoes with the dear old airs, finding now as always his best comforter in music, to whom henceforth he swore to be a more loyal subject.



Chapter 14. PLAYS AT PLUMFIELD

As it is as impossible for the humble historian of the March family to write a story without theatricals in it as for our dear Miss Yonge to get on with less than twelve or fourteen children in her interesting tales, we will accept the fact, and at once cheer ourselves after the last afflicting events, by proceeding to the Christmas plays at Plumfield; for they influence the fate of several of our characters, and cannot well be skipped.

When the college was built Mr Laurie added a charming little theatre which not only served for plays, but declamations, lectures, and concerts. The drop-curtain displayed Apollo with the Muses grouped about him; and as a compliment to the donor of the hall the artist had given the god a decided resemblance to our friend, which was considered a superb joke by everyone else. Home talent furnished stars, stock company, orchestra, and scene painter; and astonishing performances were given on this pretty little stage.

Mrs Jo had been trying for some time to produce a play which should be an improvement upon the adaptations from the French then in vogue, curious mixtures of fine toilettes, false sentiment, and feeble wit, with no touch of nature to redeem them. It was easy to plan plays full of noble speeches and thrilling situations, but very hard to write them; so she contented herself with a few scenes of humble life in which the comic and pathetic were mingled; and as she fitted her characters to her actors, she hoped the little venture would prove that truth and simplicity had not entirely lost their power to charm. Mr Laurie helped her, and they called themselves Beaumont and Fletcher, enjoying their joint labour very much; for Beaumont's knowledge of dramatic art was of great use in curbing Fletcher's too-aspiring pen, and they flattered themselves that they had produced a neat and effective bit of work as an experiment.

All was ready now; and Christmas Day was much enlivened by last rehearsals, the panics of timid actors, the scramble for forgotten properties, and the decoration of the theatre. Evergreen and holly from the woods, blooming plants from the hothouse on Parnassus, and flags of all nations made it very gay that night in honour of the guests who were coming, chief among them, Miss Cameron, who kept her promise faithfully. The orchestra tuned their instruments with unusual care, the scene-shifters set their stage with lavish elegance, the prompter heroically took his seat in the stifling nook provided for him, and the actors dressed with trembling hands that dropped the pins, and perspiring brows whereon the powder wouldn't stick. Beaumont and Fletcher were everywhere, feeling that their literary reputation was at stake; for sundry friendly critics were invited, and reporters, like mosquitoes, cannot be excluded from any earthly scene, be it a great man's death-bed or a dime museum.

'Has she come?' was the question asked by every tongue behind the curtain; and when Tom, who played an old man, endangered his respectable legs among the footlights to peep, announced that he saw Miss Cameron's handsome head in the place of honour, a thrill pervaded the entire company, and Josie declared with an excited gasp that she was going to have stage fright for the first time in her life.

'I'll shake you if you do,' said Mrs Jo, who was in such a wild state of dishevelment with her varied labours that she might have gone on as Madge Wildlife, without an additional rag or crazy elf-lock.

'You'll have time to get your wits together while we do our piece. We are old stagers and calm as clocks,' answered Demi, with a nod towards Alice, ready in her pretty dress and all her properties at hand.

But both clocks were going rather faster than usual, as heightened colour, brilliant eyes, and a certain flutter under the laces and velvet coat betrayed. They were to open the entertainment with a gay little piece which they had played before and did remarkably well. Alice was a tall girl, with dark hair and eyes, and a face which intelligence, health, and a happy heart made beautiful. She was looking her best now, for the brocades, plumes, and powder of the Marquise became her stately figure; and Demi in his court suit, with sword, three-cornered hat, and white wig, made as gallant a Baron as one would wish to see. Josie was the maid, and looked her part to the life, being as pretty, pert, and inquisitive as any French soubrette. These three were all the characters; and the success of the piece depended on the spirit and skill with which the quickly changing moods of the quarrelsome lovers were given, their witty speeches made to tell, and by-play suited to the courtly period in which the scene was laid.

Few would have recognized sober John and studious Alice in the dashing gentleman and coquettish lady, who kept the audience laughing at their caprices; while they enjoyed the brilliant costumes, and admired the ease and grace of the young actors. Josie was a prominent figure in the plot, as she listened at keyholes, peeped into notes, and popped in and out at all the most inopportune moments, with her nose in the air, her hands in her apron-pockets, and curiosity pervading her little figure from the topmost bow of her jaunty cap to the red heels of her slippers. All went smoothly; and the capricious Marquise, after tormenting the devoted Baron to her heart's content, owned herself conquered in the war of wits, and was just offering the hand he had fairly won, when a crash startled them, and a heavily decorated side-scene swayed forward, ready to fall upon Alice. Demi saw it and sprung before her to catch and hold it up, standing like a modern Samson with the wall of a house on his back. The danger was over in a moment, and he was about to utter his last speech, when the excited young scene-shifter, who had flown up a ladder to repair the damage, leaned over to whisper 'All right', and release Demi from his spread-eagle attitude: as he did so, a hammer slipped out of his pocket, to fall upon the upturned face below, inflicting a smart blow and literally knocking the Baron's part out of his head.

'A quick curtain,' robbed the audience of a pretty little scene not down on the bill; for the Marquise flew to staunch the blood with a cry of alarm: 'Oh! John, you are hurt! Lean on me' -- which John gladly did for a moment, being a trifle dazed yet quite able to enjoy the tender touch of the hands busied about him and the anxiety of the face so near his own; for both told him something which he would have considered cheaply won by a rain of hammers and the fall of the whole college on his head.

Nan was on the spot in a moment with the case that never left her pocket; and the wound was neatly plastered up by the time Mrs Jo arrived, demanding tragically:

'Is he too much hurt to go on again? If he is, my play is lost!'

'I'm all the fitter for it, Aunty; for here's a real instead of a painted wound. I'll be ready; don't worry about me.' And catching up his wig, Demi was off, with only a very eloquent look of thanks to the Marquise, who had spoilt her gloves for his sake, but did not seem to mind it at all, though they reached above her elbows, and were most expensive.

'How are your nerves, Fletcher?' asked Mr Laurie as they stood together during the breathless minute before the last bell rings.

'About as calm as yours, Beaumont,' answered Mrs Jo, gesticulating wildly to Mrs Meg to set her cap straight.

'Bear up, partner! I'll stand by you whatever comes!'

'I feel that it ought to go; for, though it's a mere trifle, a good deal of honest work and truth have gone into it. Doesn't Meg look the picture of a dear old country woman?'

She certainly did, as she sat in the farmhouse kitchen by a cheery fire, rocking a cradle and darning stockings, as if she had done nothing else all her life. Grey hair, skilfully drawn lines on the forehead, and a plain gown, with cap, little shawl, and check apron, changed her into a comfortable, motherly creature who found favour the moment the curtain went up and discovered her rocking, darning, and crooning an old song. In a short soliloquy about Sam, her boy, who wanted to enlist; Dolly, her discontented little daughter, who longed for city ease and pleasures; and poor 'Elizy', who had married badly, and came home to die, bequeathing her baby to her mother, lest its bad father should claim it, the little story was very simply opened, and made effective by the real boiling of the kettle on the crane, the ticking of a tall clock, and the appearance of a pair of blue worsted shoes which waved fitfully in the air to the soft babble of a baby's voice. Those shapeless little shoes won the first applause; and Mr Laurie, forgetting elegance in satisfaction, whispered to his coadjutor:

'I thought the baby would fetch them!'

'If the dear thing won't squall in the wrong place, we are saved. But it is risky. Be ready to catch it if all Meg's cuddlings prove in vain,' answered Mrs Jo, adding, with a clutch at Mr Laurie's arm as a haggard face appeared at the window:

'Here's Demi! I hope no one will recognize him when he comes on as the son. I'll never forgive you for not doing the villain yourself.'

'Can't run the thing and act too. He's capitally made up, and likes a bit of melodrama.'

'This scene ought to have come later; but I wanted to show that the mother was the heroine as soon as possible. I'm tired of love-sick girls and runaway wives. We'll prove that there's romance in old women also. Now he's coming!'

And in slouched a degraded-looking man, shabby, unshaven, and evil-eyed, trying to assume a masterful air as he dismayed the tranquil old woman by demanding his child. A powerful scene followed; and Mrs Meg surprised even those who knew her best by the homely dignity with which she at first met the man she dreaded; then, as he brutally pressed his claim, she pleaded with trembling voice and hands to keep the little creature she had promised the dying mother to protect; and when he turned to take it by force, quite a thrill went through the house as the old woman sprung to snatch it from the cradle, and holding it close, defied him in God's name to tear it from that sacred refuge. It was really well done; and the round of applause that greeted the fine tableau of the indignant old woman, the rosy, blinking baby clinging to her neck, and the daunted man who dared not execute his evil purpose with such a defender for helpless innocence, told the excited authors that their first scene was a hit.

The second was quieter, and introduced Josie as a bonny country lass setting the supper-table in a bad humour. The pettish way in which she slapped down the plates, hustled the cups, and cut the big brown loaf, as she related her girlish trials and ambitions, was capital. Mrs Jo kept her eye on Miss Cameron, and saw her nod approval several times at some natural tone or gesture, some good bit of by-play or a quick change of expression in the young face, which was as variable as an April day. Her struggle with the toasting-fork made much merriment; so did her contempt for the brown sugar, and the relish with which she sweetened her irksome duties by eating it; and when she sat, like Cinderella, on the hearth, tearfully watching the flames dance on the homely room, a girlish voice was heard to exclaim impulsively:

'Poor little thing! she ought to have some fun!'

The old woman enters; and mother and daughter have a pretty scene, in which the latter coaxes and threatens, kisses and cries, till she wins the reluctant consent of the former to visit a rich relation in the city; and from being a little thunder-cloud Dolly becomes bewitchingly gay and good, as soon as her wilful wish is granted. The poor old soul has hardly recovered from this trial when the son enters, in army blue, tells he has enlisted and must go. That is a hard blow; but the patriotic mother bears it well, and not till the thoughtless young folks have hastened away to tell their good news elsewhere does she break down. Then the country kitchen becomes pathetic as the old mother sits alone mourning over her children, till the grey head is hidden in the hands as she kneels down by the cradle to weep and pray, with only Baby to comfort her fond and faithful heart.

Sniffs were audible all through the latter part of this scene; and when the curtain fell, people were so busy wiping their eyes that for a moment they forgot to applaud. That silent moment was more flattering than noise; and as Mrs Jo wiped the real tears off her sister's face, she said as solemnly as an unconscious dab of rouge on her nose permitted:

'Meg, you have saved my play! Oh, why aren't you a real actress, and I a real playwright?'

'Don't gush now, dear, but help me dress Josie; she's in such a quiver of excitement, I can't manage her, and this is her best scene, you know.'

So it was; for her aunt had written it especially for her, and little Jo was happy in a gorgeous dress, with a train long enough to satisfy her wildest dreams. The rich relation's parlour was in festival array, and the country cousin sails in, looking back at her sweeping flounces with such artless rapture that no one had the heart to laugh at the pretty jay in borrowed plumes. She has confidences with herself in the mirror, from which it is made evident that she had discovered all is not gold that glitters, and has found greater temptations than those a girlish love of pleasure, luxury, and flattery bring her. She is sought by a rich lover; but her honest heart resists the allurements he offers, and in its innocent perplexity wishes 'mother' was there to comfort and counsel.

A gay little dance, in which Dora, Nan, Bess, and several of the boys took part, made a good background for the humble figure of the old woman in her widow's bonnet, rusty shawl, big umbrella, and basket. Her naive astonishment, as she surveys the spectacle, feels the curtains, and smooths her old gloves during the moment she remains unseen, was very good; but Josie's unaffected start when she sees her, and the cry: 'Why, there's mother!' was such a hearty little bit of nature, it hardly needed the impatient tripping over her train as she ran into the arms that seemed now to be her nearest refuge.

The lover plays his part; and ripples of merriment greeted the old woman's searching questions and blunt answers during the interview which shows the girl how shallow his love is, and how near she had been to ruining her life as bitterly as poor 'Elizy' did. She gives her answer frankly, and when they are alone, looks from her own bedizened self to the shabby dress, work-worn hands, and tender face, crying with a repentant sob and kiss: 'Take me home, mother, and keep me safe. I've had enough of this!'

'That will do you good, Maria; don't forget it,' said one lady to her daughter as the curtain went down; and the girl answered: 'Well, I'm sure I don't see why it's touching; but it is,' as she spread her lace handkerchief to dry.

Tom and Nan came out strong in the next scene; for it was a ward in an army hospital, and surgeon and nurse went from bed to bed, feeling pulses, administering doses, and hearing complaints with an energy and gravity which convulsed the audience. The tragic element, never far from the comic at such times and places, came in when, while they bandaged an arm, the doctor told the nurse about an old woman who was searching through the hospital for her son, after days and nights on battlefields, through ambulances, and among scenes which would have killed most women.

'She will be here directly, and I dread her coming, for I'm afraid the poor lad who has just gone is her boy. I'd rather face a cannon than these brave women, with their hope and courage and great sorrow,' says the surgeon.

'Ah, these poor mothers break my heart!' adds the nurse, wiping her eyes on her big apron; and with the words Mrs Meg came in.

There was the same dress, the basket and umbrella, the rustic speech, the simple manners; but all were made pathetic by the terrible experience which had changed the tranquil old woman to that haggard figure with wild eyes, dusty feet, trembling hands, and an expression of mingled anguish, resolution, and despair which gave the homely figure a tragic dignity and power that touched all hearts. A few broken words told the story of her vain search, and then the sad quest began again. People held their breath as, led by the nurse, she went from bed to bed, showing in her face the alternations of hope, dread, and bitter disappointment as each was passed. On a narrow cot was a long figure covered with a sheet, and here she paused to lay one hand on her heart and one on her eyes, as if to gather courage to look at the nameless dead. Then she drew down the sheet, gave a long shivering sigh of relief, saying softly:

'Not my son, thank God! but some mother's boy.' And stooping down, she kissed the cold forehead tenderly.

Somebody sobbed there, and Miss Cameron shook two tears out of her eyes, anxious to lose no look or gesture as the poor soul, nearly spent with the long strain, struggled on down the long line. But her search was happily ended for, as if her voice had roused him from his feverish sleep, a gaunt, wild-eyed man sat up in his bed, and stretching his arms to her, cried in a voice that echoed through the room:

'Mother, mother! I knew you'd come to me!'

She did go to him, with a cry of love and joy that thrilled every listener, as she gathered him in her arms with the tears and prayers and blessing such as only a fond and faithful old mother could give.

The last scene was a cheerful contrast to this; for the country kitchen was bright with Christmas cheer, the wounded hero, with black patch and crutches well displayed, sat by the fire in the old chair whose familiar creak was soothing to his ear; pretty Dolly was stirring about, gaily trimming dresser, settle, high chimney-piece, and old-fashioned cradle with mistletoe and holly; while the mother rested beside her son, with that blessed baby on her knee. Refreshed by a nap and nourishment, this young actor now covered himself with glory by his ecstatic prancings, incoherent remarks to the audience, and vain attempts to get to the footlights, as he blinked approvingly at these brilliant toys. It was good to see Mrs Meg pat him on the back, cuddle the fat legs out of sight, and appease his vain longings with a lump of sugar, till Baby embraced her with a grateful ardour that brought him a round of applause all for his little self.

A sound of singing outside disturbs the happy family, and, after a carol in the snowy moonlight, a flock of neighbours troop in with Christmas gifts and greetings. Much by-play made this a lively picture; for Sam's sweetheart hovered round him with a tenderness the Marquise did not show the Baron; and Dolly had a pretty bit under the mistletoe with her rustic adorer, who looked so like Ham Peggotty in his cowhide boots, rough jacket, and dark beard and wig, that no one would have recognized Ted but for the long legs, which no extent of leather could disguise. It ended with a homely feast, brought by the guests; and as they sat round the table covered with doughnuts and cheese, pumpkin-pie, and other delicacies, Sam rises on his crutches to propose the first toast, and holding up his mug of cider, says, with a salute, and a choke in his voice: 'Mother, God bless her!' All drink it standing, Dolly with her arm round the old woman's neck, as she hides her happy tears on her daughter's breast; while the irrepressible baby beat rapturously on the table with a spoon, and crowed audibly as the curtain went down.

They had it up again in a jiffy to get a last look at the group about that central figure, which was showered with bouquets, to the great delight of the infant Roscius; till a fat rosebud hit him on the nose, and produced the much-dreaded squall, which, fortunately, only added to the fun at that moment.

'Well, that will do for a beginning,' said Beaumont, with a sigh of relief, as the curtain descended for the last time, and the actors scattered to dress for the closing piece.

'As an experiment, it is a success. Now we can venture to begin our great American drama,' answered Mrs Jo, full of satisfaction and grand ideas for the famous play -- which, we may add, she did not write that year, owing to various dramatic events in her own family.

The Owlsdark Marbles closed the entertainment, and, being something new, proved amusing to this very indulgent audience. The gods and goddesses on Parnassus were displayed in full conclave; and, thanks to Mrs Amy's skill in draping and posing, the white wigs and cotton-flannel robes were classically correct and graceful, though sundry modern additions somewhat marred the effect, while adding point to the showman's learned remarks. Mr Laurie was Professor Owlsdark in cap and gown; and, after a high-flown introduction, he proceeded to exhibit and explain his marbles. The first figure was a stately Minerva; but a second glance produced a laugh, for the words 'Women's Rights' adorned her shield, a scroll bearing the motto 'Vote early and often' hung from the beak of the owl perched on her lance, and a tiny pestle and mortar ornamented her helmet. Attention was drawn to the firm mouth, the piercing eye, the awe-inspiring brow, of the strong-minded woman of antiquity, and some scathing remarks made upon the degeneracy of her modern sisters who failed to do their duty. Mercury came next, and was very fine in his airy attitude, though the winged legs quivered as if it was difficult to keep the lively god in his place. His restless nature was dilated upon, his mischievous freaks alluded to, and a very bad character given to the immortal messenger-boy; which delighted his friends and caused the marble nose of the victim to curl visibly with scorn when derisive applause greeted a particularly hard hit. A charming little Hebe stood next, pouring nectar from a silver teapot into a blue china tea-cup. She also pointed a moral; for the Professor explained that the nectar of old was the beverage which cheers but does not inebriate, and regretted that the excessive devotion of American women to this classic brew proved so harmful, owing to the great development of brain their culture produced. A touch at modern servants, in contrast to this accomplished table-girl, made the statue's cheeks glow under the chalk, and brought her a hearty round as the audience recognized Dolly and the smart soubrette.

Jove in all his majesty followed, as he and his wife occupied the central pedestals in the half-circle of immortals. A splendid Jupiter, with hair well set up off the fine brow, ambrosial beard, silver thunderbolts in one hand, and a well-worn ferule in the other. A large stuffed eagle from the museum stood at his feet; and the benign expression of his august countenance showed that he was in a good humour -- as well he might be, for he was paid some handsome compliments upon his wise rule, the peaceful state of his kingdom, and the brood of all-accomplished Pallases that yearly issued from his mighty brain. Cheers greeted this and other pleasant words, and caused the thunderer to bow his thanks; for 'Jove nods', as everyone knows, and flattery wins the heart of gods and men.

Mrs Juno, with her peacocks, darning-needle, pen, and cooking-spoon, did not get off so easily; for the Professor was down on her with all manner of mirth-provoking accusations, criticisms, and insults even. He alluded to her domestic infelicity, her meddlesome disposition, sharp tongue, bad temper, and jealousy, closing, however, with a tribute to her skill in caring for the wounds and settling the quarrels of belligerent heroes, as well as her love for youths in Olympus and on earth. Gales of laughter greeted these hits, varied by hisses from some indignant boys, who would not bear, even in joke, any disrespect to dear Mother Bhaer, who, however, enjoyed it all immensely, as the twinkle in her eye and the irrepressible pucker of her lips betrayed.

A jolly Bacchus astride of his cask took Vulcan's place, and appeared to be very comfortable with a beer-mug in one hand, a champagne bottle in the other, and a garland of grapes on his curly head. He was the text of a short temperance lecture, aimed directly at a row of smart young gentlemen who lined the walls of the auditorium. George Cole was seen to dodge behind a pillar at one point, Dolly nudged his neighbour at another, and there was laughter all along the line as the Professor glared at them through his big glasses, and dragged their bacchanalian orgies to the light and held them up to scorn.

Seeing the execution he had done, the learned man turned to the lovely Diana, who stood as white and still as the plaster stag beside her, with sandals, bow, and crescent; quite perfect, and altogether the best piece of statuary in the show. She was very tenderly treated by the paternal critic who, merely alluding to her confirmed spinsterhood, fondness for athletic sports, and oracular powers, gave a graceful little exposition of true art and passed on to the last figure.

This was Apollo in full fig, his curls skilfully arranged to hide a well-whitened patch over the eye, his handsome legs correctly poised, and his gifted fingers about to draw divine music from the silvered gridiron which was his lyre. His divine attributes were described, as well as his little follies and failings, among which were his weakness for photography and flute-playing, his attempts to run a newspaper, and his fondness for the society of the Muses; which latter slap produced giggles and blushes among the girl-graduates, and much mirth among the stricken youths; for misery loves company, and after this they began to rally.

Then, with a ridiculous conclusion, the Professor bowed his thanks; and after several recalls the curtain fell, but not quickly enough to conceal Mercury, wildly waving his liberated legs, Hebe dropping her teapot, Bacchus taking a lovely roll on his barrel, and Mrs Juno rapping the impertinent Owlsdark on the head with Jove's ruler.

While the audience filed out to supper in the hall, the stage was a scene of dire confusion as gods and goddesses, farmers and barons, maids and carpenters, congratulated one another on the success of their labours. Assuming various costumes, actors and actresses soon joined their guests, to sip bounteous draughts of praise with their coffee, and cool their modest blushes with ice-cream. Mrs Meg was a proud and happy woman when Miss Cameron came to her as she sat by Josie, with Demi serving both, and said, so cordially that it was impossible to doubt the sincerity of her welcome words:

'Mrs Brooke, I no longer wonder where your children get their talent. I make my compliments to the Baron and next summer you must let me have little "Dolly" as a pupil when we are at the beach.'

One can easily imagine how this offer was received, as well as the friendly commendation bestowed by the same kind critic on the work of Beaumont and Fletcher, who hastened to explain that this trifle was only an attempt to make nature and art go hand in hand, with little help from fine writing or imposing scenery. Everybody was in the happiest mood, especially 'little Dolly', who danced like a will-o'-the-wisp with light-footed Mercury and Apollo as he promenaded with the Marquise on his arm, who seemed to have left her coquetry in the green room with her rouge.

When all was over, Mrs Juno said to Jove, to whose arm she clung as they trudged home along the snowy paths: 'Fritz dear, Christmas is a good time for new resolutions, and I've made one never to be impatient or fretful with my beloved husband again. I know I am, though you won't own it; but Laurie's fun had some truth in it, and I felt hit in a tender spot. Henceforth I am a model wife, else I don't deserve the dearest, best man ever born'; and being in a dramatic mood, Mrs Juno tenderly embraced her excellent Jove in the moonlight, to the great amusement of sundry lingerers behind them.

So all three plays might be considered successes, and that merry Christmas night a memorable one in the March family; for Demi got an unspoken question answered, Josie's fondest wish was granted, and, thanks to Professor Owlsdark's jest, Mrs Jo made Professor Bhaer's busy life quite a bed of roses by the keeping of her resolution. A few days later she had her reward for this burst of virtue in Dan's letter, which set her fears at rest and made her very happy, though she was unable to tell him so, because he sent her no address.



Chapter 15. WAITING

'My wife, I have bad news for thee,' said Professor Bhaer, coming in one day early in January.

'Please tell it at once. I can't bear to wait, Fritz,' cried Mrs Jo, dropping her work and standing up as if to take the shot bravely.

'But we must wait and hope, heart's-dearest. Come and let us bear it together. Emil's ship is lost, and as yet no news of him.'

It was well Mr Bhaer had taken his wife into his strong arms, for she looked ready to drop, but bore up after a moment, and sitting by her good man, heard all that there was to tell. Tidings had been sent to the shipowners at Hamburg by some of the survivors, and telegraphed at once by Franz to his uncle. As one boat-load was safe, there was hope that others might also escape, though the gale had sent two to the bottom. A swift-sailing steamer had brought these scanty news, and happier ones might come at any hour; but kind Franz had not added that the sailors reported the captain's boat as undoubtedly wrecked by the falling mast, since the smoke hid its escape, and the gale soon drove all far asunder. But this sad rumour reached Plumfield in time; and deep was the mourning for the happyhearted Commodore, never to come singing home again. Mrs Jo refused to believe it, stoutly insisting that Emil would outlive any storm and yet turn up safe and gay. It was well she clung to this hopeful view, for poor Mr Bhaer was much afflicted by the loss of his boy, because his sister's sons had been his so long he scarcely knew a different love for his very own. Now was a chance for Mrs Juno to keep her word; and she did, speaking cheerily of Emil, even when hope waxed faint and her heart was heavy. If anything could comfort the Bhaers for the loss of one boy, it would have been the affection and sorrow shown by all the rest. Franz kept the cable busy with his varying messages, Nat sent loving letters from Leipzig, and Tom harassed the shipping agents for news. Even busy Jack wrote them with unusual warmth; Dolly and George came often, bearing the loveliest flowers and the daintiest bon-bons to cheer Mrs Bhaer and sweeten Josie's grief; while good-hearted Ned travelled all the way from Chicago to press their hands and say, with a tear in his eye: 'I was so anxious to hear all about the dear old boy, I couldn't keep away.'

'That's right comfortable, and shows me that if I didn't teach my boys anything else, I did give them the brotherly love that will make them stand by one another all their lives,' said Mrs Jo, when he had gone.

Rob answered reams of sympathizing letters, which showed how many friends they had; and the kindly praises of the lost man would have made Emil a hero and a saint, had they all been true. The elders bore it quietly, having learned submission in life's hard school; but the younger people rebelled; some hoped against hope and kept up, others despaired at once, and little Josie, Emil's pet cousin and playmate, was so broken-hearted nothing could comfort her. Nan dosed in vain, Daisy's cheerful words went by like the wind, and Bess's devices to amuse her all failed utterly. To cry in mother's arms and talk about the wreck, which haunted her even in her sleep, was all she cared to do; and Mrs Meg was getting anxious when Miss Cameron sent Josie a kind note bidding her learn bravely her first lesson in real tragedy, and be like the self-sacrificing heroines she loved to act. That did the little girl good, and she made an effort in which Teddy and Octoo helped her much; for the boy was deeply impressed by this sudden eclipse of the firefly whose light and life all missed when they were gone, and lured her out every day for long drives behind the black mare, who shook her silvery bells till they made such merry music Josie could not help listening to it, and whisked her over the snowy roads at a pace which set the blood dancing in her veins and sent her home strengthened and comforted by sunshine, fresh air, and congenial society -- three aids young sufferers seldom can resist.

As Emil was helping nurse Captain Hardy, safe and well, aboard the ship, all this sorrow would seem wasted; but it was not, for it drew many hearts more closely together by a common grief, taught some patience, some sympathy, some regret for faults that lie heavy on the conscience when the one sinned against is gone, and all of them the solemn lesson to be ready when the summons comes. A hush lay over Plumfield for weeks, and the studious faces on the hill reflected the sadness of those in the valley. Sacred music sounded from Parnassus to comfort all who heard; the brown cottage was beseiged with gifts for the little mourner, and Emil's flag hung at half-mast on the roof where he last sat with Mrs Jo.

So the weeks went heavily by till suddenly, like a thunderbolt out of a clear sky, came the news, 'All safe, letters on the way.' Then up went the flag, out rang the college bells, bang went Teddy's long-unused cannon, and a chorus of happy voices cried 'Thank God', as people went about, laughing, crying, and embracing one another in a rapture of delight. By and by the longed-for letters came, and all the story of the wreck was told; briefly by Emil, eloquently by Mrs Hardy, gratefully by the captain, while Mary added a few tender words that went straight to their hearts and seemed the sweetest of all. Never were letters so read, passed round, admired, and cried over as these; for Mrs Jo carried them in her pocket when Mr Bhaer did not have them in his, and both took a look at them when they said their prayers at night. Now the Professor was heard humming like a big bee again as he went to his classes, and the lines smoothed out of Mother Bhaer's forehead, while she wrote this real story to anxious friends and let her romances wait. Now messages of congratulation flowed in, and beaming faces showed everywhere. Rob amazed his parents by producing a poem which was remarkably good for one of his years, and Demi set it to music that it might be sung when the sailor boy returned. Teddy stood on his head literally, and tore about the neighbourhood on Octoo, like a second Paul Revere -- only his tidings were good. But best of all, little Josie lifted up her head as the snowdrops did, and began to bloom again, growing tall and quiet, with the shadow of past sorrow to tone down her former vivacity and show that she had learned a lesson in trying to act well her part on the real stage, where all have to take their share in the great drama of life.

Now another sort of waiting began; for the travellers were on their way to Hamburg, and would stay there awhile before coming home, as Uncle Hermann owned the Brenda, and the captain must report to him. Emil must remain to Franz's wedding, deferred till now because of the season of mourning, so happily ended. These plans were doubly welcome and pleasant after the troublous times which went before, and no spring ever seemed so beautiful as this one; for, as Teddy put it:

'Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious by these sons of Bhaer!'

Franz and Emil being regarded in the light of elder brothers by the real 'sons of Bhaer'.

There was great scrubbing and dusting among the matrons as they set their houses in order not only for Class Day, but to receive the bride and groom, who were to come to them for the honeymoon trip. Great plans were made, gifts prepared, and much joy felt at the prospect of seeing Franz again; though Emil, who was to accompany them, would be the greater hero. Little did the dear souls dream what a surprise was in store for them, as they innocently laid their plans and wished all the boys could be there to welcome home their eldest and their Casablanca.

While they wait and work so happily, let us see how our other absent boys are faring as they too wait and work and hope for better days. Nat was toiling steadily along the path he had wisely chosen, though it was by no means strewn with flowers -- quite thorny was it, in fact, and hard to travel, after the taste of ease and pleasure he had got when nibbling at forbidden fruit. But his crop of wild oats was a light one, and he resolutely reaped what he had sowed, finding some good wheat among the tares. He taught by day; he fiddled night after night in the dingy little theatre, and he studied so diligently that his master was well pleased, and kept him in mind as one to whom preferment was due, if any chance occurred. Gay friends forgot him; but the old ones stood fast, and cheered him up when Heimweh and weariness made him sad. As spring came on things mended -- expenses grew less, work pleasanter, and life more bearable than when wintry storms beat on his thinly clad back, and frost pinched the toes that patiently trudged in old boots. No debts burdened him; the year of absence was nearly over; and if he chose to stay, Herr Bergmann had hopes for him that would bring independence for a time at least. So he walked under the lindens with a lighter heart, and in the May evenings went about the city with a band of strolling students, making music before houses where he used to sit as guest. No one recognized him in the darkness, though old friends often listened to the band; and once Minna threw him money, which he humbly received as part of his penance, being morbid on the subject of his sins.

His reward came sooner than he expected, and was greater than he deserved, he thought, though his heart leaped with joy when his master one day informed him that he was chosen, with several other of his most promising pupils, to join the musical society which was to take part in the great festival in London the next July. Here was not only honour for the violinist but happiness for the man, as it brought him nearer home, and would open a chance of further promotion and profit in his chosen profession.

'Make thyself useful to Bachmeister there in London with thy English, and if all goes well with him, he will be glad to take thee to America, whither he goes in the early autumn for winter concerts. Thou hast done well these last months, and I have hopes of thee.'

As the great Bergmann seldom praised his pupils, these words filled Nat's soul with pride and joy, and he worked yet more diligently than before to fulfil his master's prophecy. He thought the trip to England happiness enough, but found room for more when, early in June, Franz and Emil paid him a flying visit, bringing all sorts of good news, kind wishes, and comfortable gifts for the lonely fellow, who could have fallen on their necks and cried like a girl at seeing his old mates again. How glad he was to be found in his little room busy at his proper work, not living like an idle gentleman on borrowed money! How proud he was to tell his plans, assure them that he had no debts, and receive their praises for his improvement in music, their respect for his economy and steadfastness in well-doing! How relieved when, having honestly confessed his shortcomings, they only laughed, and owned that they also had known like experiences, and were the wiser for them. He was to go to the wedding late in June, and join his comrades in London. As best man, he could not refuse the new suit Franz insisted on ordering for him; and a cheque from home about that time made him feel like a millionaire -- and a happy one; for this was accompanied by such kind letters full of delight in his success, he felt that he had earned it, and waited for his joyful holiday with the impatience of a boy.

Dan meantime was also counting the weeks till August, when he would be free. But neither marriage-bells nor festival music awaited him; no friends would greet him as he left the prison; no hopeful prospect lay before him; no happy home-going was to be his. Yet his success was far greater than Nat's, though only God and one good man saw it. It was a hard-won battle; but he would never have to fight so terrible a one again; for though enemies would still assail from within and from without, he had found the little guide-book that Christian carried in his bosom, and Love, Penitence, and Prayer, the three sweet sisters, had given him the armour which would keep him safe. He had not learned to wear it yet, and chafed against it, though he felt its value, thanks to the faithful friend who had stood by him all that bitter year.

Soon he was to be free again, worn and scarred in the fray, but out among men in the blessed sun and air. When he thought of it Dan felt as if he could not wait, but must burst that narrow cell and fly away, as the caddis-worms he used to watch by the brookside shed their stony coffins, to climb the ferns and soar into the sky. Night after night he lulled himself to sleep with planning how, when he had seen Mary Mason according to his promise, he would steer straight for his old friends, the Indians, and in the wilderness hide his disgrace and heal his wounds. Working to save the many would atone for the sin of killing one, he thought; and the old free life would keep him safe from the temptations that beset him in cities.

'By and by, when I'm all right again, and have something to tell that I'm not ashamed of, I'll go home,' he said, with a quicker beat of the impetuous heart that longed to be there so intensely, he found it as hard to curb as one of his unbroken horses on the plains. 'Not yet. I must get over this first. They'd see and smell and feel the prison taint on me, if I went now, and I couldn't look them in the face and hide the truth. I can't lose Ted's love, Mother Bhaer's confidence, and the respect of the girls, for they did respect my strength, anyway; but now they wouldn't touch me.' And poor Dan looked with a shudder at the brown fist he clenched involuntarily as he remembered what it had done since a certain little white hand had laid in it confidingly. 'I'll make 'em proud of me yet; and no one shall ever know of this awful year. I can wipe it out, and I will, so help me God!' And the clenched hand was held up as if to take a solemn oath that this lost year should yet be made good, if resolution and repentance could work the miracle.



Chapter 16. IN THE TENNIS-COURT

Athletic sports were in high favour at Plumfield; and the river where the old punt used to wabble about with a cargo of small boys, or echo to the shrill screams of little girls trying to get lilies, now was alive with boats of all kinds, from the slender wherry to the trim pleasure-craft, gay with cushions, awnings, and fluttering pennons. Everyone rowed, and the girls as well as the youths had their races, and developed their muscles in the most scientific manner. The large, level meadow near the old willow was now the college playground, and here baseball battles raged with fury, varied by football, leaping, and kindred sports fitted to split the fingers, break the ribs, and strain the backs of the too ambitious participants. The gentler pastimes of the damsels were at a safe distance from this Champ de Mars; croquet mallets clicked under the elms that fringed the field, rackets rose and fell energetically in several tennis-courts, and gates of different heights were handy to practise the graceful bound by which every girl expected to save her life some day when the mad bull, which was always coming but never seemed to arrive, should be bellowing at her heels.

One of these tennis grounds was called 'Jo's Court', and here the little lady ruled like a queen; for she was fond of the game, and being bent on developing her small self to the highest degree of perfection, she was to be found at every leisure moment with some victim hard at it. On a certain pleasant Saturday afternoon she had been playing with Bess and beating her; for, though more graceful, the Princess was less active than her cousin, and cultivated her roses by quieter methods.

'Oh dear! you are tired, and every blessed boy is at that stupid baseball match. 'What shall I do?' sighed Josie, pushing back the great red hat she wore, and gazing sadly round her for more worlds to conquer.

'I'll play presently, when I'm a little cooler. But it is dull work for me, as I never win,' answered Bess, fanning herself with a large leaf.

Josie was about to sit down beside her on the rustic seat and wait, when her quick eye saw afar off two manly forms arrayed in white flannel; their blue legs seemed bearing them towards the battle going on in the distance; but they never reached the fray; for with a cry of joy, Jo raced away to meet them, bent on securing this heaven-sent reinforcement. Both paused as she came flying up, and both raised their hats; but oh, the difference there was in the salutes! The stout youth pulled his off lazily and put it on again at once, as if glad to get the duty over; the slender being, with the crimson tie, lifted his with a graceful bend, and held it aloft while he accosted the rosy, breathless maid, thus permitting her to see his raven locks smoothly parted, with one little curl upon the brow. Dolly prided himself upon that bow, and practised it before his glass, but did not bestow it upon all alike, regarding it as a work of art, fit only for the fairest and most favoured of his female admirers; for he was a pretty youth, and fancied himself an Adonis.

Eager Josie evidently did not appreciate the honour he did her, for with a nod she begged them both to 'come along and play tennis, not go and get all hot and dirty with the boys'. These two adjectives won the day; for Stuffy was already warmer than he liked to be, and Dolly had on a new suit which he desired to keep immaculate as long as possible, conscious that it was very becoming.

'Charmed to oblige,' answered the polite one, with another bend.

'You play, I'll rest,' added the fat boy, yearning for repose and gentle converse with the Princess in the cooling shade.

'Well, you can comfort Bess, for I've beaten her all to bits and she needs amusing. I know you've got something nice in your pocket, George; give her some, and 'Dolphus can have her racket. Now then, fly round'; and driving her prey before her, Josie returned in triumph to the court.

Casting himself ponderously upon the bench, which creaked under his weight, Stuffy -- as we will continue to call him, though no one else dared to use the old name now -- promptly produced the box of confectionery, without which he never travelled far, and regaled Bess with candied violets and other dainties, while Dolly worked hard to hold his own against a most accomplished antagonist. He would have beaten her if an unlucky stumble, which produced an unsightly stain upon the knee of those new shorts, had not distracted his mind and made him careless. Much elated at her victory, Josie permitted him to rest, and offered ironical consolation for the mishap which evidently weighed upon his mind.

'Don't be an old Betty; it can be cleaned. You must have been a cat in some former state, you are so troubled about dirt; or a tailor, and lived for clothes.'

'Come now, don't hit a fellow when he is down,' responded Dolly from the grass where he and Stuffy now lay to make room for both girls on the seat. One handkerchief was spread under him, and his elbow leaned upon another, while his eyes were sadly fixed upon the green and brown spot which afflicted him. 'I like to be neat; don't think it civil to cut about in old shoes and grey flannel shirts before ladies. Our fellows are gentlemen, and dress as such,' he added, rather nettled at the word 'tailor'; for he owed one of those too attractive persons an uncomfortably big bill.

'So are ours; but good clothes alone don't make a gentleman here. We require a good deal more,' flashed Josie, in arms at once to defend her college. 'You will hear of some of the men in "old boots and grey flannel" when you and your fine gentlemen are twiddling your ties and scenting your hair in obscurity. I like old boots and wear them, and I hate dandies; don't you, Bess?'

'Not when they are kind to me, and belong to our old set,' answered Bess, with a nod of thanks to Dolly, who was carefully removing an inquisitive caterpillar from one of her little russet shoes.

'I like a lady who is always polite, and doesn't snap a man's head off if he has a mind of his own; don't you, George?' asked Dolly, with his best smile for Bess and a Harvard stare of disapprobation for Josie.

A tranquil snore was Stuffy's sole reply, and a general laugh restored peace for the moment. But Josie loved to harass the lords of creation who asserted themselves too much, and bided her time for another attack till she had secured more tennis. She got another game; for Dolly was a sworn knight of dames, so he obeyed her call, leaving Bess to sketch George as he lay upon his back, his stout legs crossed, and his round red face partially eclipsed by his hat. Josie got beaten this time and came back rather cross, so she woke the peaceful sleeper by tickling his nose with a straw till he sneezed himself into a sitting posture, and looked wrathfully about for 'that confounded fly'.

'Come, sit up and let us have a little elegant conversation; you "howling swells" ought to improve our minds and manners, for we are only poor "country girls in dowdy gowns and hats",' began the gad-fly, opening the battle with a sly quotation from one of Dolly's unfortunate speeches about certain studious damsels who cared more for books than finery.

'I didn't mean you! Your gowns are all right, and those hats the latest thing out,' began poor 'Dolphus, convicting himself by the incautious exclamation.

'Caught you that time; I thought you fellows were all gentlemen, civil as well as nice. But you are always sneering at girls who don't dress well and that is a very unmanly thing to do; my mother said so'; and Josie felt that she had dealt a shrewd blow at the elegant youth who bowed at many shrines if they were well-decorated ones.

'Got you there, old boy, and she's right. You never hear me talk about clothes and such twaddle,' said Stuffy, suppressing a yawn, and feeling for another bon-bon wherewith to refresh himself.

'You talk about eating, and that is even worse for a man. You will marry a cook and keep a restaurant some day,' laughed Josie, down on him at once.

This fearful prediction kept him silent for several moments; but Dolly rallied, and wisely changing the subject, carried war into the enemy's camp.

'As you wanted us to improve your manners, allow me to say that young ladies in good society don't make personal remarks or deliver lectures. Little girls who are not out do it, and think it witty; but I assure you it's not good form.'

Josie paused a moment to recover from the shock of being called 'a little girl', when all the honours of her fourteenth birthday were fresh upon her; and Bess said, in the lofty tone which was infinitely more crushing than Jo's impertinence:

'That is true; but we have lived all our lives with superior people, so we have no society talk like your young ladies. We are so accustomed to sensible conversation, and helping one another by telling our faults, that we have no gossip to offer you.'

When the Princess reproved, the boys seldom resented it; so Dolly held his peace, and Josie burst out, following her cousin's lead, which she thought a happy one:

'Our boys like to have us talk with them, and take kindly any hints we give. They don't think they know everything and are quite perfect at eighteen, as I've observed the Harvard men do, especially the very young ones.'

Josie took immense satisfaction in that return shot; and Dolly showed that he was hit, by the nettled tone in which he answered, with a supercilious glance at the hot, dusty, and noisy crowd on the baseball ground: 'The class of fellows you have here need all the polish and culture you can give them; and I'm glad they get it. Our men are largely from the best families all over the country, so we don't need girls to teach us anything.'

'It's a pity you don't have more of such "fellows" as ours. They value and use well what college gives them, and aren't satisfied to slip through, getting all the fun they can and shirking the work. Oh, I've heard you "men" talk, and heard your fathers say they wish they hadn't wasted time and money just that you might say you'd been through college. As for the girls, you'll be much better off in all ways when they do get in, and keep you lazy things up to the mark, as we do here.'

'If you have such a poor opinion of us, why do you wear our colour?' asked Dolly, painfully conscious that he was not improving the advantages his Alma Mater offered him, but bound to defend her.

'I don't; my hat is scarlet, not crimson. Much you know about a colour,' scoffed Josie.

'I know that a cross cow would soon set you scampering, if you flaunted that red tile under her nose,' retorted Dolly.

'I'm ready for her. Can your fine young ladies do this? or you either?' and burning to display her latest accomplishment, Josie ran to the nearest gate, put one hand on the top rail, and vaulted over as lightly as a bird.

Bess shook her head, and Stuffy languidly applauded; but Dolly scorning to be braved by a girl, took a flying leap and landed on his feet beside Josie, saying calmly: 'Can you do that?'

'Not yet; but I will by and by.'

As his foe looked a little crestfallen, Dolly relented, and affably added sundry feats of a like nature, quite unconscious that he had fallen into a dreadful snare; for the dull red paint on the gate, not being used to such vigorous handling, came off in streaks upon his shoulders when he turned a backward swing and came up smiling, to be rewarded with the aggravating remark:

'If you want to know what crimson is, look at your back; it's nicely stamped on and won't wash out, I think.'

'The deuce it won't!' cried Dolly, trying to get an impossible view, and giving it up in great disgust.

'I guess we'd better be going, Dolf,' said peaceable Stuffy, feeling that it would be wise to retreat before another skirmish took place, as his side seemed to be getting the worst of it.

'Don't hurry, I beg; stay and rest; you must need it after the tremendous amount of brain work you've done this week. It is time for our Greek. Come, Bess. Good afternoon, gentlemen.' And, with a sweeping courtesy, Josie led the way, with her hat belligerently cocked up, and her racket borne like a triumphal banner over one shoulder; for having had the last word, she felt that she could retire with the honours of war.

Dolly gave Bess his best bow, with the chill on; and Stuffy subsided luxuriously, with his legs in the air, murmuring in a dreamy tone:

'Little Jo is as cross as two sticks today. I'm going in for another nap: too hot to play anything.'

'So it is. Wonder if Spitfire was right about these beastly spots?' And Dolly sat down to try dry cleansing with one of his handkerchiefs. 'Asleep?' he asked, after a few moments of this cheerful occupation, fearing that his chum might be too comfortable when he was in a fume himself.

'No. I was thinking that Jo wasn't far wrong about shirking. 'Tis a shame to get so little done, when we ought to be grinding like Morton and Torry and that lot. I never wanted to go to college; but my governor made me. Much good it will do either of us!' answered Stuffy, with a groan; for he hated work, and saw two more long years of it before him.

'Gives a man prestige, you know. No need to dig. I mean to have a gay old time, and be a "howling swell", if I choose. Between you and me though, it would be no end jolly to have the girls along. Study be hanged! But if we've got to turn the grindstone, it would be mighty nice to have some of the little dears to lend a hand. Wouldn't it now?'

'I'd like three this minute -- one to fan me, one to kiss me, and one to give me some iced lemonade!' sighed Stuffy, with a yearning glance towards the house, whence no succour appeared.

'How would root-beer do?' asked a voice behind them, which made Dolly spring to his feet and Stuffy roll over like a startled porpoise.

Sitting on the stile that crossed the wall near by was Mrs Jo, with two jugs slung over her shoulder by a strap, several tin mugs in her hand, and an old-fashioned sun-bonnet on her head.

'I knew the boys would be killing themselves with ice-water; so I strolled down with some of my good, wholesome beer. They drank like fishes. But Silas was with me; so my cruse still holds out. Have some?'

'Yes, thanks, very much. Let us pour it.' And Dolly held the cup while Stuffy joyfully filled it; both very grateful, but rather afraid she had heard what went before the wish she fulfilled.

She proved that she had by saying, as they stood drinking her health, while she sat between them, looking like a middle-aged vivandiere, with her jugs and mugs:

'I was glad to hear you say you would like to have girls at your college; but I hope you will learn to speak more respectfully of them before they come; for that will be the first lesson they will teach you.'

'Really, ma'am, I was only joking,' began Stuffy, gulping down his beer in a hurry.

'So was I. I'm sure I -- I'm devoted to 'em,' stuttered Dolly, panic-stricken; for he saw that he was in for a lecture of some sort.

'Not in the right way. Frivolous girls may like to be called "little dears" and things of that sort; but the girls who love study wish to be treated like reasonable beings, not dolls to flirt with. Yes, I'm going to preach; that's my business; so stand up and take it like men.'

Mrs Jo laughed; but she was in earnest; for by various hints and signs during the past winter she knew that the boys were beginning to 'see life' in the way she especially disapproved. Both were far from home, had money enough to waste, and were as inexperienced, curious, and credulous as most lads of their age. Not fond of books, therefore without the safeguard which keeps many studious fellows out of harm; one self-indulgent, indolent, and so used to luxury that pampering of the senses was an easy thing; the other vain, as all comely boys are, full of conceit, and so eager to find favour in the eyes of his comrades that he was ready for anything which would secure it. These traits and foibles made both peculiarly liable to the temptations which assail pleasure-loving and weak-willed boys. Mrs Jo knew them well, and had dropped many a warning word since they went to college; but till lately they seemed not to understand some of her friendly hints; now she was sure they would, and meant to speak out: for long experience with boys made her both bold and skilful in handling some of the dangers usually left to silence, till it is too late for anything but pity and reproach.

'I'm going to talk to you like a mother, because yours are far away; and there are things that mothers can manage best, if they do their duty,' she solemnly began from the depths of the sunbonnet.

'Great Scott! We're in for it now!' thought Dolly, in secret dismay; while Stuffy got the first blow by trying to sustain himself with another mug of beer.

'That won't hurt you; but I must warn you about drinking other things, George. Overeating is an old story; and a few more fits of illness will teach you to be wise. But drinking is a more serious thing, and leads to worse harm than any that can afflict your body alone. I hear you talk about wines as if you knew them and cared more for them than a boy should; and several times I've heard jokes that meant mischief. For heaven's sake, don't begin to play with this dangerous taste "for fun", as you say, or because it's the fashion, and the other fellows do. Stop at once, and learn that temperance in all things is the only safe rule.'

'Upon my honour, I only take wine and iron. I need a tonic, mother says, to repair the waste of brain-tissue while I'm studying,' protested Stuffy, putting down the mug as if it burnt his fingers.

'Good beef and oatmeal will repair your tissues much better than any tonic of that sort. Work and plain fare are what you want; and I wish I had you here for a few months out of harm's way. I'd Banting you, and fit you to run without puffing, and get on without four or five meals a day. What an absurd hand that is for a man! You ought to be ashamed of it!' And Mrs Jo caught up the plump fist, with deep dimples at each knuckle, which was fumbling distressfully at the buckle of the belt girt about a waist far too large for a youth of his age.

'I can't help it -- we all grow fat; it's in the family,' said Stuffy in self-defence.

'All the more reason you should live carefully. Do you want to die early, or be an invalid all your life?'

'No, ma'am!'

Stuffy looked so scared that Mrs Jo could not be hard upon his budding sins, for they lay at his overindulgent mother's door line in a great measure; so she softened the tone of her voice, and added, with a little slap on the fat hand, as she used to do when it was small enough to pilfer lumps of sugar from her bowl:

'Then be careful; for a man writes his character in his face; and you don't want gluttony and intemperance in yours, I know.'

'I'm sure I don't! Please make out a wholesome bill of fare, and I'll stick to it, if I can. I am getting stout, and I don't like it; and my liver's torpid, and I have palpitations and headache. Overwork, mother says; but it may be overeating.' And Stuffy gave a sigh of mingled regret for the good things he renounced, and relief as he finished loosening his belt as soon as his hand was free.

'I will; follow it, and in a year you'll be a man and not a meal-bag. Now, Dolly'; and Mrs Jo turned to the other culprit, who shook in his shoes and wished he hadn't come.

'Are you studying French as industriously as you were last winter?'

'No ma'am; I don't care for it -- that is, I, I'm busy with G-Greek just now,' answered Dolly, beginning bravely, quite in the dark as to what that odd question meant till a sudden memory made him stutter and look at his shoes with deep interest.

'Oh, he doesn't study it; only reads French novels and goes to the theatre when the opera bouffe is here,' said Stuffy, innocently confirming Mrs Jo's suspicions.

'So I understood; and that is what I want to speak about. Ted had a sudden desire to learn French in that way, from something you said, Dolly; so I went myself, and was quite satisfied that it was no place for a decent boy. Your men were out in full force; and I was glad to see that some of the younger ones looked as ashamed as I felt. The older fellows enjoyed it, and when we came out were waiting to take those painted girls to supper. Did you ever go with them?'

'Once.'

'Did you like it?'

'No 'm; I -- I came away early,' stammered Dolly, with a face as red as his splendid tie.

'I'm glad you have not lost the grace of blushing yet; but you will soon, if you keep up this sort of study and forget to be ashamed. The society of such women will unfit you for that of good ones, and lead you into trouble and sin and shame. Oh, why don't the city fathers stop that evil thing, when they know the harm it does? It made my heart ache to see those boys, who ought to be at home and in their beds, going off for a night of riot which would help to ruin some of them for ever.'

The youths looked scared at Mrs Jo's energetic protest against one of the fashionable pleasures of the day, and waited in conscience-stricken silence -- Stuffy glad that he never went to those gay suppers, and Dolly deeply grateful that he 'came away early'. With a hand on either shoulder, and all the terrors smoothed from her brow, Mrs Jo went on in her most motherly tone, anxious to do for them what no other woman would, and do it kindly:

'My dear boys, if I didn't love you, I would not say these things. I know they are not pleasant; but my conscience won't let me hold my peace when a word may keep you from two of the great sins that curse the world and send so many young men to destruction. You are just beginning to feel the allurement of them, and soon it will be hard to turn away. Stop now, I beg of you, and not only save yourselves but help others by a brave example. Come to me if things worry you; don't be afraid or ashamed; I have heard many sadder confessions than any you are ever likely to bring me, and been able to comfort many poor fellows, gone wrong for want of a word in time. Do this, and you will be able to kiss your mothers with clean lips, and by and by have the right to ask innocent girls to love you.'

'Yes'm, thank you. I suppose you're right; but it's pretty hard work to toe the mark when ladies give you wine and gentlemen take their daughters to see Aimee,' said Dolly, foreseeing tribulations ahead though he knew it was time to 'pull up'.

'So it is; but all the more honour to those who are brave and wise enough to resist public opinion, and the easy-going morals of bad or careless men and women. Think of the persons whom you respect most, and in imitating them you will secure the respect of those who look up to you. I'd rather my boys should be laughed at and cold-shouldered by a hundred foolish fellows than lose what, once gone, no power can give them back -- innocence and self-respect. I don't wonder you find it "hard to toe the mark", when books, pictures, ball-rooms, theatres, and streets offer temptations; yet you can resist, if you try. Last winter Mrs Brooke used to worry about John's being out so late reporting; but when she spoke to him about the things he must see and hear on his way to and fro from the office at midnight, he said in his sober way, "I know what you mean, mother; but no fellow need to go wrong unless he wants to."

'That's like the Deacon!' exclaimed Stuffy, with an approving smile on his fat face.

'I'm glad you told me that. He's right; and it's because he doesn't want to go wrong we all respect him so,' added Dolly, looking up now with an expression which assured his Mentor that the right string had been touched, and a spirit of emulation roused, more helpful, perhaps, than any words of hers. Seeing this, she was satisfied, and said, as she prepared to leave the bar before which her culprits had been tried and found guilty, but recommended to mercy:

'Then be to others what John is to you -- a good example. Forgive me for troubling you, my dear lads, and remember my little preachment. I think it will do you good, though I may never know it. Chance words spoken in kindness often help amazingly; and that's what old people are here for -- else their experience is of little use. Now, come and find the young folk. I hope I shall never have to shut the gates of Plumfield upon you, as I have on some of your "gentlemen". I mean to keep my boys and girls safe if I can, and this a wholesome place where the good old-fashioned virtues are lived and taught.'

Much impressed by that dire threat, Dolly helped her from her perch with deep respect; and Stuffy relieved her of her empty jugs, solemnly vowing to abstain from all fermented beverages except root-beer, as long as feeble flesh could hold out. Of course they made light of 'Mother Bhaer's lecture' when they were alone -- that was to be expected of 'men of our class' but in their secret souls they thanked her for giving their boyish consciences a jog, and more than once afterward had cause to remember gratefully that half-hour in the tennis court.



Chapter 17. AMONG THE MAIDS

Although this story is about Jo's boys, her girls cannot be neglected, because they held a high place in this little republic, and especial care was taken to fit them to play their parts worthily in the great republic which offered them wider opportunities and more serious duties. To many the social influence was the better part of the training they received; for education is not confined to books, and the finest characters often graduate from no college, but make experience their master, and life their book. Others cared only for the mental culture, and were in danger of over-studying, under the delusion which pervades New England that learning must be had at all costs, forgetting that health and real wisdom are better. A third class of ambitious girls hardly knew what they wanted, but were hungry for whatever could fit them to face the world and earn a living, being driven by necessity, the urgency of some half-conscious talent, or the restlessness of strong young natures to break away from the narrow life which no longer satisfied.

At Plumfield all found something to help them; for the growing institution had not yet made its rules as fixed as the laws of the Medes and Persians, and believed so heartily in the right of all sexes, colours, creeds, and ranks to education, that there was room for everyone who knocked, and a welcome to the shabby youths from up country, the eager girls from the West, the awkward freedman or woman from the South, or the well-born student whose poverty made this college a possibility when other doors were barred. There still was prejudice, ridicule, neglect in high places, and prophecies of failure to contend against; but the Faculty was composed of cheerful, hopeful men and women who had seen greater reforms spring from smaller roots, and after stormy seasons blossom beautifully, to add prosperity and honour to the nation. So they worked on steadily and bided their time, full of increasing faith in their attempt as year after year their numbers grew, their plans succeeded, and the sense of usefulness in this most vital of all professions blessed them with its sweet rewards.

Among the various customs which had very naturally sprung up was one especially useful and interesting to 'the girls', as the young women liked to be called. It all grew out of the old sewing hour still kept up by the three sisters long after the little work-boxes had expanded into big baskets full of household mending. They were busy women, yet on Saturdays they tried to meet in one of the three sewing-rooms; for even classic Parnassus had its nook where Mrs Amy often sat among her servants, teaching them to make and mend, thereby giving them a respect for economy, since the rich lady did not scorn to darn her hose, and sew on buttons. In these household retreats, with books and work, and their daughters by them, they read and sewed and talked in the sweet privacy that domestic women love, and can make so helpful by a wise mixture of cooks and chemistry, table linen and theology, prosaic duties and good poetry.

Mrs Meg was the first to propose enlarging this little circle; for as she went her motherly rounds among the young women she found a sad lack of order, skill, and industry in this branch of education. Latin, Greek, the higher mathematics, and science of all sorts prospered finely; but the dust gathered on the work-baskets, frayed elbows went unheeded, and some of the blue stockings sadly needed mending. Anxious lest the usual sneer at learned women should apply to 'our girls', she gently lured two or three of the most untidy to her house, and made the hour so pleasant, the lesson so kindly, that they took the hint, were grateful for the favour, and asked to come again. Others soon begged to make the detested weekly duty lighter by joining the party, and soon it was a privilege so much desired that the old museum was refitted with sewing-machines, tables, rocking-chair, and a cheerful fireplace, so that, rain or shine, the needles might go on undisturbed.

Here Mrs Meg was in her glory, and stood wielding her big shears like a queen as she cut out white work, fitted dresses, and directed Daisy, her special aide, about the trimming of hats, and completing the lace and ribbon trifles which add grace to the simplest costume and save poor or busy girls so much money and time. Mrs Amy contributed taste, and decided the great question of colours and complexions; for few women, even the most learned, are without that desire to look well which makes many a plain face comely, as well as many a pretty one ugly for want of skill and knowledge of the fitness of things. She also took her turn to provide books for the readings, and as art was her forte she gave them selections from Ruskin, Hamerton, and Mrs Jameson, who is never old. Bess read these aloud as her contribution, and Josie took her turn at the romances, poetry, and plays her uncles recommended. Mrs Jo gave little lectures on health, religion, politics, and the various questions in which all should be interested, with copious extracts from Miss Cobbe's Duties of Women, Miss Brackett's Education of American Girls, Mrs Duffy's No Sex in Education, Mrs Woolson's Dress Reform, and many of the other excellent books wise women write for their sisters, now that they are waking up and asking: 'What shall we do?'

It was curious to see the prejudices melt away as ignorance was enlightened, indifference change to interest, and intelligent minds set thinking, while quick wits and lively tongues added spice to the discussions which inevitably followed. So the feet that wore the neatly mended hose carried wiser heads than before, the pretty gowns covered hearts warmed with higher purposes, and the hands that dropped the thimbles for pens, lexicons, and celestial globes, were better fitted for life's work, whether to rock cradles, tend the sick, or help on the great work of the world.

One day a brisk discussion arose concerning careers for women. Mrs Jo had read something on the subject and asked each of the dozen girls sitting about the room, what she intended to do on leaving college. The answers were as usual: 'I shall teach, help mother, study medicine, art,' etc.; but nearly all ended with:

'Till I marry.'

'But if you don't marry, what then?' asked Mrs Jo, feeling like a girl again as she listened to the answers, and watched the thoughtful, gay, or eager faces.

'Be old maids, I suppose. Horrid, but inevitable, since there are so many superfluous women,' answered a lively lass, too pretty to fear single blessedness unless she chose it.

'It is well to consider that fact, and fit yourselves to be useful, not superfluous women. That class, by the way, is largely made up of widows, I find; so don't consider it a slur on maidenhood.'

'That's a comfort! Old maids aren't sneered at half as much as they used to be, since some of them have grown famous and proved that woman isn't a half but a whole human being, and can stand alone.'

'Don't like it all the same. We can't all be like Miss Nightingale, Miss Phelps, and the rest.'

So what can we do but sit in a corner and look on?' asked a plain girl with a dissatisfied expression.

'Cultivate cheerfulness and content, if nothing else. But there are so many little odd jobs waiting to be done that nobody need "sit idle and look on", unless she chooses,' said Mrs Meg, with a smile, laying on the girl's head the new hat she had just trimmed.

'Thank you very much. Yes, Mrs Brooke, I see; it's a little job, but it makes me neat and happy -- and grateful,' she added, looking up with brighter eyes as she accepted the labour of love and the lesson as sweetly as they were given.

'One of the best and most beloved women I know has been doing odd jobs for the Lord for years, and will keep at it till her dear hands are folded in her coffin. All sorts of things she does -- picks up neglected children and puts them in safe homes, saves lost girls, nurses poor women in trouble, sews, knits, trots, begs, works for the poor day after day with no reward but the thanks of the needy, the love and honour of the rich who make Saint Matilda their almoner. That's a life worth living; and I think that quiet little woman will get a higher seat in Heaven than many of those of whom the world has heard.'

'I know it's lovely, Mrs Bhaer; but it's dull for young folks. We do want a little fun before we buckle to,' said a Western girl with a wide-awake face.

'Have your fun, my dear; but if you must earn your bread, try to make it sweet with cheerfulness, not bitter with the daily regret that it isn't cake. I used to think mine was a very hard fate because I had to amuse a somewhat fretful old lady; but the books I read in that lonely library have been of immense use to me since, and the dear old soul bequeathed me Plumfield for my "cheerful service and affectionate care". I didn't deserve it, but I did use to try to be jolly and kind, and get as much honey out of duty as I could, thanks to my dear mother's help and advice.'

'Gracious! if I could earn a place like this, I'd sing all day and be an angel; but you have to take your chance, and get nothing for your pains, perhaps. I never do,' said the Westerner, who had a hard time with small means and large aspirations.

'Don't do it for the reward; but be sure it will come, though not in the shape you expect. I worked hard for fame and money one winter; but I got neither, and was much disappointed. A year afterwards I found I had earned two prizes: skill with my pen, and Professor Bhaer.'

Mrs Jo's laugh was echoed blithely by the girls, who liked to have these conversations enlivened by illustrations from life.

'You are a very lucky woman,' began the discontented damsel, whose soul soared above new hats, welcome as they were, but did not quite know where to steer.

'Yet her name used to be "Luckless Jo", and she never had what she wanted till she had given up hoping for it,' said Mrs Meg.

'I'll give up hoping, then, right away, and see if my wishes will come. I only want to help my folks, and get a good school.'

'Take this proverb for your guide: "Get the distaff ready, and the Lord will send the flax",' answered Mrs Jo.

'We'd better all do that, if we are to be spinsters,' said the pretty one, adding gaily, 'I think I should like it, on the whole -- they are so independent. My Aunt Jenny can do just what she likes, and ask no one's leave; but Ma has to consult Pa about everything. Yes, I'll give you my chance, Sally, and be a "superfluum", as Mr Plock says.'

'You'll be one of the first to go into bondage, see if you aren't. Much obliged, all the same.'

'Well, I'll get my distaff ready, and take whatever flax the Fates send -- single, or double-twisted, as the powers please.'

'That is the right spirit, Nelly. Keep it up, and see how happy life will be with a brave heart, a willing hand, and plenty to do.'

'No one objects to plenty of domestic work or fashionable pleasure, I find; but the minute we begin to study, people tell us we can't bear it, and warn us to be very careful. I've tried the other things, and got so tired I came to college; though my people predict nervous exhaustion and an early death. Do you think there is any danger?' asked a stately girl, with an anxious glance at the blooming face reflected in the mirror opposite.

'Are you stronger or weaker than when you came two years ago, Miss Winthrop?'

'Stronger in body, and much happier in mind. I think I was dying of ennui; but the doctors called it inherited delicacy of constitution. That is why mamma is so anxious, and I wish not to go too fast.'

'Don't worry, my dear; that active brain of yours was starving for good food; it has plenty now, and plain living suits you better than luxury and dissipation. It is all nonsense about girls not being able to study as well as boys. Neither can bear cramming; but with proper care both are better for it; so enjoy the life your instinct led you to, and we will prove that wise headwork is a better cure for that sort of delicacy than tonics, and novels on the sofa, where far too many of our girls go to wreck nowadays. They burn the candle at both ends; and when they break down they blame the books, not the balls.'

'Dr Nan was telling me about a patient of hers who thought she had heart-complaint, till Nan made her take off her corsets, stopped her coffee and dancing all night, and made her eat, sleep, walk, and live regularly for a time; and now she's a brilliant cure. Common sense versus custom, Nan said.'

'I've had no headaches since I came here, and can do twice as much studying as I did at home. It's the air, I think, and the fun of going ahead of the boys,' said another girl, tapping her big forehead with her thimble, as if the lively brain inside was in good working order and enjoyed the daily gymnastics she gave it.

'Quality, not quantity, wins the day, you know. Our brains may be smaller, but I don't see that they fall short of what is required of them; and if I'm not mistaken, the largest-headed man in our class is the dullest,' said Nelly, with a solemn air which produced a gale of merriment; for all knew that the young Goliath she mentioned had been metaphorically slain by this quick-witted David on many a battle-field, to the great disgust of himself and his mates.

'Mrs Brooke, do I gauge on the right or the wrong side?' asked the best Greek scholar of her class, eyeing a black silk apron with a lost expression.

'The right, Miss Pierson; and leave a space between the tucks; it looks prettier so.'

'I'll never make another; but it will save my dresses from ink-stains, so I'm glad I've got it'; and the erudite Miss Pierson laboured on, finding it a harder task than any Greek root she ever dug up.

'We paper-stainers must learn how to make shields, or we are lost. I'll give you a pattern of the pinafore I used to wear in my "blood-and-thunder days", as we call them,' said Mrs Jo, trying to remember what became of the old tin-kitchen which used to hold her works.

'Speaking of writers reminds me that my ambition is to be a George Eliot, and thrill the world! It must be so splendid to know that one has such power, and to hear people own that one possesses a "masculine intellect"! I don't care for most women's novels, but hers are immense; don't you think so, Mrs Bhaer?' asked the girl with the big forehead, and torn braid on her skirt.

'Yes; but they don't thrill me as little Charlotte Bronte's books do. The brain is there, but the heart seems left out. I admire, but I don't love, George Eliot; and her life is far sadder to me than Miss Bronte's, because, in spite of the genius, love, and fame, she missed the light without which no soul is truly great, good, or happy.'

'Yes'm, I know; but still it's so romantic and sort of new and mysterious, and she was great in one sense. Her nerves and dyspepsia do rather destroy the illusion; but I adore famous people and mean to go and see all I can scare up in London some day.'

'You will find some of the best of them busy about just the work I recommend to you; and if you want to see a great lady, I'll tell you that Mrs Laurence means to bring one here today. Lady Abercrombie is lunching with her, and after seeing the college is to call on us. She especially wanted to see our sewing-school, as she is interested in things of this sort, and gets them up at home.'

'Bless me! I always imagined lords and ladies did nothing but ride round in a coach and six, go to balls, and be presented to the Queen in cocked hats, and trains and feathers,' exclaimed an artless young person from the wilds of Maine, whither an illustrated paper occasionally wandered.

'Not at all; Lord Abercrombie is over here studying up our American prison system, and my lady is busy with the schools -- both very high-born, but the simplest and most sensible people I've met this long time. They are neither of them young nor handsome, and dress plainly; so don't expect anything splendid. Mr Laurence was telling me last night about a friend of his who met my lord in the hall, and owing to a rough greatcoat and a red face, mistook him for a coachman, and said: "Now, my man, what do you want here?" Lord Abercrombie mildly mentioned who he was, and that he had come to dinner. And the poor host was much afflicted, saying afterward: "Why didn't he wear his stars and garters? then a fellow would know he was a lord."'

The girls laughed again, and a general rustle betrayed that each was prinking a bit before the titled guest arrived. Even Mrs Jo settled her collar, and Mrs Meg felt if her cap was right, while Bess shook out her curls and Josie boldly consulted the glass; for they were women, in spite of philosophy and philanthropy.

'Shall we all rise?' asked one girl, deeply impressed by the impending honour.

'It would be courteous.'

'Shall we shake hands?'

'No, I'll present you en masse, and your pleasant faces will be introduction enough.'

'I wish I'd worn my best dress. Ought to have told us,' whispered Sally.

'Won't my folks be surprised when I tell them we have had a real lady to call on us?' said another.

'Don't look as if you'd never seen a gentlewoman before, Milly. We are not all fresh from the wilderness,' added the stately damsel who, having Mayflower ancestors, felt that she was the equal of all the crowned heads of Europe.

'Hush, she's coming! Oh, my heart, what a bonnet!' cried the gay girl in a stage whisper; and every eye was demurely fixed upon the busy hands as the door opened to admit Mrs Laurence and her guest.

It was rather a shock to find, after the general introduction was over, that this daughter of a hundred earls was a stout lady in a plain gown, and a rather weather-beaten bonnet, with a bag of papers in one hand and a note-book in the other. But the face was full of benevolence, the sonorous voice very kind, the genial manners very winning, and about the whole person an indescribable air of high breeding which made beauty of no consequence, costume soon forgotten, and the moment memorable to the keen-eyed girls whom nothing escaped.

A little chat about the rise, growth, and success of this particular class, and then Mrs Jo led the conversation to the English lady's work, anxious to show her pupils how rank dignifies labour, and charity blesses wealth.

It was good for these girls to hear of the evening-schools supported and taught by women whom they knew and honoured; of Miss Cobbe's eloquent protest winning the protection of the law for abused wives; Mrs Butler saving the lost; Mrs Taylor, who devoted one room in her historic house to a library for the servants; Lord Shaftesbury, busy with his new tenement-houses in the slums of London; of prison reforms; and all the brave work being done in God's name by the rich and great for the humble and the poor. It impressed them more than many quiet home lectures would have done, and roused an ambition to help when their time should come, well knowing that even in glorious America there is still plenty to be done before she is what she should be -- truly just, and free, and great. They were also quick to see that Lady Abercrombie treated all there as her equals, from stately Mrs Laurence, to little Josie, taking notes of everything and privately resolving to have some thick-soled English boots as soon as possible. No one would have guessed that she had a big house in London, a castle in Wales, and a grand country seat in Scotland, as she spoke of Parnassus with admiration, Plumfield as a 'dear old home', and the college as an honour to all concerned in it. At that, of course, every head went up a little, and when my lady left, every hand was ready for the hearty shake the noble Englishwoman gave them, with words they long remembered:

'I am very pleased to see this much-neglected branch of a woman's education so well conducted here, and I have to thank my friend Mrs Laurence for one of the most charming pictures I've seen in America -- Penelope among her maids.'

A group of smiling faces watched the stout boots trudge away, respectful glances followed the shabby bonnet till it was out of sight, and the girls felt a truer respect for their titled guest than if she had come in the coach and six, with all her diamonds on.

'I feel better about the "odd jobs" now. I only wish I could do them as well as Lady Abercrombie does,' said one.

'I thanked my stars my buttonholes were nice, for she looked at them and said: "Quite workmanlike, upon my word," added another, feeling that her gingham gown had come to honour.

'Her manners were as sweet and kind as Mrs Brooke's. Not a bit stiff or condescending, as I expected. I see now what you meant, Mrs Bhaer, when you said once that well-bred people were the same all the world over.'

Mrs Meg bowed her thanks for the compliment, and Mrs Bhaer said:

'I know them when I see them, but never shall be a model of deportment myself. I'm glad you enjoyed the little visit. Now, if you young people don't want England to get ahead of us in many ways, you must bestir yourselves and keep abreast; for our sisters are in earnest, you see, and don't waste time worrying about their sphere, but make it wherever duty calls them.'

'We will do our best, ma'am,' answered the girls heartily, and trooped away with their work-baskets, feeling that though they might never be Harriet Martineaus, Elizabeth Brownings, or George Eliots, they might become noble, useful, and independent women, and earn for themselves some sweet title from the grateful lips of the poor, better than any a queen could bestow.



Chapter 18. CLASS DAY

The clerk of the weather evidently has a regard for young people, and sends sunshine for class days as often as he can. An especially lovely one shone over Plumfield as this interesting anniversary came round, bringing the usual accompaniments of roses, strawberries, white-gowned girls, beaming youths, proud friends, and stately dignitaries full of well-earned satisfaction with the yearly harvest. As Laurence College was a mixed one, the presence of young women as students gave to the occasion a grace and animation entirely wanting where the picturesque half of creation appear merely as spectators. The hands that turned the pages of wise books also possessed the skill to decorate the hall with flowers; eyes tired with study shone with hospitable warmth on the assembling guests; and under the white muslins beat hearts as full of ambition, hope, and courage as those agitating the broadcloth of the ruling sex.

College Hill, Parnassus, and old Plum swarmed with cheery faces, as guests, students, and professors hurried to and fro in the pleasant excitement of arriving and receiving. Everyone was welcomed cordially, whether he rolled up in a fine carriage, or trudged afoot to see the good son or daughter come to honour on the happy day that rewarded many a mutual sacrifice. Mr Laurie and his wife were on the reception committee, and their lovely house was overflowing. Mrs Meg, with Daisy and Jo as aides, was in demand among the girls, helping on belated toilettes, giving an eye to spreads, and directing the decorations. Mrs Jo had her hands full as President's lady, and the mother of Ted; for it took all the power and skill of that energetic woman to get her son into his Sunday best.

Not that he objected to be well arrayed; far from it; he adored good clothes, and owing to his great height already revelled in a dress-suit, bequeathed him by a dandy friend. The effect was very funny; but he would wear it in spite of the jeers of his mates, and sighed vainly for a beaver, because his stern parent drew the line there. He pleaded that English lads of ten wore them and were 'no end nobby'; but his mother only answered, with a consoling pat of the yellow mane:

'My child, you are absurd enough now; if I let you add a tall hat, Plumfield wouldn't hold either of us, such would be the scorn and derision of all beholders. Content yourself with looking like the ghost of a waiter, and don't ask for the most ridiculous head-gear in the known world.'

Denied this noble badge of manhood, Ted soothed his wounded soul by appearing in collars of an amazing height and stiffness, and ties which were the wonder of all female eyes. This freak was a sort of vengeance on his hard-hearted mother; for the collars drove the laundress to despair, never being just right, and the ties required such art in the tying that three women sometimes laboured long before -- like Beau Brummel -- he turned from a heap of 'failures' with the welcome words: 'That will do.' Rob was devoted on these trying occasions, his own toilet being distinguished only by its speed, simplicity, and neatness. Ted was usually in a frenzy before he was suited, and roars, whistles, commands, and groans were heard from the den wherein the Lion raged and the Lamb patiently toiled. Mrs Jo bore it till boots were hurled and a rain of hair-brushes set in, then, fearing for the safety of her eldest, she would go to the rescue, and by a wise mixture of fun and authority finally succeed in persuading Ted that he was 'a thing of beauty', if not 'a joy for ever'. At last he would stalk majestically forth, imprisoned in collars compared to which those worn by Dickens's afflicted Biler were trifles not worth mentioning. The dresscoat was a little loose in the shoulders, but allowed a noble expanse of glossy bosom to be seen, and with a delicate handkerchief negligently drooping at the proper angle, had a truly fine effect. Boots that shone, and likewise pinched, appeared at one end of the 'long, black clothes-pin' -- as Josie called him -- -and a youthful but solemn face at the other, carried at an angle which, if long continued, would have resulted in spinal curvature. Light gloves, a cane, and -- oh, bitter drop in the cup of joy! -- an ignominious straw hat, not to mention a choice floweret in the buttonhole, and a festoon of watchguard below, finished off this impressive boy.

'How's that for style?' he asked, appearing to his mother and cousins whom he was to escort to the hall on this particular occasion.

A shout of laughter greeted him, followed by exclamations of horror; for he had artfully added the little blond moustache he often wore when acting. It was very becoming, and seemed the only balm to heal the wound made by the loss of the beloved hat.

'Take it off this moment, you audacious boy! What would your father say to such a prank on this day when we must all behave our best?' said Mrs Jo, trying to frown, but privately thinking that among the many youths about her none were so beautiful and original as her long son.

'Let him wear it, Aunty; it's so becoming. No one will ever guess he isn't eighteen at least,' cried Josie, to whom disguise of any sort was always charming.

'Father won't observe it; he'll be absorbed in his big-wigs and the girls. No matter if he does, he'll enjoy the joke and introduce me as his oldest son. Rob is nowhere when I'm in full fig'; and Ted took the stage with a tragic stalk, like Hamlet in a tail-coat and choker.

'My son, obey me!' and when Mrs Jo spoke in that tone her word was law. Later, however, the moustache appeared, and many strangers firmly believed that there were three young Bhaers. So Ted found one ray of joy to light his gloom.

Mr Bhaer was a proud and happy man when, at the appointed hour, he looked down upon the parterre of youthful faces before him, thinking of the 'little gardens' in which he had hopefully and faithfully sowed good seed years ago, and from which this beautiful harvest seemed to have sprung. Mr March's fine old face shone with the serenest satisfaction, for this was the dream of his life fulfilled after patient waiting; and the love and reverence in the countenances of the eager young men and women looking up at him plainly showed that the reward he coveted was his in fullest measure. Laurie always effaced himself on these occasions as much as courtesy would permit; for everyone spoke gratefully in ode, poem, and oration of the founder of the college and noble dispenser of his beneficence. The three sisters beamed with pride as they sat among the ladies, enjoying, as only women can, the honour done the men they loved; while 'the original Plums', as the younger ones called themselves, regarded the whole affair as their work, receiving the curious, admiring, or envious glances of strangers with a mixture of dignity and delight rather comical to behold.

The music was excellent, and well it might be when Apollo waved the baton. The poems were -- as usual on such occasions -- of varied excellence, as the youthful speakers tried to put old truths into new words, and made them forceful by the enthusiasm of their earnest faces and fresh voices. It was beautiful to see the eager interest with which the girls listened to some brilliant brother-student, and applauded him with a rustle as of wind over a bed of flowers. It was still more significant and pleasant to watch the young men's faces when a slender white figure stood out against the background of black-coated dignitaries, and with cheeks that flushed and paled, and lips that trembled till earnest purpose conquered maiden fear, spoke to them straight out of a woman's heart and brain concerning the hopes and doubts, the aspirations and rewards all must know, desire, and labour for. This clear, sweet voice seemed to reach and rouse all that was noblest in the souls of these youths, and to set a seal upon the years of comradeship which made them sacred and memorable for ever.

Alice Heath's oration was unanimously pronounced the success of the day; for without being flowery or sentimental, as is too apt to be the case with these first efforts of youthful orators, it was earnest, sensible, and so inspiring that she left the stage in a storm of applause, the good fellows being as much fired by her stirring appeal to 'march shoulder to shoulder', as if she had chanted the 'Marseillaise' then and there. One young man was so excited that he nearly rushed out of his seat to receive her as she hastened to hide herself among her mates, who welcomed her with faces full of tender pride and tearful eye. A prudent sister detained him, however, and in a moment he was able to listen with composure to the President's remarks.

They were worth listening to, for Mr Bhaer spoke like a father to the children whom he was dismissing to the battle of life; and his tender, wise, and helpful words lingered in their hearts long after the praise was forgotten. Then came other exercises peculiar to Plumfield, and the end. Why the roof did not fly off when the sturdy lungs of the excited young men pealed out the closing hymn will for ever be a mystery; but it remained firm, and only the fading garlands vibrated as the waves of music rolled up and died away, leaving sweet echoes to haunt the place for another year.

Dinners and spreads consumed the afternoon, and at sunset came a slight lull as everyone sought some brief repose before the festivities of the evening began. The President's reception was one of the enjoyable things in store, also dancing on Parnassus, and as much strolling, singing, and flirting, as could be compressed into a few hours by youths and maidens just out of school.

Carriages were rolling about, and gay groups on piazzas, lawns, and window-seats idly speculated as to who the distinguished guests might be. The appearance of a very dusty vehicle loaded with trunks at Mr Bhaer's hospitably open door caused much curious comment among the loungers, especially as two rather foreign-looking gentlemen sprang out, followed by two young ladies, all four being greeted with cries of joy and much embracing by the Bhaers. Then they all disappeared into the house, the luggage followed, and the watchers were left to wonder who the mysterious strangers were, till a fair collegian declared that they must be the Professor's nephews, one of whom was expected on his wedding journey.

She was right; Franz proudly presented his blonde and buxom bride, and she was hardly kissed and blessed when Emil led up his bonny English Mary, with the rapturous announcement:

'Uncle, Aunt Jo, here's another daughter! Have you room for my wife, too?'

There could be no doubt of that; and Mary was with difficulty rescued from the glad embraces of her new relatives, who, remembering all the young pair had suffered together, felt that this was the natural and happy ending of the long voyage so perilously begun.

'But why not tell us, and let us be ready for two brides instead of one?' asked Mrs Jo, looking as usual rather demoralizing in a wrapper and crimping-pins, having rushed down from her chamber, where she was preparing for the labours of the evening.

'Well, I remembered what a good joke you all considered Uncle Laurie's marriage, and I thought I'd give you another nice little surprise,' laughed Emil. 'I'm off duty, and it seemed best to take advantage of wind and tide, and come along as convoy to the old boy here. We hoped to get in last night, but couldn't fetch it, so here we are in time for the end of the jollification, anyway.'

'Ah, my sons, it is too feeling-full to see you both so happy and again in the old home. I haf no words to outpour my gratitude, and can only ask of the dear Gott in Himmel to bless and keep you all,' cried Professor Bhaer, trying to gather all four into his arms at once, while tears rolled down his cheeks, and his English failed him.

An April shower cleared the air and relieved the full hearts of the happy family; then of course everyone began to talk -- Franz and Ludmilla in German with uncle, Emil and Mary with the aunts; and round this group gathered the young folk, clamouring to hear all about the wreck, and the rescue, and the homeward voyage. It was a very different story from the written one; and as they listened to Emil's graphic words, with Mary's soft voice breaking in now and then to add some fact that brought out the courage, patience, and self-sacrifice he so lightly touched upon, it became a solemn and pathetic thing to see and hear these happy creatures tell of that great danger and deliverance.

'I never hear the patter of rain now that I don't want to say my prayers; and as for women, I'd like to take my hat off to every one of 'em, for they are braver than any man I ever saw,' said Emil, with the new gravity that was as becoming to him as the new gentleness with which he treated everyone.

'If women are brave, some men are as tender and self-sacrificing as women. I know one who in the night slipped his share of food into a girl's pocket, though starving himself, and sat for hours rocking a sick man in his arms that he might get a little sleep. No, love, I will tell, and you must let me!' cried Mary, holding in both her own the hand he laid on her lips to silence her.

'Only did my duty. If that torment had lasted much longer I might have been as bad as poor Barry and the boatswain. Wasn't that an awful night?' And Emil shuddered as he recalled it.

'Don't think of it, dear. Tell about the happy days on the Urania, when papa grew better and we were all safe and homeward bound,' said Mary, with the trusting look and comforting touch which seemed to banish the dark and recall the bright side of that terrible experience.

Emil cheered up at once, and sitting with his arm about his 'dear lass', in true sailor fashion told the happy ending of the tale.

'Such a jolly old time as we had at Hamburg! Uncle Hermann couldn't do enough for the captain, and while mamma took care of him, Mary looked after me. I had to go into dock for repairs; fire hurt my eyes, and watching for a sail and want of sleep made 'em as hazy as a London fog. She was pilot and brought me in all right, you see, only I couldn't part company, so she came aboard as first mate, and I'm bound straight for glory now.'

'Hush! that's silly, dear,' whispered Mary, trying in her turn to stop him, with English shyness about tender topics. But he took the soft hand in his, and proudly surveying the one ring it wore, went on with the air of an admiral aboard his flagship.

'The captain proposed waiting a spell; but I told him we weren't like to see any rougher weather than we'd pulled through together, and if we didn't know one another after such a year as this, we never should. I was sure I shouldn't be worth my pay without this hand on the wheel; so I had my way, and my brave little woman has shipped for the long voyage. God bless her!'

'Shall you really sail with him?' asked Daisy, admiring her courage, but shrinking with cat-like horror from the water.

'I'm not afraid,' answered Mary, with a loyal smile. 'I've proved my captain in fair weather and in foul, and if he is ever wrecked again, I'd rather be with him than waiting and watching ashore.'

'A true woman, and a born sailor's wife! You are a happy man, Emil, and I'm sure this trip will be a prosperous one,' cried Mrs Jo, delighted with the briny flavour of this courtship. 'Oh, my dear boy, I always felt you'd come back, and when everyone else despaired I never gave up, but insisted that you were clinging to the main-top jib somewhere on that dreadful sea'; and Mrs Jo illustrated her faith by grasping Emil with a truly Pillycoddian gesture.

'Of course I was!' answered Emil heartily; 'and my "main-top jib" in this case was the thought of what you and Uncle said to me. That kept me up; and among the million thoughts that came to me during those long nights none was clearer than the idea of the red strand, you remember -- English navy, and all that. I liked the notion, and resolved that if a bit of my cable was left afloat, the red stripe should be there.'

'And it was, my dear, it was! Captain Hardy testifies to that, and here is your reward'; and Mrs Jo kissed Mary with a maternal tenderness which betrayed that she liked the English rose better than the blue-eyed German Kornblumen, sweet and modest though it was.

Emil surveyed the little ceremony with complacency, saying, as he looked about the room which he never thought to see again: 'Odd, isn't it, how clearly trifles come back to one in times of danger? As we floated there, half-starved, and in despair, I used to think I heard the bells ringing here, and Ted tramping downstairs, and you calling, "Boys, boys, it's time to get up!" I actually smelt the coffee we used to have, and one night I nearly cried when I woke from a dream of Asia's ginger cookies. I declare, it was one of the bitterest disappointments of my life to face hunger with that spicy smell in my nostrils. If you've got any, do give me one!'

A pitiful murmur broke from all the aunts and cousins, and Emil was at once borne away to feast on the desired cookies, a supply always being on hand. Mrs Jo and her sister joined the other group, glad to hear what Franz was saying about Nat.

'The minute I saw how thin and shabby he was, I knew that something was wrong; but he made light of it, and was so happy over our visit and news that I let him off with a brief confession, and went to Professor Baumgarten and Bergmann. From them I learned the whole story of his spending more money than he ought and trying to atone for it by unnecessary work and sacrifice. Baumgarten thought it would do him good, so kept his secret till I came. It did him good, and he's paid his debts and earned his bread by the sweat of his brow, like an honest fellow.'

'I like that much in Nat. It is, as I said, a lesson, and he learns it well. He proves himself a man, and has deserved the place Bergmann offers him,' said Mr Bhaer, looking well pleased as Franz added some facts already recorded.

'I told you, Meg, that he had good stuff in him, and love for Daisy would keep him straight. Dear lad, I wish I had him here this moment!' cried Mrs Jo, forgetting in delight the doubts and anxieties which had troubled her for months past.

'I am very glad, and suppose I shall give in as I always do, especially now that the epidemic rages so among us. You and Emil have set all their heads in a ferment, and Josie will be demanding a lover before I can turn round,' answered Mrs Meg, in a tone of despair.

But her sister saw that she was touched by Nat's trials, and hastened to add the triumphs, that the victory might be complete, for success is always charming.

'This offer of Herr Bergmann is a good one, isn't it?' she asked, though Mr Laurie had already satisfied her on that point when Nat's letter brought the news.

'Very fine in every way. Nat will get capital drill in Bachmeister's orchestra, see London in a delightful way, and if he suits come home with them, well started among the violins. No great honour, but a sure thing and a step up. I congratulated him, and he was very jolly over it, saying, like the true lover he is: "Tell Daisy; be sure and tell her all about it." I'll leave that to you, Aunt Meg, and you can also break it gently to her that the old boy had a fine blond beard. Very becoming; hides his weak mouth, and gives a noble air to his big eyes and "Mendelssohnian brow", as a gushing girl called it. Ludmilla has a photo of it for you.'

This amused them; and they listened to many other interesting bits of news which kind Franz, even in his own happiness, had not forgotten to remember for his friend's sake. He talked so well, and painted Nat's patient and pathetic shifts so vividly, that Mrs Meg was half won; though if she had learned of the Minna episode and the fiddling in beer-gardens and streets, she might not have relented so soon. She stored up all she heard, however, and, womanlike, promised herself a delicious talk with Daisy, in which she would allow herself to melt by degrees, and perhaps change the doubtful 'We shall see' to a cordial 'He has done well; be happy, dear'.

In the midst of this agreeable chat the sudden striking of a clock recalled Mrs Jo from romance to reality, and she exclaimed, with a clutch at her crimping-pins:

'My blessed people, you must eat and rest; and I must dress, or receive in this disgraceful rig. Meg, will you take Ludmilla and Mary upstairs and see to them? Franz knows the way to the dining-room. Fritz, come with me and be made tidy, for what with heat and emotion, we are both perfect wrecks.'



Chapter 19. WHITE ROSES

While the travellers refreshed, and Mrs President struggled into her best gown, Josie ran into the garden to gather flowers for the brides. The sudden arrival of these interesting beings had quite enchanted the romantic girl, and her head was full of heroic rescues, tender admiration, dramatic situations, and feminine wonder as to whether the lovely creatures would wear their veils or not. She was standing before a great bush of white roses, culling the most perfect for the bouquets which she meant to tie with the ribbon festooned over her arm, and lay on the toilette tables of the new cousins, as a delicate attention. A step startled her, and looking up she saw her brother coming down the path with folded arms, bent head, and the absent air of one absorbed in deep thought.

'Sophy Wackles,' said the sharp child, with a superior smile, as she sucked her thumb just pricked by a too eager pull at the thorny branches.

'What are you at here, Mischief?' asked Demi, with an Irvingesque start, as he felt rather than saw a disturbing influence in his day-dream.

'Getting flowers for "our brides". Don't you wish you had one?' answered Josie, to whom the word 'mischief' suggested her favourite amusement.

'A bride or a flower?' asked Demi calmly, though he eyed the blooming bush as if it had a sudden and unusual interest for him.

'Both; you get the one, and I'll give you the other.'

'Wish I could!' and Demi picked a little bud, with a sigh that went to Josie's warm heart.

'Why don't you, then? It's lovely to see people so happy. Now's a good time to do it if you ever mean to. She will be going away for ever soon.'

'Who?' and Demi pulled a half-opened bud, with a sudden colour in his own face; which sign of confusion delighted little Jo.

'Don't be a hypocrite. You know I mean Alice. Now, Jack, I'm fond of you, and want to help; it's so interesting -- all these lovers and weddings and things, and we ought to have our share. So you take my advice and speak up like a man, and make sure of Alice before she goes.'

Demi laughed at the seriousness of the small girl's advice; but he liked it, and showed that it suited him by saying blandly, instead of snubbing her as usual:

'You are very kind, child. Since you are so wise, could you give me a hint how I'd better 'speak up', as you elegantly express it?'

'Oh, well, there are various ways, you know. In plays the lovers go down on their knees; but that's awkward when they have long legs. Ted never does it well, though I drill him for hours. You could say, "Be mine, be mine!" like the old man who threw cucumbers over the wall to Mrs Nickleby, if you want to be gay and easy; or you could write a poetical pop. You've tried it, I dare say.'

'But seriously, Jo, I do love Alice, and I think she knows it. I want to tell her so; but I lose my head when I try, and don't care to make a fool of myself. Thought you might suggest some pretty way; you read so much poetry and are so romantic.'

Demi tried to express himself clearly, but forgot his dignity and his usual reserve in the sweet perplexity of his love, and asked his little sister to teach him how to put the question which a single word can answer. The arrival of his happy cousins had scattered all his wise plans and brave resolutions to wait still longer. The Christmas play had given him courage to hope, and the oration today had filled him with tender pride; but the sight of those blooming brides and beaming grooms was too much for him, and he panted to secure his Alice without an hour's delay. Daisy was his confidante in all things but this; a brotherly feeling of sympathy had kept him from telling her his hopes, because her own were forbidden. His mother was rather jealous of any girl he admired; but knowing that she liked Alice, he loved on and enjoyed his secret alone, meaning soon to tell her all about it.

Now suddenly Josie and the rose-bush seemed to suggest a speedy end to his tender perplexities; and he was moved to accept her aid as the netted lion did that of the mouse.

'I think I'll write,' he was slowly beginning, after a pause during which both were trying to strike out a new and brilliant idea.

'I've got it! perfectly lovely! just suit her, and you too, being a poet!' cried Josie, with a skip.

'What is it? Don't be ridiculous, please,' begged the bashful lover, eager, but afraid of this sharp-tongued bit of womanhood.

'I read in one of Miss Edgeworth's stories about a man who offers three roses to his lady -- a bud, a half-blown, and a full-blown rose. I don't remember which she took; but it's a pretty way; and Alice knows about it because she was there when we read it. Here are all kinds; you've got the two buds, pick the sweetest rose you can find, and I'll tie them up and put them in her room. She is coming to dress with Daisy, so I can do it nicely.'

Demi mused a moment with his eyes on the bridal bush, and a smile came over his face so unlike any it had ever worn before, that Josie was touched, and looked away as if she had no right to see the dawn of the great passion which, while it lasts, makes a young man as happy as a god.

'Do it,' was all he said, and gathered a full-blown rose to finish his floral love-message.

Charmed to have a finger in this romantic pie, Josie tied a graceful bow of ribbon about the stems, and finished her last nosegay with much content, while Demi wrote upon a card:

DEAR ALICE, You know what the flowers mean. Will you wear one, or all tonight, and make me still prouder, fonder, and happier than I am?

Yours entirely,

John


Offering this to his sister, he said in a tone that made her feel the deep importance of her mission:

'I trust you, Jo. This means everything to me. No jokes, dear, if you love me.'

Josie's answer was a kiss that promised all things; and then she ran away to do her 'gentle spiriting', like Ariel, leaving Demi to dream among the roses like Ferdinand.

Mary and Ludmilla were charmed with their bouquets; and the giver had the delight of putting some of the flowers into the dark hair and the light as she played maid at the toilettes of 'our brides', which consoled her for a disappointment in the matter of veils.

No one helped Alice dress; for Daisy was in the next room with her mother; and not even their loving eyes saw the welcome which the little posy received, nor the tears and smiles and blushes that came and went as she read the note and pondered what answer she should give. There was no doubt about the one she wished to give; but duty held her back; for at home there was an invalid mother and an old father. She was needed there, with all the help she could now bring by the acquirements four years of faithful study had given her. Love looked very sweet, and a home of her own with John a little heaven on earth; but not yet. And she slowly laid away the full-blown rose as she sat before the mirror, thinking over the great question of her life.

Was it wise and kind to ask him to wait, to bind him by any promise, or even to put into words the love and honour she felt for him? No; it would be more generous to make the sacrifice alone, and spare him the pain of hope deferred. He was young; he would forget; and she would do her duty better, perhaps, if no impatient lover waited for her. With eyes that saw but dimly, and a hand that lingered on the stem he had stripped of thorns, she laid the half-blown flower by the rose, and asked herself if even the little bud might be worn. It looked very poor and pale beside the others; yet being in the self-sacrificing mood which real love brings, she felt that even a small hope was too much to give, if she could not follow it up with more.

As she sat looking sadly down on the symbols of an affection that grew dearer every moment, she listened half unconsciously to the murmur of voices in the adjoining room. Open windows, thin partitions, and the stillness of summer twilight made it impossible to help hearing, and in a few moments more she could not refrain; for they were talking of John.

'So nice of Ludmilla to bring us all bottles of real German cologne! Just what we need after this tiring day! Be sure John has his! He likes it so!'

'Yes, mother. Did you see him jump up when Alice ended her oration? He'd have gone to her if I hadn't held him back. I don't wonder he was pleased and proud. I spoilt my gloves clapping, and quite forgot my dislike of seeing women on platforms, she was so earnest and unconscious and sweet after the first moment.'

'Has he said anything to you, dear?'

'No; and I guess why. The kind boy thinks it would make me unhappy. It wouldn't. But I know his ways; so I wait, and hope all will go well with him.'

'It must. No girl in her senses would refuse our John, though he isn't rich, and never will be. Daisy, I've been longing to tell you what he did with his money. He told me last night, and I've had no time since to tell you. He sent poor young Barton to the hospital, and kept him there till his eyes were saved -- a costly thing to do. But the man can work now and care for his old parents. He was in despair, sick and poor, and too proud to beg; and our dear boy found it out, and took every penny he had, and never told even his mother till she made him.'

Alice did not hear what Daisy answered, for she was busy with her own emotions -- happy ones now, to judge from the smile that shone in her eyes and the decided gesture with which she put the little bud in her bosom, as if she said: 'He deserves some reward for that good deed, and he shall have it.'

Mrs Meg was speaking, and still of John, when she could hear again:

'Some people would call it unwise and reckless, when John has so little; but I think his first investment a safe and good one, for "he who giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord"; and I was so pleased and proud, I wouldn't spoil it by offering him a penny.'

'It is his having nothing to offer that keeps him silent, I think. He is so honest, he won't ask till he has much to give. But he forgets that love is everything. I know he's rich in that; I see and feel it; and any woman should be glad to get it.'

'Right, dear. I felt just so, and was willing to work and wait with and for my John.'

'So she will be, and I hope they will find it out. But she is so dutiful and good, I'm afraid she won't let herself be happy. You would like it, mother?'

'Heartily; for a better, nobler girl doesn't live. She is all I want for my son; and I don't mean to lose the dear, brave creature if I can help it. Her heart is big enough for both love and duty; and they can wait more happily if they do it together -- for wait they must, of course.'

'I'm so glad his choice suits you, mother, and he is spared the saddest sort of disappointment.'

Daisy's voice broke there; and a sudden rustle, followed by a soft murmur, seemed to tell that she was in her mother's arms, seeking and finding comfort there.

Alice heard no more, and shut her window with a guilty feeling but a shining face; for the proverb about listeners failed here, and she had learned more than she dared to hope. Things seemed to change suddenly; she felt that her heart was large enough for both love and duty; she knew now that she would be welcomed by mother and sister; and the memory of Daisy's less happy fate, Nat's weary probation, the long delay, and possible separation for ever -- all came before her so vividly that prudence seemed cruelty; self-sacrifice, sentimental folly; and anything but the whole truth, disloyalty to her lover. As she thought thus, the half-blown rose went to join the bud; and then, after a pause, she slowly kissed the perfect rose, and added it to the tell-tale group, saying to herself with a sort of sweet solemnity, as if the words were a vow:

'I'll love and work and wait with and for my John.'

It was well for her that Demi was absent when she stole down to join the guests who soon began to flow through the house in a steady stream. The new brightness which touched her usually thoughtful face was easily explained by the congratulations she received as orator, and the slight agitation observable, when a fresh batch of gentlemen approached soon passed, as none of them noticed the flowers she wore over a very happy heart. Demi meantime was escorting certain venerable personages about the college, and helping his grandfather entertain them with discussion of the Socratic method of instruction, Pythagoras, Pestalozzi, Froebel, and the rest, whom he devoutly wished at the bottom of the Red Sea, and no wonder, for his head and his heart were full of love and roses, hopes and fears. He piloted the 'potent, grave, and reverend seigniors' safely down to Plumfield at last, and landed them before his uncle and aunt Bhaer, who were receiving in state, the one full of genuine delight in all men and things, the other suffering martyrdom with a smile, as she stood shaking hand after hand, and affecting utter unconsciousness of the sad fact that ponderous Professor Plock had camped upon the train of her state and festival velvet gown.

With a long sigh of relief Demi glanced about him for the beloved girl. Most persons would have looked some time before any particular angel could be discovered among the white-robed throng in parlours, hall, and study; but his eye went -- like the needle to the pole -- to the corner where a smooth dark head, with its braided crown, rose like a queen's, he thought, above the crowd which surrounded her. Yes, she has a flower at her throat; one, two, oh, blessed sight! he saw it all across the room, and gave a rapturous sigh which caused Miss Perry's frizzled crop to wave with a sudden gust. He did not see the rose, for it was hidden by a fold of lace; and it was well, perhaps, that bliss came by instalments, or he might have electrified the assembled multitude by flying to his idol, there being no Daisy to clutch him by the coat-tail. A stout lady, thirsting for information, seized him at that thrilling moment, and he was forced to point out celebrities with a saintly patience which deserved a better reward than it received; for a certain absence of mind and incoherence of speech at times caused the ungrateful dowager to whisper to the first friend she met after he had escaped:

'I saw no wine at any of the spreads; but it is plain that young Brooke has had too much. Quite gentlemanly, but evidently a trifle intoxicated, my dear.'

Ah, so he was! but with a diviner wine than any that ever sparkled at a class-day lunch, though many collegians know the taste of it; and when the old lady was disposed of, he gladly turned to find the young one, bent on having a single word. He saw her standing by the piano now, idly turning over music as she talked with several gentlemen. Hiding his impatience under an air of scholastic repose, Demi hovered near, ready to advance when the happy moment came, wondering meantime why elderly persons persisted in absorbing young ones instead of sensibly sitting in corners with their contemporaries. The elderly persons in question retired at length, but only to be replaced by two impetuous youths who begged Miss Heath to accompany them to Parnassus and join the dance. Demi thirsted for their blood, but was appeased by hearing George and Dolly say, as they lingered a moment after her refusal:

'Really, you know, I'm quite converted to co-education and almost wish I'd remained here. It gives a grace to study, a sort of relish even to Greek to see charming girls at it,' said Stuffy, who found the feast of learning so dry, any sauce was welcome; and he felt as if he had discovered a new one.

'Yes, by Jove! we fellows will have to look out or you'll carry off all the honours. You were superb today, and held us all like magic, though it was so hot there, I really think I couldn't have stood it for anyone else,' added Dolly, labouring to be gallant and really offering a touching proof of devotion; for the heat melted his collar, took the curl out of his hair, and ruined his gloves.

'There is room for all; and if you will leave us the books, we will cheerfully yield the baseball, boating, dancing, and flirting, which seem to be the branches you prefer,' answered Alice sweetly.

'Ah, now you are too hard upon us! We can't grind all the time and you ladies don't seem to mind taking a turn at the two latter "branches" you mention,' returned Dolly, with a glance at George which plainly said, 'I had her there.'

'Some of us do in our first years. Later we give up childish things, you see. Don't let me keep you from Parnassus'; and a smiling nod dismissed them, smarting under the bitter consciousness of youth.

'You got it there, Doll. Better not try to fence with these superior girls. Sure to be routed, horse, foot, and dragoons,' said Stuffy, lumbering away, somewhat cross with too many spreads.

'So deuced sarcastic! Don't believe she's much older than we are. Girls grow up quicker, so she needn't put on airs and talk like a grandmother,' muttered Dolly, feeling that he had sacrificed his kids upon the altar of an ungrateful Pallas.

'Come along and let's find something to eat. I'm faint with so much talking. Old Plock cornered me and made my head spin with Kant and Hegel and that lot.'

'I promised Dora West I'd give her a turn. Must look her up; she's a jolly little thing, and doesn't bother about anything but keeping in step.'

And arm in arm the boys strolled away, leaving Alice to read music as diligently as if society had indeed no charms for her. As she bent to turn a page, the eager young man behind the piano saw the rose and was struck speechless with delight. A moment he gazed, then hastened to seize the coveted place before a new detachment of bores arrived.

'Alice, I can't believe it -- did you understand -- how shall I ever thank you?' murmured Demi, bending as if he, too, read the song, not a note or word of which did he see, however.

'Hush! not now. I understood -- I don't deserve it -- we are too young, we must wait, but -- I'm very proud and happy, John!'

What would have happened after that tender whisper I tremble to think, if Tom Bangs had not come bustling up, with the cheerful remark:

'Music? just the thing. People are thinning out, and we all want a little refreshment. My brain fairly reels with the 'ologies and 'isms I've heard discussed tonight. Yes, give us this; sweet thing! Scotch songs are always charming.'

Demi glowered; but the obtuse boy never saw it, and Alice, feeling that this would be a safe vent for sundry unruly emotions, sat down at once, and sang the song which gave her answer better than she could have done:

Bide A Wee

'The puir auld folk at home, ye mind, Are frail and failing sair; And weel I ken they'd miss me, lad, Gin I come hame nae mair. The grist is out, the times are hard, The kine are only three; I canna leave the auld folk now. We'd better bide a wee.

'I fear me sair they're failing baith; For when I sit apart, They talk o' Heaven so earnestly, It well nigh breaks my heart. So, laddie, dinna urge me now, It surely winna be; I canna leave the auld folk yet. We'd better bide a wee.'

The room was very still before the first verse ended; and Alice skipped the next, fearing she could not get through; for John's eyes were on her, showing that he knew she sang for him and let the plaintive little ballad tell what her reply must be. He took it as she meant it, and smiled at her so happily that her heart got the better of her voice, and she rose abruptly, saying something about the heat.

'Yes, you are tired; come out and rest, my dearest'; and with a masterful air Demi took her into the starlight, leaving Tom to stare after them winking as if a sky-rocket had suddenly gone off under his nose.

'Bless my soul! the Deacon really meant business last summer and never told me. Won't Dora laugh?' And Tom departed in hot haste to impart and exult over his discovery.

What was said in the garden was never exactly known; but the Brooke family sat up very late that night, and any curious eye at the window would have seen Demi receiving the homage of his womankind as he told his little romance. Josie took great credit to herself in the matter, insisting that she had made the match; Daisy was full of the sweetest sympathy and joy, and Mrs Meg so happy that when Jo had gone to dream of bridal veils, and Demi sat in his room blissfully playing the air of 'Bide a Wee', she had her talk about Nat, ending with her arms round her dutiful daughter and these welcome words as her reward:

'Wait till Nat comes home, and then my good girl shall wear white roses too.'



Chapter 20. LIFE FOR LIFE

The summer days that followed were full of rest and pleasure for young and old, as they did the honours of Plumfield to their happy guests. While Franz and Emil were busy with the affairs of Uncle Hermann and Captain Hardy, Mary and Ludmilla made friends everywhere; for, though very unlike, both were excellent and charming girls. Mrs Meg and Daisy found the German bride a Hausfrau after their own hearts, and had delightful times learning new dishes, hearing about the semi-yearly washes and the splendid linen-room at Hamburg, or discussing domestic life in all its branches. Ludmilla not only taught, but learned, many things, and went home with many new and useful ideas in her blonde head.

Mary had seen so much of the world that she was unusually lively for an English girl; while her various accomplishments made her a most agreeable companion. Much good sense gave her ballast; and the late experiences of danger and happiness added a sweet gravity at times, which contrasted well with her natural gaiety. Mrs Jo was quite satisfied with Emil's choice, and felt sure this true and tender pilot would bring him safe to port through fair or stormy weather. She had feared that Franz would settle down into a comfortable, moneymaking burgher, and be content with that; but she soon saw that his love of music and his placid Ludmilla put much poetry into his busy life, and kept it from being too prosaic. So she felt at rest about these boys, and enjoyed their visit with real, maternal satisfaction; parting with them in September most regretfully, yet hopefully, as they sailed away to the new life that lay before them.

Demi's engagement was confided to the immediate family only, as both were pronounced too young to do anything but love and wait. They were so happy that time seemed to stand still for them, and after a blissful week they parted bravely -- Alice to home duties, with a hope that sustained and cheered her through many trials; and John to his business, full of a new ardour which made all things possible when such a reward was offered.

Daisy rejoiced over them, and was never tired of hearing her brother's plans for the future. Her own hope soon made her what she used to be -- a cheery, busy creature, with a smile, kind word, and helping hand for all; and as she went singing about the house again, her mother felt that the right remedy for past sadness had been found. The dear Pelican still had doubts and fears, but kept them wisely to herself, preparing sundry searching tests to be applied when Nat came home, and keeping a sharp eye on the letters from London; for some mysterious hint had flown across the sea, and Daisy's content seemed reflected in Nat's present cheerful state of mind.

Having passed through the Werther period, and tried a little Faust -- of which experience he spoke to his Marguerite as if it had included an acquaintance with Mephistopheles, Blocksburg, and Auerbach's wine-cellar -- he now felt that he was a Wilhelm Meister, serving his apprenticeship to the great masters of life. As she knew the truth of his small sins and honest repentance, Daisy only smiled at the mixture of love and philosophy he sent her, knowing that it was impossible for a young man to live in Germany without catching the German spirit.

'His heart is all right; and his head will soon grow clear when he gets out of the fog of tobacco, beer, and metaphysics he's been living in. England will wake up his common sense, and good salt air blow his little follies all away,' said Mrs Jo, much pleased with the good prospects of her violinist -- whose return was delayed till spring, to his private regret, but professional advancement.

Josie had a month with Miss Cameron at the seaside, and threw herself so heartily into the lesson given her that her energy, promise, and patience laid the foundation of a friendship which was of infinite value to her in the busy, brilliant years to come; for little Jo's instincts were right; and the dramatic talent of the Marches was to blossom by and by into an actress, virtuous, and beloved.

Tom and his Dora were peacefully ambling altar-ward; for Bangs senior was so afraid his son would change his mind again and try a third profession, that he gladly consented to an early marriage, as a sort of anchor to hold the mercurial Thomas fast. Aforesaid Thomas could not complain of cold shoulders now; for Dora was a most devoted and adoring little mate, and made life so pleasant to him that his gift for getting into scrapes seemed lost, and he bade fair to become a thriving man, with undeniable talent for the business he had chosen.

'We shall be married in the autumn, and live with my father for a while. The governor is getting on, you know, and my wife and I must look after him. Later we shall have an establishment of our own,' was a favourite speech of his about this time, and usually received with smiles; for the idea of Tommy Bangs at the head of an 'establishment' was irresistibly funny to all who knew him.

Things were in this flourishing condition, and Mrs Jo was beginning to think her trials were over for that year, when a new excitement came. Several postal cards had arrived at long intervals from Dan, who gave them 'Care of M. Mason, etc.', as his address. By this means he was able to gratify his longing for home news, and to send brief messages to quiet their surprise at his delay in settling. The last one, which came in September, was dated 'Montana', and simply said:

Here at last, trying mining again; but not going to stay long. All sorts of luck. Gave up the farm idea. Tell plans soon. Well, busy, and very happy. D. K.

If they had known what the heavy dash under 'happy' meant, that postal would have been a very eloquent bit of pasteboard; for Dan was free, and had gone straight away to the liberty he panted for. Meeting an old friend by accident, he obliged him at a pinch by acting as overseer for a time, finding the society even of rough miners very sweet, and something in the muscular work wonderfully pleasant, after being cooped up in the brush-shop so long. He loved to take a pick and wrestle with rock and earth till he was weary -- which was very soon; for that year of captivity had told upon his splendid physique. He longed to go home, but waited week after week to get the prison taint off him and the haggard look out of his face. Meanwhile he made friends of masters and men; and as no one knew his story, he took his place again in the world gratefully and gladly -- with little pride now, and no plans but to do some good somewhere, and efface the past.

Mrs Jo was having a grand clearing-out of her desk one October day, while the rain poured outside, and peace reigned in her mansion. Coming across the postals, she pondered over them, and then put them carefully away in the drawer labelled 'Boys' Letters', saying to herself, as she bundled eleven requests for autographs into the waste-paper basket:

'It is quite time for another card, unless he is coming to tell his plans. I'm really curious to know what he has been about all this year, and how he's getting on now.'

That last wish was granted within an hour; for Ted came rushing in, with a newspaper in one hand, a collapsed umbrella in the other, and a face full of excitement, announcing, all in one breathless jumble:

'Mine caved in -- twenty men shut up -- no way out -- wives crying -- water rising -- Dan knew the old shaft -- risked his life -- got 'em out -- most killed -- papers full of it -- I knew he'd be a hero -- hurray for old Dan!'

'What? Where? When? Who? Stop roaring, and let me read!' commanded his mother, entirely bewildered.

Relinquishing the paper, Ted allowed her to read for herself, with frequent interruptions from him -- and Rob, who soon followed, eager for the tale. It was nothing new; but courage and devotion always stir generous hearts, and win admiration; so the account was both graphic and enthusiastic; and the name of Daniel Kean, the brave man who saved the lives of others at the risk of his own, was on many lips that day. Very proud were the faces of these friends as they read how their Dan was the only one who, in the first panic of the accident, remembered the old shaft that led into the mine -- walled up, but the only hope of escape, if the men could be got out before the rising water drowned them; how he was lowered down alone, telling the others to keep back till he saw if it was safe; how he heard the poor fellows picking desperately for their lives on the other side, and by knocks and calls guided them to the right spot; then headed the rescue party, and working like a hero, got the men out in time. On being drawn up last of all, the worn rope broke, and he had a terrible fall, being much hurt, but was still alive. How the grateful women kissed his blackened face and bloody hands, as the men bore him away in triumph, and the owners of the mine promised a handsome reward, if he lived to receive it!

'He must live; he shall, and come home to be nursed as soon as he can stir, if I go and bring him myself! I always knew he'd do something fine and brave, if he didn't get shot or hung for some wild prank instead,' cried Mrs Jo, much excited.

'Do go, and take me with you, Mum. I ought to be the one, Dan's so fond of me and I of him,' began Ted, feeling that this would be an expedition after his own heart.

Before his mother could reply, Mr Laurie came in, with almost as much noise and flurry as Teddy the second, exclaiming as he waved the evening paper:

'Seen the news, Jo? What do you think? Shall I go off at once, and see after that brave boy?'

'I wish you would. But the thing may not be all true -- rumour lies so. Perhaps a few hours will bring an entirely new version of the story.'

'I've telephoned to Demi for all he can find out; and if it's true, I'll go at once. Should like the trip. If he's able, I'll bring him home; if not, I'll stay and see to him. He'll pull through. Dan will never die of a fall on his head. He's got nine lives, and not lost half of them yet.'

'If you go, uncle, mayn't I go with you? I'm just spoiling for a journey; and it would be such larks to go out there with you, and see the mines and Dan, and hear all about it, and help. I can nurse. Can't I, Rob?' cried Teddy, in his most wheedlesome tones.

'Pretty well. But if mother can't spare you, I'm ready if uncle needs anyone,' answered Rob, in his quiet way, looking much fitter for the trip than excitable Ted.

'I can't spare either of you. My boys get into trouble, unless I keep them close at home. I've no right to hold the others; but I won't let you out of my sight, or something will happen. Never saw such a year, with wrecks and weddings and floods and engagements, and every sort of catastrophe!' exclaimed Mrs Jo.

'If you deal in girls and boys, you must expect this sort of thing, ma'am. The worst is over, I hope, till these lads begin to go off. Then I'll stand by you; for you'll need every kind of support and comfort, specially if Ted bolts early,' laughed Mr Laurie, enjoying her lamentations.

'I don't think anything can surprise me now; but I am anxious about Dan, and feel that someone had better go to him. It's a rough place out there, and he may need careful nursing. Poor lad, he seems to get a good many hard knocks! But perhaps he needs them as "a mellerin' process", as Hannah used to say.'

'We shall hear from Demi before long, and then I'll be off.' With which cheerful promise Mr Laurie departed; and Ted, finding his mother firm, soon followed, to coax his uncle to take him.

Further inquiry confirmed and added interest to the news. Mr Laurie was off at once; and Ted went into town with him, still vainly imploring to be taken to his Dan. He was absent all day; but his mother said, calmly:

'Only a fit of the sulks because he is thwarted. He's safe with Tom or Demi, and will come home hungry and meek at night. I know him.'

But she soon found that she could still be surprised; for evening brought no Ted, and no one had seen him. Mr Bhaer was just setting off to find his lost son, when a telegram arrived, dated at one of the way-stations on Mr Laurie's route:

Found Ted in the cars. Take him along. Write tomorrow.

T. Laurence

'Ted bolted sooner than you expected, mother. Never mind -- uncle will take good care of him, and Dan be very glad to see him,' said Rob, as Mrs Jo sat, trying to realize that her youngest was actually on his way to the wild West.

'Disobedient boy! He shall be severely punished, if I ever get him again. Laurie winked at this prank; I know he did. Just like him. Won't the two rascals have a splendid time? Wish I was with them! Don't believe that crazy boy took even a night-gown with him, or an overcoat. Well, there will be two patients for us to nurse when they get back, if they ever do. Those reckless express trains always go down precipices, and burn up, or telescope. Oh! my Ted, my precious boy, how can I let him go so far away from me?'

And mother-like, Mrs Jo forgot the threatened chastisement in tender lamentations over the happy scapegrace, now whizzing across the continent in high feather at the success of his first revolt. Mr Laurie was much amused at his insisting that those words, 'when Ted bolts', put the idea into his head; and therefore the responsibility rested upon his shoulders. He assumed it kindly from the moment he came upon the runaway asleep in a car, with no visible luggage but a bottle of wine for Dan and a blacking-brush for himself; and as Mrs Jo suspected, the 'two rascals' did have a splendid time. Penitent letters arrived in due season, and the irate parents soon forgot to chide in their anxiety about Dan, who was very ill, and did not know his friends for several days. Then he began to mend; and everyone forgave the bad boy when he proudly reported that the first conscious words Dan said were: 'Hallo, Ted!' with a smile of pleasure at seeing a familiar face bent over him.

'Glad he went, and I won't scold any more. Now, what shall we put in the box for Dan?' And Mrs Jo worked off her impatience to get hold of the invalid by sending comforts enough for a hospital.

Cheering accounts soon began to come, and at length Dan was pronounced able to travel, but seemed in no haste to go home, though never tired of hearing his nurses talk of it.

'Dan is strangely altered,' wrote Laurie to Jo; 'not by this illness alone, but by something which has evidently gone before. I don't know what, and leave you to ask; but from his ravings when delirious I fear he has been in some serious trouble the past year. He seems ten years older, but improved, quieter, and so grateful to us. It is pathetic to see the hunger in his eyes as they rest on Ted, as if he couldn't see enough of him. He says Kansas was a failure, but can't talk much; so I bide my time. The people here love him very much, and he cares for that sort of thing now; used to scorn any show of emotion, you know; now he wants everyone to think well of him, and can't do enough to win affection and respect. I may be all wrong. You will soon find out. Ted is in clover, and the trip has done him a world of good. Let me take him to Europe when we go? Apron-strings don't agree with him any better than they did with me when I proposed to run away to Washington with you some century ago. Aren't you sorry you didn't?'

This private letter set Mrs Jo's lively fancy in a ferment, and she imagined every known crime, affliction, and complication which could possibly have befallen Dan. He was too feeble to be worried with questions now, but she promised herself most interesting revelations when she got him safe at home; for the 'firebrand' was her most interesting boy. She begged him to come, and spent more time in composing a letter that should bring him, than she did over the most thrilling episodes in her 'works'.

No one but Dan saw the letter; but it did bring him, and one November day Mr Laurie helped a feeble man out of a carriage at the door of Plumfield, and Mother Bhaer received the wanderer like a recovered son; while Ted, in a disreputable-looking hat and an astonishing pair of boots, performed a sort of war-dance round the interesting group.

'Right upstairs and rest; I'm nurse now, and this ghost must eat before he talks to anyone,' commanded Mrs Jo, trying not to show how shocked she was at this shorn and shaven, gaunt and pallid shadow of the stalwart man she parted with.

He was quite content to obey, and lay on the long lounge in the room prepared for him, looking about as tranquilly as a sick child restored to its own nursery and mother's arms, while his new nurse fed and refreshed him, bravely controlling the questions that burned upon her tongue. Being weak and weary, he soon fell asleep; and then she stole away to enjoy the society of the 'rascals', whom she scolded and petted, pumped and praised, to her heart's content.

'Jo, I think Dan has committed some crime and suffered for it,' said Mr Laurie, when Ted had departed to show his boots and tell glowing tales of the dangers and delights of the miners' life to his mates. 'Some terrible experience has come to the lad, and broken his spirit. He was quite out of his head when we arrived, and I took the watching, so I heard more of those sad wanderings than anyone else. He talked of the "warden", some trail, a dead man, and Blair and Mason, and would keep offering me his hand, asking me if I would take it and forgive him. Once, when he was very wild, I held his arms, and he quieted in a moment, imploring me not to "put the handcuffs on". I declare, it was quite awful sometimes to hear him in the night talk of old Plum and you, and beg to be let out and go home to die.'

'He isn't going to die, but live to repent of anything he may have done; so don't harrow me up with these dark hints, Teddy. I don't care if he's broken the Ten Commandments, I'll stand by him, and so will you, and we'll set him on his feet and make a good man of him yet. I know he's not spoilt, by the look in his poor face. Don't say a word to anyone, and I'll have the truth before long,' answered Mrs Jo, still loyal to her bad boy, though much afflicted by what she had heard.

For some days Dan rested, and saw few people; then good care, cheerful surroundings, and the comfort of being at home began to tell, and he seemed more like himself, though still very silent as to his late experiences, pleading the doctor's orders not to talk much. Everyone wanted to see him; but he shrank from any but old friends, and 'wouldn't lionize worth a cent', Ted said, much disappointed that he could not show off his brave Dan.

'Wasn't a man there who wouldn't have done the same, so why make a row over me?' asked the hero, feeling more ashamed than proud of the broken arm, which looked so interesting in a sling.

'But isn't it pleasant to think that you saved twenty lives, Dan, and gave husbands, sons, and fathers back to the women who loved them?' asked Mrs Jo one evening as they were alone together after several callers had been sent away.

'Pleasant! it's all that kept me alive, I do believe; yes, I'd rather have done it than be made president or any other big bug in the world. No one knows what a comfort it is to think I've saved twenty men to more than pay for -- ' There Dan stopped short, having evidently spoken out of some strong emotion to which his hearer had no key.

'I thought you'd feel so. It is a splendid thing to save life at the risk of one's own, as you did, and nearly lose it,' began Mrs Jo, wishing he had gone on with that impulsive speech which was so like his old manner.

'"He that loseth his life shall gain it",' muttered Dan, staring at the cheerful fire which lighted the room, and shone on his thin face with a ruddy glow.

Mrs Jo was so startled at hearing such words from his lips that she exclaimed joyfully:

'Then you did read the little book I gave you, and kept your promise?'

'I read it a good deal after a while. I don't know much yet, but I'm ready to learn; and that's something.'

'It's everything. Oh, my dear, tell me about it! I know something lies heavy on your heart; let me help you bear it, and so make the burden lighter.'

'I know it would; I want to tell; but some things even you couldn't forgive; and if you let go of me, I'm afraid I can't keep afloat.'

'Mothers can forgive anything! Tell me all, and be sure that I will never let you go, though the whole world should turn from you.'

Mrs Jo took one of the big wasted hands in both of hers and held it fast, waiting silently till that sustaining touch warmed poor Dan's heart, and gave him courage to speak. Sitting in his old attitude, with his head in his hands, he slowly told it all, never once looking up till the last words left his lips.

'Now you know; can you forgive a murderer, and keep a jail-bird in your house?'

Her only answer was to put her arms about him, and lay the shorn head on her breast, with eyes so full of tears they could but dimly see the hope and fear that made his own so tragical.

That was better than any words; and poor Dan clung to her in speechless gratitude, feeling the blessedness of mother love -- that divine gift which comforts, purifies, and strengthens all who seek it. Two or three great, bitter drops were hidden in the little woollen shawl where Dan's cheek rested, and no one ever knew how soft and comfortable it felt to him after the hard pillows he had known so long. Suffering of both mind and body had broken will and pride, and the lifted burden brought such a sense of relief that he paused a moment to enjoy it in dumb delight.

'My poor boy, how you have suffered all this year, when we thought you free as air! Why didn't you tell us, Dan, and let us help you? Did you doubt your friends?' asked Mrs Jo, forgetting all other emotions in sympathy, as she lifted up the hidden face, and looked reproachfully into the great hollow eyes that met her own frankly now.

'I was ashamed. I tried to bear it alone rather than shock and disappoint you, as I know I have, though you try not to show it. Don't mind; I must get used to it'; and Dan's eyes dropped again as if they could not bear to see the trouble and dismay his confession painted on his best friend's face.

'I am shocked and disappointed by the sin, but I am also very glad and proud and grateful that my sinner has repented, atoned, and is ready to profit by the bitter lesson. No one but Fritz and Laurie need ever know the truth; we owe it to them, and they will feel as I do,' answered Mrs Jo, wisely thinking that entire frankness would be a better tonic than too much sympathy.

'No, they won't; men never forgive like women. But it's right. Please tell 'em for me, and get it over. Mr Laurence knows it, I guess. I blabbed when my wits were gone; but he was very kind all the same. I can bear their knowing; but oh, not Ted and the girls!' Dan clutched her arm with such an imploring face that she hastened to assure him no one should know except the two old friends, and he calmed down as if ashamed of his sudden panic.

'It wasn't murder, mind you, it was in self-defence; he drew first, and I had to hit him. Didn't mean to kill him; but it doesn't worry me as much as it ought, I'm afraid. I've more than paid for it, and such a rascal is better out of the world than in it, showing boys the way to hell. Yes, I know you think that's awful in me; but I can't help it. I hate a scamp as I do a skulking coyote, and always want to get a shot at 'em. Perhaps it would have been better if he had killed me; my life is spoilt.'

All the old prison gloom seemed to settle like a black cloud on Dan's face as he spoke, and Mrs Jo was frightened at the glimpse it gave her of the fire through which he had passed to come out alive, but scarred for life. Hoping to turn his mind to happier things, she said cheerfully:

'No, it isn't; you have learned to value it more and use it better for this trial. It is not a lost year, but one that may prove the most helpful of any you ever know. Try to think so, and begin again; we will help, and have all the more confidence in you for this failure. We all do the same and struggle on.'

'I never can be what I was. I feel about sixty, and don't care for anything now I've got here. Let me stay till I'm on my legs, then I'll clear out and never trouble you any more,' said Dan despondently.

'You are weak and low in your mind; that will pass, and by and by you will go to your missionary work among the Indians with all the old energy and the new patience, self-control, and knowledge you have gained. Tell me more about that good chaplain and Mary Mason and the lady whose chance word helped you so much. I want to know all about the trials of my poor boy.'

Won by her tender interest, Dan brightened up and talked on till he had poured out all the story of that bitter year, and felt better for the load he lifted off.

If he had known how it weighed upon his hearer's heart, he would have held his peace; but she hid her sorrow till she had sent him to bed, comforted and calm; then she cried her heart out, to the great dismay of Fritz and Laurie, till they heard the tale and could mourn with her; after which they all cheered up and took counsel together how best to help this worst of all the 'catastrophes' the year had brought them.



Chapter 21. ASLAUGA'S KNIGHT

It was curious to see the change which came over Dan after that talk. A weight seemed off his mind; and though the old impetuous spirit flashed out at times, he seemed intent on trying to show his gratitude and love and honour to these true friends by a new humility and confidence very sweet to them, very helpful to him. After hearing the story from Mrs Jo, the Professor and Mr Laurie made no allusion to it beyond the hearty hand-grasp, the look of compassion, the brief word of good cheer in which men convey sympathy, and a redoubled kindness which left no doubt of pardon. Mr Laurie began at once to interest influential persons in Dan's mission, and set in motion the machinery which needs so much oiling before anything can be done where Government is concerned. Mr Bhaer, with the skill of a true teacher, gave Dan's hungry mind something to do, and helped him understand himself by carrying on the good chaplain's task so paternally that the poor fellow often said he felt as if he had found a father. The boys took him to drive, and amused him with their pranks and plans; while the women, old and young, nursed and petted him till he felt like a sultan with a crowd of devoted slaves, obedient to his lightest wish. A very little of this was enough for Dan, who had a masculine horror of 'molly-coddling', and so brief an acquaintance with illness that he rebelled against the doctor's orders to keep quiet; and it took all Mrs Jo's authority and the girls' ingenuity to keep him from leaving his sofa long before strained back and wounded head were well. Daisy cooked for him; Nan attended to his medicines; Josie read aloud to while away the long hours of inaction that hung so heavily on his hands; while Bess brought all her pictures and casts to amuse him, and, at his special desire, set up a modelling-stand in his parlour and began to mould the buffalo head he gave her. Those afternoons seemed the pleasantest part of his day; and Mrs Jo, busy in her study close by, could see the friendly trio and enjoy the pretty pictures they made. The girls were much flattered by the success of their efforts, and exerted themselves to be very entertaining, consulting Dan's moods with the feminine tact most women creatures learn before they are out of pinafores. When he was gay, the room rang with laughter; when gloomy, they read or worked in respectful silence till their sweet patience cheered him up again; and when in pain they hovered over him like 'a couple of angels', as he said. He often called Josie 'little mother', but Bess was always 'Princess'; and his manner to the two cousins was quite different. Josie sometimes fretted him with her fussy ways, the long plays she liked to read, and the maternal scoldings she administered when he broke the rules; for having a lord of creation in her power was so delightful to her that she would have ruled him with a rod of iron if he had submitted. To Bess, in her gentler ministrations, he never showed either impatience or weariness, but obeyed her least word, exerted himself to seem well in her presence, and took such interest in her work that he lay looking at her with unwearied eyes; while Josie read to him in her best style unheeded.

Mrs Jo observed this, and called them 'Una and the Lion', which suited them very well, though the lion's mane was shorn, and Una never tried to bridle him. The elder ladies did their part in providing delicacies and supplying all his wants; but Mrs Meg was busy at home, Mrs Amy preparing for the trip to Europe in the spring, and Mrs Jo hovering on the brink of a 'vortex' -- for the forthcoming book had been sadly delayed by the late domestic events. As she sat at her desk, settling papers or meditatively nibbling her pen while waiting for the divine afflatus to descend upon her, she often forgot her fictitious heroes and heroines in studying the live models before her, and thus by chance looks, words, and gestures discovered a little romance unsuspected by anyone else.

The portiere between the rooms was usually drawn aside, giving a view of the group in the large bay-window -- Bess at one side, in her grey blouse, busy with her tools; Josie at the other side with her book; and between, on the long couch, propped with many cushions, lay Dan in a many-hued eastern dressing-gown presented by Mr Laurie and worn to please the girls, though the invalid much preferred an old jacket 'with no confounded tail to bother over'. He faced Mrs Jo's room, but never seemed to see her, for his eyes were on the slender figure before him, with the pale winter sunshine touching her golden head, and the delicate hands that shaped the clay so deftly. Josie was just visible, rocking violently in a little chair at the head of the couch, and the steady murmur of her girlish voice was usually the only sound that broke the quiet of the room, unless a sudden discussion arose about the book or the buffalo.

Something in the big eyes, bigger and blacker than ever in the thin white face, fixed, so steadily on one object, had a sort of fascination for Mrs Jo after a time, and she watched the changes in them curiously; for Dan's mind was evidently not on the story, and he often forgot to laugh or exclaim at the comic or exciting crises. Sometimes they were soft and wistful, and the watcher was very glad that neither damsel caught that dangerous look for when they spoke it vanished; sometimes it was full of eager fire, and the colour came and went rebelliously, in spite of his attempt to hide it with an impatient gesture of hand or head; but oftenest it was dark, and sad, and stern, as if those gloomy eyes looked out of captivity at some forbidden light or joy. This expression came so often that it worried Mrs Jo, and she longed to go and ask him what bitter memory overshadowed those quiet hours. She knew that his crime and its punishment must lie heavy on his mind; but youth, and time, and new hopes would bring comfort, and help to wear away the first sharpness of the prison brand. It lifted at other times, and seemed almost forgotten when he joked with the boys, talked with old friends, or enjoyed the first snows as he drove out every fair day. Why should the shadow always fall so darkly on him in the society of these innocent and friendly girls? They never seemed to see it, and if either looked or spoke, a quick smile came like a sunburst through the clouds to answer them. So Mrs Jo went on watching, wondering, and discovering, till accident confirmed her fears.

Josie was called away one day, and Bess, tired of working, offered to take her place if he cared for more reading.

'I do; your reading suits me better than Jo's. She goes so fast my stupid head gets in a muddle and soon begins to ache. Don't tell her; she's a dear little soul, and so good to sit here with a bear like me.'

The smile was ready as Bess went to the table for a new book, the last story being finished.

'You are not a bear, but very good and patient, we think. It is always hard for a man to be shut up, mamma says, and must be terrible for you, who have always been so free.'

If Bess had not been reading titles she would have seen Dan shrink as if her last words hurt him. He made no answer; but other eyes saw and understood why he looked as if he would have liked to spring up and rush away for one of his long races up the hill, as he used to do when the longing for liberty grew uncontrollable. Moved by a sudden impulse, Mrs Jo caught up her work-basket and went to join her neighbours, feeling that a non-conductor might be needed; for Dan looked like a thundercloud full of electricity.

'What shall we read, Aunty? Dan doesn't seem to care. You know his taste; tell me something quiet and pleasant and short. Josie will be back soon,' said Bess, still turning over the books piled on the centre-table.

Before Mrs Jo could answer, Dan pulled a shabby little volume from under his pillow, and handing it to her said: 'Please read the third one; it's short and pretty -- I'm fond of it.' The book opened at the right place, as if the third story had been often read, and Bess smiled as she saw the name.

'Why, Dan, I shouldn't think you'd care for this romantic German tale. There is fighting in it; but it is very sentimental, if I remember rightly.'

'I know it; but I've read so few stories, I like the simple ones best. Had nothing else to read sometimes; I guess I know it all by heart, and never seem to be tired of those fighting fellows, and the fiends and angels and lovely ladies. You read "Aslauga's Knight", and see if you don't like it. Edwald was rather too soft for my fancy; but Froda was first-rate and the spirit with the golden hair always reminded me of you.'

As Dan spoke Mrs Jo settled herself where she could watch him in the glass, and Bess took a large chair facing him, saying, as she put up her hands to retie the ribbon that held the cluster of thick, soft curls at the back of her head:

'I hope Aslauga's hair wasn't as troublesome as mine, for it's always tumbling down. I'll be ready in a minute.'

'Don't tie it up; please let it hang. I love to see it shine that way. It will rest your head, and be just right for the story, Goldilocks,' pleaded Dan, using the childish name and looking more like his boyish self than he had done for many a day.

Bess laughed, shook down her pretty hair, and began to read, glad to hide her face a little; for compliments made her shy, no matter who paid them. Dan listened intently on; and Mrs Jo, with eyes that went often from her needle to the glass, could see, without turning, how he enjoyed every word as if it had more meaning for him than for the other listeners. His face brightened wonderfully, and soon wore the look that came when anything brave or beautiful inspired and touched his better self. It was Fouque's charming story of the knight Froda, and the fair daughter of Sigurd, who was a sort of spirit, appearing to her lover in hours of danger and trial, as well as triumph and joy, till she became his guide and guard, inspiring him with courage, nobleness, and truth, leading him to great deeds in the field, sacrifices for those he loved, and victories over himself by the gleaming of her golden hair, which shone on him in battle, dreams, and perils by day and night, till after death he finds the lovely spirit waiting to receive and to reward him.

Of all the stories in the book this was the last one would have supposed Dan would like best, and even Mrs Jo was surprised at his perceiving the moral of the tale through the delicate imagery and romantic language by which it was illustrated. But as she looked and listened she remembered the streak of sentiment and refinement which lay concealed in Dan like the gold vein in a rock, making him quick to feel and to enjoy fine colour in a flower, grace in an animal, sweetness in women, heroism in men, and all the tender ties that bind heart to heart; though he was slow to show it, having no words to express the tastes and instincts which he inherited from his mother. Suffering of soul and body had tamed his stronger passions, and the atmosphere of love and pity now surrounding him purified and warmed his heart till it began to hunger for the food neglected or denied so long. This was plainly written in his too expressive face, as, fancying it unseen, he let it tell the longing after beauty, peace, and happiness embodied for him in the innocent fair girl before him.

The conviction of this sad yet natural fact came to Mrs Jo with a pang, for she felt how utterly hopeless such a longing was; since light and darkness were not farther apart than snow-white Bess and sin-stained Dan. No dream of such a thing disturbed the young girl, as her entire unconsciousness plainly showed. But how long would it be before the eloquent eyes betrayed the truth? And then what disappointment for Dan, what dismay for Bess, who was as cool and high and pure as her own marbles, and shunned all thought of love with maidenly reserve.

'How hard everything is made for my poor boy! How can I spoil his little dream, and take away the spirit of good he is beginning to love and long for? When my own dear lads are safely settled I'll never try another, for these things are heart-breaking, and I can't manage any more,' thought Mrs Jo, as she put the lining into Teddy's coat-sleeve upside down, so perplexed and grieved was she at this new catastrophe.

The story was soon done, and as Bess shook back her hair, Dan asked as eagerly as a boy:

'Don't you like it?'

'Yes, it's very pretty, and I see the meaning of it; but Undine was always my favourite.'

'Of course, that's like you -- lilies and pearls and souls and pure water. Sintram used to be mine; but I took a fancy to this when I was -- ahem -- rather down on my luck one time, and it did me good, it was so cheerful and sort of spiritual in its meaning, you know.'

Bess opened her blue eyes in wonder at this fancy of Dan's for anything 'spiritual'; but she only nodded, saying: 'Some of the little songs are sweet and might be set to music.'

Dan laughed; 'I used to sing the last one to a tune of my own sometimes at sunset:

'"Listening to celestial lays, Bending thy unclouded gaze On the pure and living light, Thou art blest, Aslauga's Knight!"

'And I was,' he added, under his breath, as he glanced towards the sunshine dancing on the wall.

'This one suits you better now'; and glad to please him by her interest, Bess read in her soft voice:

'"Healfast, healfast, ye hero wounds; O knight, be quickly strong! Beloved strife For fame and life, Oh, tarry not too long!"'

'I'm no hero, never can be, and "fame and life" can't do much for me. Never mind, read me that paper, please. This knock on the head has made a regular fool of me.'

Dan's voice was gentle; but the light was gone out of his face now, and he moved restlessly as if the silken pillows were full of thorns. Seeing that his mood had changed, Bess quietly put down the book, took up the paper, and glanced along the columns for something to suit him.

'You don't care for the money market, I know, nor musical news. Here's a murder; you used to like those; shall I read it? One man kills another -- ,'

'No!'

Only a word, but it gave Mrs Jo a thrill, and for a moment she dared not glance at the tell-tale mirror. When she did Dan lay motionless with one hand over his eyes, and Bess was happily reading the art news to ears that never heard a word. Feeling like a thief who has stolen something very precious, Mrs Jo slipped away to her study, and before long Bess followed to report that Dan was fast asleep.

Sending her home, with the firm resolve to keep her there as much as possible, Mother Bhaer had an hour of serious thought all alone in the red sunset; and when a sound in the next room led her there, she found that the feigned sleep had become real repose; for Dan lay breathing heavily, with a scarlet spot on either cheek, and one hand clinched on his broad breast. Yearning over him with a deeper pity than ever before, she sat in the little chair beside him, trying to see her way out of this tangle, till his hand slipped down, and in doing so snapped a cord he wore about his neck and let a small case drop to the floor.

Mrs Jo picked it up, and as he did not wake, sat looking at it, idly wondering what charm it held; for the case was of Indian workmanship and the broken cord, of closely woven grass, sweet scented and pale yellow.

'I won't pry into any more of the poor fellow's secrets. I'll mend and put it back, and never let him know I've seen his talisman.'

As she spoke she turned the little wallet to examine the fracture, and a card fell into her lap. It was a photograph, cut to fit its covering, and two words were written underneath the face, 'My Aslauga'. For an instant Mrs Jo fancied that it might be one of herself, for all the boys had them; but as the thin paper fell away, she saw the picture Demi took of Bess that happy summer day. There was no doubt now, and with a sigh she put it back, and was about to slip it into Dan's bosom so that not even a stitch should betray her knowledge, when as she leaned towards him, she saw that he was looking straight at her with an expression that surprised her more than any of the strange ones she had ever seen in that changeful face before.

'Your hand slipped down; it fell; I was putting it back,' explained Mrs Jo, feeling like a naughty child caught in mischief.

'You saw the picture?'

'Yes.'

'And know what a fool I am?'

'Yes, Dan, and am so grieved -- '

'Don't worry about me. I'm all right -- glad you know, though I never meant to tell you. Of course it is only a crazy fancy of mine, and nothing can ever come of it. Never thought there would. Good Lord! what could that little angel ever be to me but what she is -- a sort of dream of all that's sweet and good?'

More afflicted by the quiet resignation of his look and tone than by the most passionate ardour, Mrs Jo could only say, with a face full of sympathy:

'It is very hard, dear, but there is no other way to look at it. You are wise and brave enough to see that, and to let the secret be ours alone.'

'I swear I will! not a word nor a look if I can help it. No one guesses, and if it troubles no one, is there any harm in my keeping this, and taking comfort in the pretty fancy that kept me sane in that cursed place?'

Dan's face was eager now, and he hid away the little worn case as if defying any hand to take it from him. Anxious to know everything before giving counsel or comfort, Mrs Jo said quietly:

'Keep it, and tell me all about the "fancy". Since I have stumbled on your secret, let me know how it came, and how I can help to make it lighter to bear.'

'You'll laugh; but I don't mind. You always did find out our secrets and give us a lift. Well, I never cared much for books, you know; but down yonder when the devil tormented me I had to do something or go stark mad, so I read both the books you gave me. One was beyond me, till that good old man showed me how to read it; but the other, this one, was a comfort, I tell you. It amused me, and was as pretty as poetry. I liked 'em all, and most wore out Sintram. See how used up he is! Then I came to this, and it sort of fitted that other happy part of my life, last summer -- here.'

Dan stopped a moment as the words lingered on his lips; then, with a long breath, went on, as if it was hard to lay bare the foolish little romance he had woven about a girl, a picture, and a child's story there in the darkness of the place which was as terrible to him as Dante's Inferno, till he found his Beatrice.

'I couldn't sleep, and had to think about something, so I used to fancy I was Folko, and see the shining of Aslauga's hair in the sunset on the wall, the gum of the watchman's lamp, and the light that came in at dawn. My cell was high. I could see a bit of sky; sometimes there was a star in it, and that was most as good as a face. I set great store by that patch of blue, and when a white cloud went by, I thought it was the prettiest thing in all this world. I guess I was pretty near a fool; but those thoughts and things helped me through, so they are all solemn true to me, and I can't let them go. The dear shiny head, the white gown, the eyes like stars, and sweet, calm ways that set her as high above me as the moon in heaven. Don't take it away! it's only a fancy, but a man must love something, and I'd better love a spirit like her than any of the poor common girls who would care for me.'

The quiet despair in Dan's voice pierced Mrs Jo to the heart; but there was no hope and she gave none. Yet she felt that he was right, and that his hapless affection might do more to uplift and purify him than any other he might know. Few women would care to marry Dan now, except such as would hinder, not help, him in the struggle which life would always be to him; and it was better to go solitary to his grave than become what she suspected his father had been -- a handsome, unprincipled, and dangerous man, with more than one broken heart to answer for.

'Yes, Dan, it is wise to keep this innocent fancy, if it helps and comforts you, till something more real and possible comes to make you happier. I wish I could give you any hope; but we both know that the dear child is the apple of her father's eye, the pride of her mother's heart, and that the most perfect lover they can find will hardly seem to them worthy of their precious daughter. Let her remain for you the high, bright star that leads you up and makes you believe in heaven.' Mrs Jo broke down there; it seemed so cruel to destroy the faint hope Dan's eyes betrayed, that she could not moralize when she thought of his hard life and lonely future. Perhaps it was the wisest thing she could have done, for in her hearty sympathy he found comfort for his own loss, and very soon was able to speak again in the manly tone of resignation to the inevitable that showed how honest was his effort to give up everything but the pale shadow of what, for another, might have been a happy possibility.

They talked long and earnestly in the twilight; and this second secret bound them closer than the first; for in it there was neither sin nor shame -- only the tender pain and patience which has made saints and heroes of far worse men than our poor Dan. When at length they rose at the summons of a bell, all the sunset glory had departed, and in the wintry sky there hung one star, large, soft, and clear, above a snowy world. Pausing at the window before she dropped the curtains, Mrs Jo said cheerfully:

'Come and see how beautiful the evening star is, since you love it so.' And as he stood behind her, tall and pale, like the ghost of his former self, she added softly: 'And remember, dear, if the sweet girl is denied you, the old friend is always here -- to love and trust and pray for you.'

This time she was not disappointed; and had she asked any reward for many anxieties and cares, she received it when Dan's strong arm came round her, as he said, in a voice which showed her that she had not laboured in vain to pluck her firebrand from the burning:

'I never can forget that; for she's helped to save my soul, and make me dare to look up there and say:

"God bless her!"'



Chapter 22. POSITIVELY LAST APPEARANCE

'Upon my word, I feel as if I lived in a powder-magazine, and don't know which barrel will explode next, and send me flying,' said Mrs Jo to herself next day, as she trudged up to Parnassus to suggest to her sister that perhaps the most charming of the young nurses had better return to her marble gods before she unconsciously added another wound to those already won by the human hero. She told no secrets; but a hint was sufficient; for Mrs Amy guarded her daughter as a pearl of great price, and at once devised a very simple means of escape from danger. Mr Laurie was going to Washington on Dan's behalf, and was delighted to take his family with him when the idea was carelessly suggested. So the conspiracy succeeded finely; and Mrs Jo went home, feeling more like a traitor than ever. She expected an explosion; but Dan took the news so quietly, it was plain that he cherished no hope; and Mrs Amy was sure her romantic sister had been mistaken. If she had seen Dan's face when Bess went to say good-bye, her maternal eye would have discovered far more than the unconscious girl did. Mrs Jo trembled lest he should betray himself; but he had learned self-control in a stern school, and would have got through the hard moment bravely, only, when he took both hands, saying heartily:

'Good-bye, Princess. If we don't meet again, remember your old friend Dan sometimes,' she, touched by his late danger and the wistful look he wore, answered with unusual warmth: 'How can I help it, when you make us all so proud of you? God bless your mission, and bring you safely home to us again!'

As she looked up at him with a face full of frank affection and sweet regret, all that he was losing rose so vividly before him that Dan could not resist the impulse to take the 'dear goldy head' between his hands and kiss it, with a broken 'Good-bye'; then hurried back to his room, feeling as if it were the prison-cell again, with no glimpse of heaven's blue to comfort him.

This abrupt caress and departure rather startled Bess; for she felt with a girl's quick instinct that there was something in that kiss unknown before, and looked after him with sudden colour in her cheeks and new trouble in her eyes. Mrs Jo saw it, and fearing a very natural question answered it before it was put.

'Forgive him, Bess. He has had a great trouble, and it makes him tender at parting with old friends; for you know he may never come back from the wild world he is going to.'

'You mean the fall and danger of death?' asked Bess, innocently.

'No, dear; a greater trouble than that. But I cannot tell you any more -- except that he has come through it bravely; so you may trust and respect him, as I do.'

'He has lost someone he loved. Poor Dan! We must be very kind to him.'

Bess did not ask the question, but seemed content with her solution of the mystery -- which was so true that Mrs Jo confirmed it by a nod, and let her go away believing that some tender loss and sorrow wrought the great change all saw in Dan, and made him so slow to speak concerning the past year.

But Ted was less easily satisfied, and this unusual reticence goaded him to desperation. His mother had warned him not to trouble Dan with questions till he was quite well; but this prospect of approaching departure made him resolve to have a full, clear, and satisfactory account of the adventures which he felt sure must have been thrilling, from stray words Dan let fall in his fever. So one day when the coast was clear, Master Ted volunteered to amuse the invalid, and did so in the following manner:

'Look here, old boy, if you don't want me to read, you've got to talk, and tell me all about Kansas, and the farms, and that part. The Montana business I know, but you seem to forget what went before. Brace up, and let's have it,' he began, with an abruptness which roused Dan from a brown study most effectually.

'No, I don't forget; it isn't interesting to anyone but myself. I didn't see any farms -- gave it up,' he said slowly.

'Why?'

'Other things to do.'

'What?'

'Well, brush-making for one thing.'

'Don't chaff a fellow. Tell true.'

'I truly did.'

'What for?'

'To keep out of mischief, as much as anything.'

'Well, of all the queer things -- and you've done a lot -- that's the queerest,' cried Ted, taken aback at this disappointing discovery. But he didn't mean to give up yet, and began again.

'What mischief, Dan?'

'Never you mind. Boys shouldn't bother.'

'But I do want to know, awfully, because I'm your pal, and care for you no end. Always did. Come, now, tell me a good yarn. I love scrapes. I'll be mum as an oyster if you don't want it known.'

'Will you?' and Dan looked at him, wondering how the boyish face would change if the truth were suddenly told him.

'I'll swear it on locked fists, if you like. I know it was jolly, and I'm aching to hear.'

'You are as curious as a girl. More than some -- Josie and -- and Bess never asked a question.'

'They don't care about rows and things; they liked the mine business, heroes, and that sort. So do I, and I'm as proud as Punch over it; but I see by your eyes that there was something else before that, and I'm bound to find out who Blair and Mason are, and who was hit and who ran away, and all the rest of it.'

'What!' cried Dan, in a tone that made Ted jump.

'Well, you used to mutter about 'em in your sleep, and Uncle Laurie wondered. So did I; but don't mind, if you can't remember, or would rather not.'

'What else did I say? Queer, what stuff a man will talk when his wits are gone.'

'That's all I heard; but it seemed interesting, and I just mentioned it, thinking it might refresh your memory a bit,' said Teddy, very politely; for Dan's frown was heavy at that moment.

It cleared off at this reply, and after a look at the boy squirming with suppressed impatience in his chair, Dan made up his mind to amuse him with a game of cross-purposes and half-truths, hoping to quench his curiosity, and so get peace.

'Let me see; Blair was a lad I met in the cars, and Mason a poor fellow who was in a -- well, a sort of hospital where I happened to be. Blair ran off to his brothers, and I suppose I might say Mason was hit, because he died there. Does that suit you?'

'No, it doesn't. Why did Blair run? and who hit the other fellow? I'm sure there was a fight somewhere, wasn't there?'

'Yes!

'I guess I know what it was about.'

'The devil, you do! Let's hear you guess. Must be amusing,' said Dan, affecting an ease he did not feel.

Charmed to be allowed to free his mind, Ted at once unfolded the boyish solution of the mystery which he had been cherishing, for he felt that there was one somewhere.

'You needn't say yes, if I guess right and you are under oath to keep silent. I shall know by your face, and never tell. Now see if I'm not right. Out there they have wild doings, and it's my belief you were in some of 'em. I don't mean robbing mails, and KluKluxing, and that sort of thing; but defending the settlers, or hanging some scamp, or even shooting a few, as a fellow must sometimes, in self-defence. Ah, ha! I've hit it, I see. Needn't speak; I know the flash of your old eye, and the clench of your big fist.' And Ted pranced with satisfaction.

'Drive on, smart boy, and don't lose the trail,' said Dan, finding a curious sense of comfort in some of these random words, and longing, but not daring, to confirm the true ones. He might have confessed the crime, but not the punishment that followed, the sense of its disgrace was still so strong upon him.

'I knew I should get it; can't deceive me long,' began Ted, with such an air of pride Dan could not help a short laugh.

'It's a relief, isn't it, to have it off your mind? Now, just confide in me and it's all safe, unless you've sworn not to tell.'

'I have.'

'Oh, well, then don't'; and Ted's face fell, but he was himself again in a moment and said, with the air of a man of the world: 'It's all right -- I understand -- honour binds -- silence to death, etc. Glad you stood by your mate in the hospital. How many did you kill?'

'Only one.'

'Bad lot, of course?'

'A damned rascal.'

'Well, don't look so fierce; I've no objection. Wouldn't mind popping at some of those bloodthirsty blackguards myself. Had to dodge and keep quiet after it, I suppose.'

'Pretty quiet for a long spell.'

'Got off all right in the end, and headed for your mines and did that jolly brave thing. Now, I call that decidedly interesting and capital. I'm glad to know it; but I won't blab.'

'Mind you don't. Look here. Ted, if you'd killed a man, would it trouble you -- a bad one, I mean?'

The lad opened his mouth to say, 'Not a bit,' but checked that answer as if something in Dan's face made him change his mind. 'Well, if it was my duty in war or self-defence, I suppose I shouldn't; but if I'd pitched into him in a rage, I guess I should be very sorry. Shouldn't wonder if he sort of haunted me, and remorse gnawed me as it did Aram and those fellows. You don't mind, do you? It was a fair fight, wasn't it?'

'Yes, I was in the right; but I wish I'd been out of it. Women don't see it that way, and look horrified at such things. Makes it hard; but it don't matter.'

'Don't tell 'em; then they can't worry,' said Ted, with the nod of one versed in the management of the sex.

'Don't intend to. Mind you keep your notions to yourself, for some of 'em are wide of the mark. Now you may read if you like'; and there the talk ended; but Ted took great comfort in it, and looked as wise as an owl afterwards.

A few quiet weeks followed, during which Dan chafed at the delay; and when at length word came that his credentials were ready, he was eager to be off, to forget a vain love in hard work, and live for others, since he might not for himself.

So one wild March morning our Sintram rode away, with horse and hound, to face again the enemies who would have conquered him, but for Heaven's help and human pity.

'Ah, me! it does seem as if life was made of partings, and they get harder as we go on,' sighed Mrs Jo, a week later, as she sat in the long parlour at Parnassus one evening, whither the family had gone to welcome the travellers back.

'And meetings too, dear; for here we are, and Nat is on his way at last. Look for the silver lining, as Marmee used to say, and be comforted,' answered Mrs Amy, glad to be at home and find no wolves prowling near her sheepfold.

'I've been so worried lately, I can't help croaking. I wonder what Dan thought at not seeing you again? It was wise; but he would have enjoyed another look at home faces before he went into the wilderness,' said Mrs Jo regretfully.

'Much better so. We left notes and all we could think of that he might need, and slipped away before he came. Bess really seemed relieved; I'm sure I was'; and Mrs Amy smoothed an anxious line out of her white forehead, as she smiled at her daughter, laughing happily among her cousins.

Mrs Jo shook her head as if the silver lining of that cloud was hard to find; but she had no time to croak again, for just then Mr Laurie came in looking well pleased at something.

'A new picture has arrived; face towards the music-room, good people, and tell me how you like it. I call it "Only a fiddler", after Andersen's story. What name will you give it?'

As he spoke he threw open the wide doors, and just beyond they saw a young man standing, with a beaming face, and a violin in his hand. There was no doubt about the name to this picture, and with the cry 'Nat! Nat!' there was a general uprising. But Daisy reached him first, and seemed to have lost her usual composure somewhere on the way, for she clung to him, sobbing with the shock of a surprise and joy too great for her to bear quietly. Everything was settled by that tearful and tender embrace, for, though Mrs Meg speedily detached her daughter, it was only to take her place; while Demi shook Nat's hand with brotherly warmth, and Josie danced round them like Macbeth's three witches in one, chanting in her most tragic tones:

'Chirper thou wast; second violin thou art; first thou shalt be. Hail, all hail!'

This caused a laugh, and made things gay and comfortable at once. Then the usual fire of questions and answers began, to be kept up briskly while the boys admired Nat's blond beard and foreign clothes, the girls his improved appearance -- for he was ruddy with good English beef and beer, and fresh with the sea-breezes which had blown him swiftly home -- and the older folk rejoiced over his prospects. Of course all wanted to hear him play; and when tongues tired, he gladly did his best for them, surprising the most critical by his progress in music even more than by the energy and self-possession which made a new man of bashful Nat. By and by when the violin -- that most human of all instruments -- had sung to them the loveliest songs without words, he said, looking about him at these old friends with what Mr Bhaer called a 'feeling-full' expression of happiness and content:

'Now let me play something that you will all remember though you won't love it as I do'; and standing in the attitude which Ole Bull has immortalized, he played the street melody he gave them the first night he came to Plumfield. They remembered it, and joined in the plaintive chorus, which fitly expressed his own emotions:

'Oh my heart is sad and weary Everywhere I roam, Longing for the old plantation And for the old folks at home.'

'Now I feel better,' said Mrs Jo, as they all trooped down the hill soon after. 'Some of our boys are failures, but I think this one is going to be a success, and patient Daisy a happy girl at last. Nat is your work, Fritz, and I congratulate you heartily.'

'Ach, we can but sow the seed and trust that it falls on good ground. I planted, perhaps, but you watched that the fowls of the air did not devour it, and brother Laurie watered generously; so we will share the harvest among us, and be glad even for a small one, heart's-dearest.'

'I thought the seed had fallen on very stony ground with my poor Dan; but I shall not be surprised if he surpasses all the rest in the real success of life, since there is more rejoicing over one repentant sinner than many saints,' answered Mrs Jo, still clinging fast to her black sheep although a whole flock of white ones trotted happily before her.

It is a strong temptation to the weary historian to close the present tale with an earthquake which should engulf Plumfield and its environs so deeply in the bowels of the earth that no youthful Schliemann could ever find a vestige of it. But as that somewhat melodramatic conclusion might shock my gentle readers, I will refrain, and forestall the usual question, 'How did they end?' by briefly stating that all the marriages turned out well. The boys prospered in their various callings; so did the girls, for Bess and Josie won honours in their artistic careers, and in the course of time found worthy mates. Nan remained a busy, cheerful, independent spinster, and dedicated her life to her suffering sisters and their children, in which true woman's work she found abiding happiness. Dan never married, but lived, bravely and usefully, among his chosen people till he was shot defending them, and at last lay quietly asleep in the green wilderness he loved so well, with a lock of golden hair upon his breast, and a smile on his face which seemed to say that Aslauga's Knight had fought his last fight and was at peace. Stuffy became an alderman, and died suddenly of apoplexy after a public dinner. Dolly was a society man of mark till he lost his money, when he found congenial employment in a fashionable tailoring establishment. Demi became a partner, and lived to see his name above the door, and Rob was a professor at Laurence College; but Teddy eclipsed them all by becoming an eloquent and famous clergyman, to the great delight of his astonished mother. And now, having endeavoured to suit everyone by many weddings, few deaths, and as much prosperity as the eternal fitness of things will permit, let the music stop, the lights die out, and the curtain fall for ever on the March family.

<eob>

Jack In The Rockies

Or

A Boy's Adventures With A Pack Train

By

George Bird Grinnell



Chapter I

The Indians Of Fort Berthold


With noisy puffings the steamboat was slowly pushing her way up the river. On either side the flat bottom, in some places overgrown with high willow brush, in others, bearing a growth of tall and sturdy cottonwoods, ran back a long way to the yellow bluffs beyond. The bluffs were rounded and several hundred feet in height, rising imperceptibly until they seemed to meet the blue of the sky, so that the boat appeared to be moving at the bottom of a wide trough. Hour after hour she pushed on, meeting nothing, seeing nothing alive, except now and then a pair of great gray geese, followed by their yellow goslings; or sometimes on the shore a half-concealed red object, which moved quickly out of sight, and which observers knew to be a deer.

On the boat were two of our old friends. From the far East had come Jack Danvers, traveling day after day until he had reached Bismarck, Dakota, where he found awaiting him Hugh Johnson, as grave, as white-haired, and as cheery as ever. At Bismarck they had taken the up-river steamer, "Josephine," and the boat had sailed early on the morning of July 5th.

Hugh and Jack were on their way back up to the Piegan country. They had separated at Bismarck the previous autumn, and while Hugh kept on down the river, to take a west-bound train, which should carry him back to Mr. Sturgis' ranch in Wyoming, Jack had gone East, to spend the winter in New York. He had had a year of hard work at school, for his experience of the previous winter had taught him that it paid well to work in school, and to make the most of his opportunities there. This made his parents more willing to have him go away to this healthful life, and he found that if he did his best he enjoyed all the better the wild, free life of the prairie and the mountains, which he now hoped would be his during a part, at least, of every year.

His summer with the Piegans had taught him many things known to few boys in the East, and given him many pleasures to which they are strangers; and the more he saw of this prairie life the more he enjoyed it, and the more he hoped to have more and more of it. Sometimes, when he awoke early in the morning, or at night, after he had gone to bed, as he lay between sleeping and waking, he used to go over in his mind the scenes that he had visited, and the stirring adventures in which he had taken part, and these memories, with the hope of others like them, gave him a pleasure that he would not have parted with for anything.

Often when he was in New York, walking through narrow city streets, looking up at high buildings, hearing the roar and rattle of the passing traffic, and watching the people hurry to and fro, each one absorbed in his own business, it was hard to realize that away off somewhere, only a few days' journey distant, there was a land where there was no limit to the view, where each human being seemed absolutely free, and where it was possible to travel for days and days without seeing a single person. Always interwoven with his dreams and his imaginings about this distant country was the memory of the friend Hugh, to whom he was so deeply attached. It hardly seemed to him possible to go anywhere in the West, except in company with Hugh, and until he had joined him, it never seemed as if his journey had begun, or was really going to be made.

All through the day the boat went on, turning and twisting, and at different times facing all points of the compass. Sometimes the sun would be shining on the port side of the boat, a little later on the starboard side, then it would be ahead, and again behind. Hugh and Jack spent their time chatting on the upper deck of the boat, Hugh smoking vigorously, to keep off the mosquitoes, while Jack, the edges of his handkerchief under his hat and tucked inside his coat collar, to leeward of Hugh, took advantage of the constant stream of smoke that poured from his pipe. They had much to tell each other of the winter that had passed, and much to say of the trip on which they were now starting. Fort Benton was their destination, and until they reached there, and saw their friend Joe, the Blackfoot Indian who was to meet them with the horses, they were uncertain what they should do.

There were not a few passengers on the boat. Some of them were carefully dressed persons, wearing long frock coats, white shirts, and a modest amount of jewelry, residents of the thriving towns of Helena or Virginia City, Montana; others were army officers, on their way to posts in the Northwest, or now starting out on some exploring expedition; while others still were persons of whose occupation and destination it was hard to judge from their appearance.

Among them was a middle-aged man who Jack thought, from his conversation, had long been a resident of the plains, and who told Jack something about a trade that he had long practised -- that of wolfing.

"Why, young fellow," he said, "it is only a few years ago since there was good money in wolfin', but I had to quit it down in the southern country for wolves got too scarce when the buffalo got killed off. Wherever there was buffalo there was plenty of wolves, for the wolves made their livin' off the herds, just like the Indians; and when I say wolves I mean big wolves, coyotes, foxes, and swifts.

"In the autumn, as soon as the fur began to get good, I used to start out and find a herd of buffalo, and after shootin' two or three of them, I'd skin them down, and rip them up, and put from one to three bottles of strychnine in each carcass. After the blood that lay in the ribs had been poisoned good, I'd smear that over the meat on the outside. Generally I'd try to kill my buffalo close to where I was goin' to camp, and after I had put out my baits I went to camp and slept until near day. Then, before I could see, I'd get up, cook my breakfast, hitch up, if I had a team, and go round to all my baits. Likely, around each one I'd find my half dozen to fifteen wolves, and sometimes it would take me two or three days to skin them. Likely enough, if the weather turned right cold, I got a good many more wolves than I could skin, and had to stack them up, and wait till I got time. It was mighty hard work now, and don't you forget it. Then, too, there was always a chance that Indians might come along and make trouble for me. You take a man out on the prairie, ten years ago, and even the friendly Indians were likely to scare him a whole lot, or take his hides, even if they didn't take away his gun and his horses. As for the hostiles, if they got too close to a man it was all up with him. But I never had no trouble with them, except once, and then I was camped in the dug-out, with plenty of provisions, and there was only three of the Indians. I saw them comin', and suspected who they were, and managed to get my horses into the dug-out with me and stood 'em off. They scared me bad though.

"I should think so," said Jack.

The man stopped talking to fill his pipe and after he had lighted it puffed thoughtfully. Then he continued: "There's another way I've wolfed it, and that is by draggin' a bait over quite a scope of country, and droppin' pieces of poisoned meat along the trail. I used to do that when I couldn't find animals to kill for bait. This worked pretty well for awhile but it's no good any more down in that country."

"I've seen coyotes killed by putting poisoned tallow in auger holes, bored in chunks of wood," said Jack.

"Yes," said the man, "that's good sometimes, and they stay there lickin' and lickin' up the bait until they die right there. You don't have to look over much country to find your wolves."

"What kind of meat did you use when you were dragging the bait?" asked Jack.

"Most any kind would do," replied the wolfer; "sometimes it would be a piece of buffalo meat, sometimes a shoulder of a deer, but the best bait of all is a beaver carcass; there's lots of grease and lots of smell to that, and the wolves and coyotes are sure to follow it. This draggin' a trail is good too, because the wolves, when they go along and snap up the poisoned bait, don't go off, but keep right on followin' the trail, and you find them there, maybe quite a long way from where they pick the bait.

"Where are you goin', young fellow; you and that old man I see you talking with?"

"We're going up to Benton," said Jack, "and I don't know where we're going from there. I expect we'll meet a friend there, with our horses, and then we're going to make a trip, off maybe on the prairies, and maybe into the mountains; we can't tell yet."

"Sho," said the man, "you're sure goin' to have a good time. I've got to get a job when I get to Benton; somethin' that'll keep me until it comes time for fur to get good."

The next morning when Jack and Hugh left their stateroom a heavy fog hung low over the river and the boat was not moving, but was tied up to the bank, for it was so thick that there was danger of running aground on the frequent sand-bars, and as the river was now falling, the captain was unwilling to take the chance of such delay. On the lower deck was a dug-out canoe, the property of a temporary passenger, who was going only to Fort Berthold, and, after breakfast, Jack suggested to Hugh that they should borrow this canoe and go off a little way up the river, taking their guns, and seeing whether they could kill anything. Hugh said this could not be done, explaining that it would be easy enough to get lost, which would be bad for them, and very irritating to the captain, who might feel it necessary to wait for them; and besides this, the fog might lift at any moment, when the boat would move onward much faster than they could paddle. As it happened, the fog lifted almost immediately, and the boat set forward; and a little before noon the village of the Rees, Gros Ventres and Mandans, high up on the bluff above the river, was seen; and soon after the boat tied up, and all hands went ashore.

The bluff rose steeply from the river, and up and down its face were steep trails, worn by the feet of women passing up and down as they carried water and the driftwood which they gathered, up to the village. On the top of the bluff stood the bee-hive shaped gray houses, which Hugh told Jack were much like those occupied by the Pawnees.

They began to climb the bluff toward the village, and Jack asked Hugh about the Indians who lived here.

"In old times," said Hugh, "these Indians were scattered out up and down the river. The Gros Ventres lived furthest up, between here and Buford, and the Rees and Mandans lived further down the stream. A long time ago, -- back maybe more than a hundred years, -- the Rees and the Mandans all lived together, away down below here; but then they had some sort of a quarrel among themselves, and the Mandans moved on up the stream, and for a long time camped near the mouth of the Knife River. For a while after that there was some fighting between the Rees and Mandans, but after a time they made peace, and gradually the tribes came together again; and now for a long time they've all lived together in this village of Berthold. In old times each of these villages was a big one, but since the white men came among them, and brought smallpox, and liquor, and all the other things that the white men bring, they are dying off fast, and I don't believe that now there is more than eight or nine hundred of these Indians all together. You know these Rees here are kind of kin to the Pawnees; they speak near the same language, so that I can talk with 'em, and they call the Pawnees their relations. I think they used to be a part of the Skidi band. Nobody knows just when they separated from the Pawnees, but it must have been a good while ago."

Hugh paused, and Jack asked: "Does any one know how they came to separate, Hugh? Is there any tradition about it?"

"Yes," said Hugh, "there is. The old story is that all the Pawnees were out hunting, and the Sioux got around some of 'em, and cut 'em off from the rest and kept fighting 'em, and driving 'em, and fighting and driving, until they got 'em away up on the Missouri River, so far from their friends that they had to winter there. Then, along back, maybe about 1830, soon after the beginning of the fur trade on the upper river, the Rees fought the white folks, and were generally hostile. After that they went back and joined the Pawnees, but they couldn't get along well with the Pawnees, and quarreled with them, and finally the Pawnees drove 'em off. So they came on back up the river. It was after that that they joined the Mandans, and they've lived together ever since."

By this time they had reached the top of the bluff, and were now close to the houses, on whose curious domed roofs many people were sitting, -- women busy with their work, young men wrapped in their robes, and looking off into the distance, and little girls playing with their dolls or their puppies. The ground in the village all about the houses was worn bare by the passage of many feet; Indians were going to and fro, women carrying water and wood, men naked, or wrapped in their summer sheets, little boys chasing each other, or, with their ropes trying to snare the dogs, which were usually too cunning for them.

Jack was greatly interested in the houses, and wished to look into one, and to this Hugh said there would be no objection. The entrance of each house was by a long passage-way, closed above, and at the sides, and passing through this, they found themselves at the door. Jack expected to go into a room that was dark; but this was not so. Above the center of the large room was a wide open space, which answered both for chimney and for window. About the fireplace, which was under the smoke hole, at the corners of a square, stood four stout posts, reaching up to and supporting the rafters of the roof. The floor of the house was swept clean, and all around the walls were raised platforms, serving for beds, and separated by screens of straight willow sticks strung on sinew, from the adjacent bed on either side. In front of some of the beds similar screens hung down like curtains so that the bed could be cut off from the observation of those in the house. Over the fireplace hung a pot, and two pleasant-faced women were sitting near it, sewing moccasins. They looked up pleasantly, as the strangers stood in the doorway, and Hugh spoke a few words to them, to which they made some answer. Then the strangers withdrew.

Keeping on through the village, they walked out on the higher prairie, toward the tribal burying-ground, but not such a burying-ground as Jack was accustomed to see. Here were placed the dead, wrapped up in bundles, on platforms raised on four poles, eight or ten feet above the ground. Evidently no attention was paid to them after burial, for many of the poles which supported the platforms had rotted and fallen down, and, in the older part of the graveyard the ground was strewn with pieces of old robes and clothing, and with white bones.

Hugh told Jack that farther away, and down on lower ground, where the soil was moist, the Rees, Mandans, and Gros Ventres had farms, where they raised corn, beans, pumpkins, and squashes, and that in old times they used to raise tobacco.

It was now time to return to the boat, for the wait was to be only a short one, and on their way back he told of something that had happened not many years before in the Mandan village.

"The people were hungry," said Hugh, "and there was no food in camp. They sent young men off in all directions to look for buffalo, but none could be found. As the people grew hungrier and hungrier the White Cow Society made up their minds that they would give a dance, and try to bring the buffalo. They did this, and danced for a long time; but no buffalo were found, and there were no signs that any were coming. Still the people of the White Cow Society danced, and still the other people watched them, and prayed that they might bring the buffalo. One day, after they'd danced for ten days, suddenly a big noise was heard in the village, and when the people rushed out of the lodges to see what was happening, there, among the lodges, was a big buffalo bull, charging about right close to the lodge in which the White Cow Society were dancing. All the dogs in the village seemed to be about him, barking at his head, and biting at his heels, and he was trying only to get away, and paying no attention to the Indians that were all about him.

"Then everybody was glad, for all could see that the Master of Life had sent this bull, to answer their prayers; and all believed that he had come ahead of the main herd, which would soon follow him. Before he had got out of the village, the bull was shot. The White Cow Society came out of their lodge, and danced around the village, and while they were doin' this, one of the scouts came in, and reported that a big band of cows was not far off. Then everybody was glad, and all wondered at the strong medicine of the White Cow Society. The next day the men went out and made a surround, and killed plenty of cows, and brought in the meat, and there came a terrible storm, and when the storm cleared off the whole prairie, beyond the ridge near Knife River, was black with buffalo. Now there was plenty in the camp, and every one was happy. The men went out and brought in fat meat, and it was dried, and no more that winter was there any suffering for food."

"That's a good story, Hugh," said Jack, "but do you suppose the dancing of the White Cow Society really brought the buffalo?"

"I couldn't tell you, son. The Indians believed it did, but I don't suppose any white folks would. But I've seen so many queer things follow these medicine performances that I don't know what to think about them, myself."

By this time they had reached the shore, and looking around, as they passed over the gang-plank to the deck, they saw the captain and purser coming down the trail just behind them. The deck hands were already beginning to cast off the fasts, and a moment later the whistle sounded, the boat's nose turned out into the river, and the steady thump, thump of the paddle-wheel began again. On the bank stood the three or four white men belonging to the agency, and up and down the bottom, and clustered in little groups on the bluffs, were Indians, dressed in buckskin, or in bright-colored cloth, who stood motionless, watching the steamer as she slowly moved away.

"That's a mighty interesting place, Hugh; and I want to get you to tell me all about it. Who are the Gros Ventres, and who are the Mandans? You've told me about the Rees, but I want to know about the others."

"Well, son," said Hugh, "I don't know as I can tell you very much about them, but I'll try. The Gros Ventres are close relations to the Crows; in fact, many people call them the River Crows, to distinguish them from the real Crows, that live up close to the mountains, on the head of the Yellowstone. Those fellows are called the Mountain Crows, and there's a good many more of them than there are of these. These people, I suppose, got their name, Gros Ventres, from the French, and I never heard why it was given to 'em. I never could see that they were any fatter, or had any bigger bellies, than other Indians, and I never found out any reason for the name. They don't call themselves by any such name as that; their name for themselves is Hi d[)a]t sa, and that's said to mean, willows. Anyhow, they used to be called Willow Indians; so I have been told.

"In old times, they say that there were three tribes of them, but the other tribes have been lost, or forgotten, and now they're all together -- all one bunch of Indians. There's one thing you want to remember, that there are two different outfits of Indians, both called Gros Ventres; one of them, these people here, whom we know as the Gros Ventres of the Village, or Gros Ventres of the Missouri; the others are the Gros Ventres of the Prairie, whose country is east of the Blackfoot country, and who used to be friendly with the Blackfeet, and then fought them for a long time, and now are friendly again. Those Gros Ventres of the Prairie are no kin at all to these people, but are a part of the Arapahoes, from whom, according to the old story, they split off a long, long time ago. They talk the Arapahoe language, and call the Arapahoes their own people, and still visit them back and forth. Nowadays they have an agency along with the Assinaboines, further west, at Fort Belknap, over on Milk River. Ninety-nine men out of every hundred get these Arapahoes and these River Crows mixed up, just for the reason that the French called them both Gros Ventres. Don't you ever do that, because when a man makes that mistake it shows that he don't know nothing about Indians. Try to remember that, will you?"

"Of course I will, Hugh. I don't want to make any mistakes, especially now since I have been out and seen something of real Indians. People back East, and especially all the fellows at school, think that I know everything about Indians now. They're all the time asking me questions about them, who they are, and where they live, and I should hate to make any mistakes in my answers. Now tell me, who are the Mandans?"

"I don't know as much about the Mandans as I do about the Gros Ventres of the Village," said Hugh, "and yet I've heard a lot about them. They're a kind of queer people; lots of 'em used to have yellow hair and gray eyes, and lots of 'em now have gray-haired children, same as you have seen among the Blackfeet. I got hold of a book once with lots of pictures of Indians in it; mighty good pictures, too, they were. 'T was written by a man named Catlin, who came up the river, painting pictures of Indians, a long time ago; maybe fifty years. He said he thought the Mandans were Welshmen, and told some story about some foreign prince that brought a colony of Welshmen over here, and Catlin thought that maybe the Mandans were descended from that colony. Anyhow they've lived by themselves, so the story goes, for a great many years; but I've heard the old men say that long, long ago the tribe came from away back East somewhere. They followed down a big river that ran from east to west, likely it may have been the Ohio River, until they came to the Mississippi, and then they struck off northwest, and camped on the Missouri, and they have been traveling up the Missouri, a little way at a time, for an almighty sight o' years.

"This book of Catlin's that I tell you about has got a whole lot o' stuff about the Mandans, and it is mighty good readin'. You had better get hold of it sometime when you get back East; it'll tell you more about 'em than I can. The Mandans have always been farmers, and raised good crops of corn, and that and their buffalo give them a pretty good living. But now the buffalo are getting scarce, and when they give out the Mandans will have to live on straight corn, I am afraid. There's one thing about the Mandans that's worth rememberin', they make the best pots of any people that I know of on the plains. I expect that in old times maybe the Pawnees made just as good pots, but since the white folks began to bring brass and copper kettles into the country the Pawnees have forgotten how to make pots; but the Mandans still keep it up, and make some pots, big and little --  -- "

"Oh, Hugh!" called Jack at this moment, "Look at the buffalo!" and he pointed toward the high bluffs on the south side of the river, and there were three dark spots, running as hard as they could up the hill.

"Sure enough," said Hugh, "there's the first buffalo we've seen. Don't they look like three rats scuttling off over the hills, as fast as they can go. Before long, now, we ought to see plenty of 'em along the river; though we ain't likely to see many buffalo before we get above Buford."

The boat pushed slowly up the river's muddy current, and Hugh and Jack continued to talk about the Indian village on the hill.

"A mighty queer thing happened once at that village, son," said Hugh. "You've heard, maybe, that in some tribes of Indians they have sort of prophets, or men that foretell things that are going to happen. I have seen a little of that sort of thing myself, that I never could explain. Besides that, they've got some way of learning news that we don't understand anything about. Of course it may not be as quick as railroads and telegraphs, but its quick. Let me tell you something that happened there at Berthold, some years ago, and the man that it happened to lives in the upper country now, and you may likely run across him some time when you are up there. He is a Dutchman, and his name is Joe Butch.

"Along in 1868, Joe was working at Berthold, for a trader there, and the trader got into some sort of a quarrel about a horse with old White Cow, chief of the Mandans, and I guess old White Cow was pretty sassy, and maybe he threatened to do something, and Joe killed him. Well, as soon as he had killed the old man, Joe he knew that that wasn't no place for him, because the Mandans would be pretty sure to kill him; so he hops onto his horse, and rides as hard as he could for Buford, that's eighty miles up the river, next place we stop at. When he got to Buford he found there a big camp of Assinaboines, and they were having a big dance, because the chief of the Mandans, their enemies, had just been killed. Now, how do you suppose those Assinaboines knew that White Cow had been killed? Joe didn't waste no time getting onto his horse, and he rode as hard as he could to Buford; and its a sure thing that nobody got there before him with the news. I never understood how they found that out, and I never expect to."

"That seems a wonderful thing, Hugh," said Jack. "I don't see how they could have found it out if nobody told them, and if there were no telegraphs."

"Well, it's sure there were no telegraphs," said Hugh, "and I don't see how anybody could have told them. Joe killed the man, and started on his ride right off, and had a good horse. That's one of the things that always beat me."

The hours passed swiftly by for Jack and Hugh, as they watched the river banks on either side. The boat had met a flood of water just above Berthold, which, if it made progress against the strong current more slow, nevertheless saved time by deepening the water, so that they did not run aground on sand-bars. Several times during the morning, antelope were seen feeding in the bottom, lifting their heads to gaze at the boat, as it puffed and snorted along, but not being enough alarmed to take to flight. After supper that night, as they sat on the deck about sundown, Hugh, watching the banks, pointed out no less than three distant spots on the wide bottom, which he told Jack were bears digging roots. They were a long way off, yet with his glasses Jack was able to make out their forms, and to recognize them as bears.




Chapter II

The Battle Of The Musselshell


Early next morning the boat stopped at Fort Buford, above the mouth of the Yellowstone River.

The wait was to be only a short one, and no one left the boat. Jack was interested in looking from the upper deck at the post, where there were a number of soldiers, and it looked like a busy place. Away to the left was seen the broad current of the Yellowstone coming down between timbered banks. As the two friends sat on the upper deck and looked off toward the shore, Hugh, in response to some question by Jack, said:

"Yes, in old fur-trading days this used to be a mighty interesting place. Just above here was one of the great trading posts of old times, and pretty much all the tribes of the northern prairie used to come here to get their ammunition, and whatever other stuff they could buy. Old man Culbertson was here for a long time, and lots of people from back east and from foreign parts used to come up the river as far as this. Sometimes they used to have great fights out here on this flat, when two hostile tribes would come in to trade and would get here at the same time. I've heard great stories about the way the Indians used to fight here among themselves almost under the walls of the post; and, then, again, sometimes the Indians used to crawl up as near to the fort as they could, and try to run off the horse herd, which would be feeding right out in front of the post. Sometimes they'd get 'em; sometimes they wouldn't, but would get one of the herders. On the whole, however, the place wasn't often attacked, because the Indians couldn't afford to quarrel with the people who furnished them with their goods. When 'twas Fort Union, 'twas a mighty lively place."

"Why Hugh," said Jack, "do you mean to tell me that this is old Fort Union?"

"Sure," said Hugh.

"Why," said Jack, "I've read lots about Fort Union. Don't you know that in 1843 Audubon, the naturalist, and a party of his friends, came up here to find out a lot about the Western birds and animals? I've read a lot of Audubon, and he speaks constantly of Fort Union, and about the things he used to see here, and the buffalo hunting, and about Mr. Culbertson. Dear me! dear me! when I was reading about it I never thought that I would see Fort Union."

"Well," said Hugh, "this is the place; and if this man Audubon was out here in 1843, that, I think, was just the year before they had the big smallpox here. Men that were here at the time tell me that there were two or three big camps of Indians here, and that they got the smallpox in the fall, just before the ground froze, and the Indians died off like wolves about a poisoned carcass; and the ground was hard, and they could not dig graves for them, and they just stacked up the bodies outside of the fort, in rows, like so much cord-wood, and had to wait till the ground melted in the spring before they could bury 'em. There must have been a pile of Indians died."

"Well, what did they do for smallpox, Hugh? How did they cure themselves?"

"Why, they didn't know anything about curing themselves, son. When a man got smallpox, or got sick, he just went into a sweat-lodge, and took a sweat, and came out and plunged into the river to cool off, and the ice was running, and some of 'em never came up again, and some of those that did come up were so weak from the shock that they could not get to the shore, and just drowned. If we get to the Blackfoot camp this summer, you ask old man Chouquette about it. He was here then; he'll tell you about it, just the same as he told me."

While Hugh had been talking, the boat had cast off and had once more started up the river.

It was afternoon, and Hugh was dozing in his chair, tilted up against the cabin, while Jack as usual was watching the river banks, when suddenly from behind a little hill that formed the end of a hog back, which extended well out into the bottom, he saw a herd of seventy or eighty buffalo, come running as hard as they could across the bottom, and plunge into the river just above the boat. The great animals ran as if frightened, and seemed to regard nothing but the danger behind them. As the boat went along, and the buffalo swam to cross the stream, they came nearer and nearer together, and at last it was evident that the buffalo would pass very close to the boat. They swam rapidly, and with them were many little calves, swimming on the down stream side of their mothers, and going swiftly and easily. Jack shouted to Hugh, who, with him, watched the buffalo, and in a very few minutes the boat was actually in the midst of the herd. The animals did not attempt to turn about, but swam steadily after their leaders, and some of them actually swam against the boat, and, only then seeming to understand their danger, turned about and, grunting, snorting, and bellowing, climbed up on each other in tremendous fright. As they came to the boat Jack at first had started to get his rifle, but Hugh called him back, and they both descended to the lower deck, where, with the other passengers, and the deck hands, they were actually within arms length of the buffalos. The mate, forming a noose with a rope, threw it over the head of a two-year-old, and half a dozen of the roustabouts, pulling on the rope, lifted the animal's head up on the deck, when the mate killed it, and it was presently hauled aboard and butchered. As they returned to the upper deck, having watched the buffalo, after the boat had passed, swim to the other bank and climb out of the water, and then stop and look at the boat, Jack said to Hugh, "Well, I saw a lot of buffalo last year, but it sort of excites one to see them again as close as those were."

"Yes," said Hugh, "that's so; but there was no use in your getting your gun, as you started to. I don't want you to act like all the rest of these pilgrims that come up the river, and to be shooting at everything you see that's alive. There'd have been no more fun in shooting one of those buffalo in the water there, than there'd be in shooting a cow on the range. Of course, if a man's hungry, it's well enough for him to butcher; but if he just wants meat, and there's somebody else to do the butchering, he might just as well let him do it. I always used to like to hunt, and I do still, but it's no fun for me to kill a calf in a pen, or to chop off a chicken's head.

"That's so, Hugh," said Jack; "it would have been no more to shoot one of those buffalos in the water than it was for the mate to kill that two-year-old."

"That's so," said Hugh; "it would have been just the same thing, and you don't envy him the work he did, I expect."

"No indeed," said Jack, "not much."

"Now, if you want to fire a few shots," said Hugh, "if you want a little practice with your gun, get it out the next time we get close to the bank, and shoot at a knot in some cottonwood tree. I can watch with the glasses and see where you hit, and you can get some practice with your rifle, but won't show up a tenderfoot."

The sun was low that evening when they reached Wolf Point, the agency for the Assinaboine Indians, and it seemed as if all the Indians there must have clustered about the landing-place to welcome the boat; men, clad in fringed buckskin shirts and leggings, and with eagle feathers in their hair; bright-shawled women, carrying babies on their backs; small boys, naked, save for a pair of leggings and a breech-clout; and little girls, some wearing handsome buckskin dresses, trimmed with elk-teeth, and clinging to their mothers' skirts, made up the assemblage. Most interesting to Jack were the many travois, each one drawn by a dog. Some of these were very wolf-like in appearance; others might have been big watch dogs taken from the front door yard of some eastern farm house. All seemed well-trained and patient; and when, a little later, some of them started off for the agency buildings, dragging loads that had been piled on the travois, they bent sturdily to their work, and dug their feet into the ground.

"There's something, son," said Hugh, "that we are not going to see much longer. The dog travois has seen its best days, and before long dogs won't be used any more for that work. Why, I hear that even up in the North, dogs are not used in winter for hauling half as much as they used to be; and down here, the first thing you know, all these Indians will be having wagons, and driving them 'round over the prairie. Why, do you know, it ain't so very long ago since these Assinaboines had hardly any horses. They didn't want 'em; they said horses were only a nuisance and a bother to 'em, and their dogs were better. Horses had to be looked after; driven in and caught up whenever they were to be used, and then they had to be watched to keep people from stealing them; but dogs, instead of running away when you wanted to catch them, would come running toward you; they never ran off nor were stolen. Nowadays, though, the Assinaboines have got quite a good many horses, and I expect to live long enough to see the time when dog travois will be a regular curiosity."

"Who are the Assinaboines, Hugh," said Jack. "What tribe are they related to?"

"They're Sioux," said Hugh, "and talk the Sioux language. Of course it's a little different from that talked by the Ogallalas and the down river Sioux; but still they can all understand each other, and they call themselves Lacotah, which of course you know is the name that all the Sioux have for themselves."

"And yet," he continued, "they have been at war with the Sioux and with the Sioux' friends for a good many years. I reckon there ain't any one that rightly knows when the Assinaboines split off from the main stock; it must have been a long time ago. But you talk with the Assinaboines, and they'll tell you -- just as most of the other Sioux'll tell you -- about a time long ago, in the lives of their fore-fathers, when their people lived at the edge of the salt water. I expect maybe that means that they migrated a long way, either from the East or from the West, very far back."

"My!" said Jack, "if we could only know about all these things that happened, and what the history of each tribe was, wouldn't it be interesting?"

"It sure would," said Hugh.

"Well, Hugh," continued Jack, "what does Assinaboine mean? Has it any real meaning, like some of these other names of Indian tribes that you tell me about?"

"Yes," said Hugh, "it has a meaning, and I reckon it's a Cree word. Ass[)i]ne means stone in Cree, poit means cooked, or cooking, and the Assinaboines are called stone-cookers, or stone-roasters, I suppose because they used to do their cooking with hot stones. But of course that don't mean much, because pretty nearly all the Indians that I know of used to boil their meat with hot rocks, except those that made pots and kettles for themselves out of clay. Nobody knows, I reckon, when the Pawnees and Mandans first learned how to make pots. I expect that was a long time ago, too. But most of these Indians used to boil meat in a kettle made of hide, or the paunch of a buffalo, filled with water. Then they'd heat stones in the fire, and put them in the water, taking them out as they got cool and putting in others, until the water boiled and the food was cooked."

"But," said Jack, "I should think when they cooked the hide or paunch it would break, and let the water spill out."

"No," said Hugh. "It would of course, if you kept cooking long enough; but one of these kettles would only last to cook a single meal; you couldn't use it a second time, but it was all right for one cooking. I have seen a hide kettle used, and eaten from it."

Jack sat thinking, for awhile, and then he turned to Hugh and said:

"I tell you, Hugh, if all you know about Indians, and about this Western country were put in a book, it would make an awful big one, wouldn't it?"

"Well, I don't know, son," said Hugh, "maybe it might; but a man has got to learn the life he's lived; if he doesn't, he won't amount to nothing. I expect if all that you know about the East was put in a book it would make quite a sizable one."

"Oh," said Jack, "that's nothing. The things I know don't amount to anything, and everybody else knows them a good deal better than I do."

"Well, I tell you," said Hugh, "the things that are new and strange to you seem kind o' wonderful, but they don't seem wonderful to me; but I remember one time you were telling me something about catching fish down at the place called Great South Bay, and talking about seeing the vessels sailing on the ocean, and to me that seemed mighty wonderful."

By this time the boat had left the landing-place, and the light was growing dim. They turned and looked back, and there across the wide bottom was moving toward the Post, a long string of people, men and women and children and dog travois, so that it looked almost like a moving camp. Hugh and Jack sat for a while longer on the deck talking, and then, as the mosquitoes got bad, they turned in.

The next afternoon the boat reached Fort Peck, then one of the most important Indian agencies on the Missouri River. It stood on a narrow bench, a few log buildings surrounded by a stockade, and back of it the bluffs rose sharply, and were dotted with the scaffolds of the dead. It seemed to Jack that there must be hundreds and hundreds, if not thousands, of these graves in sight. From the poles of some of them long streamers were blown out in the wind, which Hugh told him were offerings tied to the poles of the scaffolds by mourning relatives. But few living Indians were seen here, and there were only three or four white men seen about the trading post. They did not leave the boat, which soon pushed on again.

"The Indians about here have been awful mean," said Hugh; "Lots of things were brought in here that the Sioux took from the Custer battlefield. Somebody told me that Custer's gold watch was brought in here by an Indian, who wanted to know how much it was worth: but so many questions were asked him about it that he just put the watch in his sack and lit out, and has not been seen here since."

As the boat passed the mouth of the Musselshell early next morning Hugh pointed shoreward, and said:

"Do you see that place over there where that creek comes in, son?"

"Why, of course I see it, Hugh," said Jack, "and the timber that runs along it. What creek is it?"

"You ought to know," said Hugh, with a laugh; "you got scared in it a whole lot last summer."

"Why, Hugh, is that the Musselshell?" said Jack.

"That's what it is," said Hugh; "and seeing the mouth of the river, and them sticks there on the flat, reminds me of the big fight that took place there some years back. I wonder if you ever heard about it. I meant to tell you last summer, but somehow it slipped my mind. It was there that Liver-Eating Johnson got his name. They used to say that he cut out the liver of an Indian that got killed in that fight and ate it. Of course he never did, but they tell the story about him, and I rather think he was kind o' proud about it after a little while, and liked the name.

"I think it was in 1869 that the fight took place, along in the spring.

"You know the steamboats always have trouble in coming up to Benton in the low water; and along about 1866, after the mines got paying, and when the fur trade was good, some men at Helena formed a company to make a road and start a freight line down to some point on the river that the boats could always get to. These men didn't know much about the river, and they chose the mouth of the Musselshell for the point where their road, which began at Helena, should end.

"Now, I suppose if they'd raked the whole river with a fine-tooth comb they couldn't have found a poorer place for a town, nor a poorer country to travel through, than this one they pitched on. The place chosen for the town was that little neck of land between the Musselshell and the Missouri. The soil is a bad-land clay, which in summer is an alkali desert, and in spring is a regular bog, in which a saddle-blanket would mire down. Then, all along the Musselshell was a favorite camping and hunting ground for the Indians, and in those days Indians were bad. Well, they made up their company, and started their town. There weren't many settlers, but a few people, mostly hunters and wood-choppers, stopped there; and of course, wherever there were a few people gathered together, there was sure to be a store and a few saloons.

"I think it was along in 1868 that a man came down there with a fine train of mules. Likely he expected to get some freighting to do when the boats came up the river. The stock was turned out, and some men were on guard, when a party of Sioux charged in among them, killed two of the men, and ran off every hoof of stock. The thing was done in a minute; and before the men could get out of their houses and tents the stock was gone, and the Indians along with it: all except one young fellow, who, just to show what he could do, charged back and rode through the crowd, making fun of them as he went along. So far as anybody knew, not one Indian got hit.

"It was not very long after that that the Sioux came down and charged into the Crow camp, and ran off eight hundred head of horses. Of course that made a big excitement. The Crows jumped on their horses an pursued and they had quite a fight, and some of the Indians got killed.

"During the Spring of 1869, the Indians used to attack the town every few days; a Crow squaw that was living there got shot through the body, and a white woman was wounded, knocked down, and scalped, but I reckon she's living yet. Anybody that went out any distance from the town was sure to be shot at and chased. It was a time for a man to travel 'round with his gun loaded, and in his hand all the time. The Indians didn't do much of anything, but they kept the people scared up everlastingly. It got to be so, finally, that the Indians would charge down near the town, and then swing off and run away, and pretty much all the men would run out and run after them, shooting as long as the Indians were in sight.

"One morning there were a couple of Crow women out a little way from town, gathering sage brush for wood, and the Indians opened fire on them. The white men all rushed out and after the Indians, who numbered sixteen. They ran on foot over toward the Musselshell, and then up the bottom, not going very fast, and the white men were gaining on them, and thinking that now they would force them to a regular fight; when suddenly, from a ravine on the Musselshell, a shot was fired, which killed a man named Leader.

"That stopped the whites right off, and they turned to run; and if the Indians had charged 'em then, I expect they'd have got every last one of 'em. But Henry McDonald saw what would happen if they ran, and, bringing down his rifle, swore he'd shoot the first man who went faster than a walk.

"They could see now that there was quite a body of Indians in the ravine on the bank of the Musselshell, but they couldn't tell how many. There was some little shooting between the two parties. Most of the whites moved back to the settlement; but there were half a dozen men who did not retreat; but getting under cover, within thirty or forty yards of the Indians, held them there. They kept shooting, back and forth, and presently a man named Greenwood got shot through the lungs, and had to be carried back. The other men stood their ground, and the Indians, knowing that they had to do with good shots, did not dare to show their heads.

"After two or three hours of this sort of thing, it began to rain, a mighty lucky thing for the white men. They were all armed with Henry rifles, or needle-guns, while the Indians, for the most part, had bows and arrows, with some flintlock guns. They had stripped themselves for war, and had no clothing with which they could cover their gun-locks and bow-strings to keep them from getting wet. After a little of this, the white men began to see that the Indians were practically disarmed, and began to think about charging them; but when they raised up to look, they saw that there was a big party of men there, and that the only way to get them, except in a hand to hand fight, was for some of the party to cross the Musselshell, and get to a point where they could shoot into the ravine, thus driving the Indians out and placing them between two fires. Three men started to do this.

"When the Indians saw what the white men were trying to do, they ran down to the mouth of the ravine and tried to shoot at them; but their strings were wet, and the arrows had no force and hardly reached the men, and very few of their guns would go off. The three men got across the river, and went down to a point opposite the ravine, and began to shoot at the Indians; but by this time all the men in the settlement had collected together, about eight hundred yards behind the Indians, and seeing these three men on the other side of the stream took them for Indians and began to shoot at them; so that the three white men who had crossed had to get away and re-cross the Musselshell. By this time half a dozen other men got around on the lower side of the Indians, and then again three men crossed the river and commenced to shoot up the ravine. This was too much for the Indians: they jumped out of their hole and started to get away, and everybody was shooting at them as hard as they could. The fire from the body of men near the town still continued, and obliged the men who were doing the real fighting to keep more or less under cover. The Indians broke for the Musselshell, crossing it where they could, and most of them got away; but thirteen were killed, and it was said that a good many more died on the way to camp, and only one of the ninety and more who were in the fight escaped without a wound. The next day after that, the white men found the place where the Indians had stripped for the fight and left their things, and there over a hundred robes and two war bonnets and a whole lot of other stuff were found. Most of it was sold, and the money given to Greenwood, who was wounded. Jim Wells and Henry McDonald, I heard, each got a war bonnet.

"The freight road was given up, and pretty much everybody left the place, -- except some traders who stopped there a little longer. Then Carroll was started, up near the Little Rockies, and in a very much better place, and that was the end of Musselshell City. It was at this same place that Johnson claimed to have made for himself a razor strap from a strip of skin that he cut from an Indian's back: but Johnson was always a good man to tell stories, and you never could be quite sure when he was telling the truth and when he was joking.

"A few years ago there used to be lots of talk about that fight, and the people called it one of the biggest lickings that the Indians ever got in this part of the country."

Pushing along up the river, the boat passed beyond the Musselshell, and then up by Carroll, and the Little Rocky Mountain, and the Bearspaw, -- and at last one day, about noon, Fort Benton came in sight.

For the last two hundred miles they had seen a good deal of game. Buffalo were almost always in sight on the bluffs, or in the bottom; elk, frightened by the approach of the steamer, tore through the willow points; deer, both black-tail and white-tail, were often seen, and on several occasions mountain sheep were viewed -- once in the bottom and at other times on the high bad-land bluffs. One of the herds was a large one, which Hugh said must contain seventy-five or a hundred animals.

As Benton was approached, Jack began to feel more and more excited. Here he hoped to meet Joe, who had been warned some months before by Mr. Sturgis that Hugh and Jack would be at Benton early in July: and Joe would have with him the horses, a lodge, and all their camp equipage; so that, if nothing interfered to prevent, the next morning they could start out on their trip.




Chapter III

For The Blackfoot Camp


As the boat slowly drew near the wharf, Hugh and Jack, from the upper deck, recognized first the old adobe fort and then, one after another, the different buildings of the town. The arrival of the steamer was always a great event in Benton, and pretty much all the inhabitants of the town were seen making their way toward the water's edge. The throng was made up of whites and Indians, with an occasional Chinaman: for already Chinamen had begun to come into the country. At first the two watchers from the steamboat could recognize no faces, but, as the boat drew nearer and nearer, Hugh suddenly let his hand fall on Jack's shoulder and said, "There's Baptiste, and I believe that's Joe standing near him."

"Oh, where are they, Hugh? I can't see either of them:" and then a moment later, after Hugh had told him where the two stood, he saw them; and springing up on the rail, and holding to a stanchion, he waved his hat, and shouted out to Joe, who had already recognized him and made joyous gestures in response.

A little later, the four were cordially shaking hands on the shore: and presently, when the crowd of passengers had left the boat, the two old men and the boys went on board again and, mounting to the upper deck, talked together. Jack's first question to Joe was as to the whereabouts of the camp.

"Down east of the Judith Mountains somewhere, I expect," said Joe in reply. "They went down there to kill buffalo; there's lots of buffalo over on the Judith, or between the Judith and the Musselshell. I guess they'll be there all summer, and before I left the camp I heard that they would make the medicine lodge somewhere out in that country."

"What about the hostiles, Joe?" said Jack. "Have they seen any Sioux lately?"

"No," said Joe, "but I've heard that there are a few passing back and forth, between the lower country and Sitting Bull's camp, over across the line."

"Like enough," said Hugh, "like enough. We've got to look out for those fellows; but they won't do nothing more than try to steal our horses."

Hugh had been talking quietly with Baptiste La Jeunesse, who told him what had been happening in Benton during the winter. This was not much: there was talk that a railroad was going to be built into the country, one that might even pass through Fort Benton itself, and this would make the town big and important, so people said -- and Fort Benton would once more become what it had been in the early days of the fur trade, a populous and thriving place.

"And how have you been getting on yourself, Bat?" said Hugh.

"Oh, I've done well. I always have everything that I want, since you people came in here last summer and gave me the gold. Every month I go to the bank, and they give me the pay for the money that you lent them for me, and so I live well. It doesn't make any difference to me whether I've work to do or not, yet always it is pleasant to be doing something, and so I keep on working. Also, there are some people in the town who are poor, just as I used to be; and now that I have money I can help them to live, just as your boy has helped me."

"Well, Bat, it makes me feel good that you are doing well, and I think that you will continue to do well from this on."

"And what are you going to do this season, Hugh?" said Baptiste. "Where are you going, and what are you going to do -- hunting or trapping, or what?"

"Well, Bat," said Hugh, "I am traveling 'round again with this boy of mine. His uncle and his father and mother want him to spend the summers out here, and get strong and hearty, and they've told me to travel with him, and teach him about the way of living out here; the same lesson that you and I learned when we were young; only he will learn it in a better and easier way than we did. He's a good boy: I like him better all the time. I should feel bad if anything happened to him."

"Yes, Hugh, I think he's a good boy," said Baptiste. "Both of those boys are good. I like the Indian well. He came in here many days ago, and came to me; and since he got here, he and I have lived together. I like him."

Hugh now turned to the two boys, who were busily talking, and said; "Now, boys, if we're going to get off to-night we've got to make a start right soon. I expect Joe has got all our stuff ready, except the grub, and if you and he will hurry up and get the horses together and get them saddled, I'll go and buy the grub, and put it in the wagon, and come down here and get our guns and beds, and we'll pack up and move out of town four or five miles and camp."

Both the boys jumped to their feet, and Jack said; "Hurray! that's what I want to do; I want to get out on the prairie once more, and I don't want to see a town again until I have to."

Jack and Joe started at once, and ran races with each other up the street, to see which should get first to the stable. Joe beat the white boy, who found that his winter's confinement, and his lack of exercise in the big city had made him short of wind; so that at last he got out of breath, and stopped running. When they reached the stable, Joe took his rope and went out into the corral, and caught a handsome little buckskin pony, and, saddling it, rode out to get the animals which were pasturing on the bluffs above the town. He was gone some little time, and then, Jack, who was watching for him, saw the familiar sight of loose horses running along the bluff, and then turning and rushing down its steep sides, followed by a cloud of dust; and then Joe, with whoops and yells, and quick turnings and twistings of his horse, drove them up to the bars, through which they crowded, and then stood quiet in the corral.

Jack thought that he would try his old scheme of calling Pawnee, and whistled sharply. The good horse threw up his head, and looked about, and then seeming to recognize Jack, walked over to him, and arched his neck over his shoulder in the old-fashioned way. Jack was very much touched, and put his arms around the horse's head, and leaned his head against his neck, thrilled with affection for the animal that he had ridden so many miles. Presently they got out the ropes, and tied up the horses, and one by one they were saddled. They were all fat and in good condition, and some of them objected quite strongly to being saddled. The dun bucked when the flank cinch tightened on him, just as he had bucked the first time Jack ever saw him packed, and so did the star-faced bay. The others grunted and squealed and kicked a little, but on the whole took the saddling very well.

Not long after they had finished saddling up they heard a cheery call from the front of the stable, and, rushing out, Jack saw the wagon, piled up with food and beds, and Hugh and Baptiste, sitting in it. It took some little time to make up the packs, but by late afternoon this was done, the horses packed, and after shaking hands with Baptiste, the little train, with Hugh in the lead, Jack driving three pack horses, and Joe bringing up the rear, driving two more, filed out of the town and climbed the hills toward the upper prairie.

That afternoon they traveled until the sun went down, and then coming on a little coulee, through which water trickled, they camped. They were careful to picket all their horses; and after this was done, while Joe and Jack brought armfuls of willow brush from up and down the creek, Hugh cooked supper.

The next day they kept on. Now they were well away from the settlements, and game began to be seen. Only antelope, it is true, but of them there were plenty. Jack had a fair shot at a buck, at about a hundred and twenty-five yards, but failed to kill him -- to his great mortification.

"Ha!" said Hugh, "you've got to learn how to shoot again; you shot too high, and missed him slick and clean. I remember the first shot you fired last year, when you first came out; you shot high then, just as you did now. When we get to camp to-night, you and Joe had better go out and shoot three or four times at a mark. You have got to learn your gun over again, and Joe of course has got to learn his for the first time." Jack had brought out from New York a gun for Joe, carefully selected from the stock of one of the largest rifle manufacturers in the world, and as yet Joe had not fired a shot out of it; but he seemed never to tire of looking at it, and putting it up to his shoulder, and sighting at various objects. That night they camped on a great swiftly rushing stream, near some high hills, or low mountains; and while he was cooking supper Hugh sent them off to try their guns. With the axe they shaved off the outer bark from a thick cottonwood tree, and making a black mark on the brown surface, each fired five shots at it. Jack's first two shots were high, but the next three were clustered within the size of a silver dollar, all about the mark. Joe did not shoot quite so steadily, two of his shots being above, and two below, and one a little off to one side. When they returned to camp and Hugh asked them about their shooting, they told him, and he advised them to fire a few more shots after supper, and, if necessary, a few in the morning.

"There's nothing, I hate worse than to hear a gun fired about camp," he said, "but guns are no use to people unless they understand them, and you boys must get used to your guns. It won't take you more than a very few shots to do this, and you certainly must do it."

The next morning they started on again. No signs had yet been seen of the Indians, but this day they saw a few buffalo, old bulls, mostly off to the north of them. In the afternoon they passed by the Moccasin Mountains, and camped on a little stream flowing into the Judith River. After they had unpacked their animals and made camp, Hugh said to Jack, "Son, have you ever been here before? Do you see anything that you recognize?"

"Why, no Hugh," said Jack, "I don't think I do;" and standing up he took a long look about him, up and down the valley, and at the hills on either side. Suddenly his face brightened, and he said, "Why yes I do, too. I know where we are. This is just where we came through last year, the second day after I got caught in the quicksands in the Musselshell."

"That's so," said Hugh, "this is just where we came. I wondered if you'd recognize it. You ought to do so, and I'm glad you do.

"Right over a few miles east of us is what we used to call old Camp Lewis. There used to be a trading store there, and a camp of soldiers, and a few men got killed there, mostly soldiers. I remember coming through here not many years ago, the afternoon after some soldiers got killed on the bank of the creek, right close to the camp. There was a camp of Crows there then -- about three hundred lodges. The Sioux came down, and ran off some government horses, and killed three recruits that were fishing here in the creek, and the Crows took after 'em, and had quite a fight, and Long Horse, the Crow chief got killed. They got seven of the Sioux, I think. They had quite a time here in the camp then. I remember Yellowstone Kelly was here, and three or four other men; I think the Sioux set them all afoot."

The next morning while Hugh was getting breakfast he said to Jack: "Son, why don't you kill some meat? You are going through a country where game is fairly plenty; anyway, antelope are, and there's a few buffalo; and besides that, here are some mountains right close to you, where there's surely lots of sheep. You boys had better make up your minds to do something to-day; if you don't I'll have to start out and hunt, to kill meat for the camp."

"Well, Hugh," said Jack, "I certainly would rather hunt than drive pack horses; and if you want me to I'll go off to-day and follow along a little closer to the hills, and see if I can't kill something."

"Do so," said Hugh, "and then if you kill anything you can easily overtake us. We will be traveling slow, and your horse is good and fat and can catch us wherever we are. All the same, keep your eye open for Indians, and don't let any strangers come up too close to you. I'd rather have you two boys go off together, but I've got to keep Joe with me, to drive these pack horses. You'd better throw the saddle on your horse and start right off, and maybe you'll catch us before we've gone very far."

No sooner said than done. Jack saddled up, and having asked Hugh the direction in which the party would move, rode away to the left, toward the low foot-hills of the mountains. He had gone only a mile or two when, passing over the shoulder of the foot-hills, he found himself coming down into a narrow valley, in which pretty little meadows were interspersed with clumps of cottonwoods and willows. Three or four antelope were feeding in the valley not far off, but there was no cover under which they could be approached, so he rode straight along. As he drew near, the antelope ceased feeding and raised their heads, and then, before he was within easy rifle shot, trotted off to the other side of the valley, and stood on the hillside watching him. After looking back for a few moments, they started, in single file, and slowly walked up the hill. They were by no means frightened, and it seemed likely that by taking a little time, after they had passed on out of sight, he might get a shot at them; but the brush above him on the stream seemed likely to hold a deer, and he turned his horse that way and rode quietly forward up the stream, among the groups of bushes. He had not gone very far when from a clump of willows at his right a big doe sprang into view, and moved slowly off by those high, long bounds which make the white-tail, in motion, one of the most graceful of animals. Jack's impulse was to jump off his horse and shoot at her, but he saw that, if he did this, he would be so low down that she could hardly be seen over the tops of the willows. He checked Pawnee, cocked his gun, and rising a little in his stirrups, and gripping the horse with his thighs, aimed carefully at the back of the doe's head, just as she was rising in one of her leaps, and pulled the trigger.

Almost at the report, her long tail fell flat to her body, and she began to run much faster. He knew he had hit her, and before she had gone fifty yards, and while she was crossing an open bit of meadow, she fell. Jack rode up to her, and on turning her over found that he had made a good shot. A ball had entered her back, just to the right of the spine, and had pierced both lungs and heart.

Turning her over, to get her ready to put on the horse, he was glad to see that she was a barren doe, one that had not produced a fawn that spring, and so would be fat and good eating. She was pretty big, however, and Jack was a little uncertain just how he was going to get her on his horse. Of course by cutting her up it could easily have been done, for then the quarters would not be too heavy for him to handle. At first he thought that he would take in the whole animal, but considering the time that this might take, and the fact that he had to ride a long way before overtaking his companions, he determined to do things in the easier way. He skinned the deer, therefore, cut off the shoulders and hams, and tied them on his horse, and then taking out sirloins and tenderloins, and some of the fat, wrapped this up in the skin, and put that on behind the saddle. Now he had a fairly compact load, which could be easily carried, and would not be a great additional weight for his horse; while on the ground were left all the bones of the deer, except those of the legs. This method of butchering he had learned from the Indians the summer before.

All this had taken some little time, and when Jack looked at the sun he saw that the morning was half gone. Hugh had told him that they would follow the trail around the point of the mountains, and would then strike the Carroll Road, and bend back toward the river again. This meant that if he could cross the point of the mountains he would save several miles travel, and this he determined to do.

Before starting, he tightened up his cinches carefully, for he knew that the pieces of meat tied on his saddle would give it more or less side motion, and he did not want it to chafe Pawnee's back. Then he climbed into the saddle and started. By this time the sun was pouring down hot upon him, and there was no breeze. From the high ridges that he crossed from time to time he had a wide view of the prairie, and of the distant mountains, the Little Belts and Snowies, which rose from the plain a long way to the south. Here and there on the prairie were black dots, which he knew were buffalo, and other white ones, much nearer, which were antelope. Occasionally, as he rode along, a great sage grouse would rise from the ground near his horse's feet, or a jack-rabbit would start up, and after running fifteen or twenty yards, would stop, sit up, raise its enormous ears, look at him for a moment, and then settle back on all fours, and flatten itself on the ground, so that if he took his eye off it for a moment he could not find it again. It seemed to him then, as it had so often seemed before, a wonderful thing to see how absolutely this wild creature, like so many others, could disappear from sight even while one was looking at it.

As he rode over a high ridge, he saw on the hillside before him, two white-rumped animals, that for a moment he thought were antelope; but a second glance showed him that they were not, and, to his very great astonishment, he recognized them as mountain sheep -- a ewe and her young one -- which had been feeding on the prairie, just where he would have expected an antelope to be. He threw himself off his horse and, cocking his gun, jerked it to his shoulder and then paused, and lowering it again, stepped back and put his foot in the stirrup. As he mounted, the ewe, which had been looking at him, started to run, passing hardly more than fifty yards in front of him, closely followed by the lamb. A little further on, she stopped again and gazed, and Jack sat there and returned her look. The sight of the sheep had been almost too much for him, and he had come near shooting her, -- but before he pressed the trigger he realized that if he shot her he should have to shoot the lamb, and he could not conveniently carry either, and the old ewe would be thin in flesh and hardly worth taking with him. The temptation had been strong, but as he sat there and looked at the graceful animal, which stood and stamped, while the lamb, close beside her, imitated her motions, he realized that it was a good thing to let them go.

It seemed to him a mysterious thing, though, that these sheep should be down here on the prairie, and a long way from the rocky peaks, where he supposed they always lived. He made up his mind that he would ask Hugh about this when he got into camp and get him to explain it.

At last he had crossed the point of the mountains and began to descend. Stretching out toward the northeast he could see a dim thin line, which, although it was interrupted at times -- and sometimes for long distances -- he thought must be the Carroll Road. Then off a long way to the east was a line of dark -- the timber along a stream's course -- which he supposed was where they would camp to-night.

He had almost reached the level prairie, when suddenly he became aware of two horsemen galloping toward him from behind. He watched them as they drew nearer, and at last could make out that they were Indians; and by this is meant that he saw that they had no hats on. More than that, he could see, he thought, that one of them had red leggings.




Chapter IV

Old Friends And New


Of course there were no known hostiles in the country, but at the same time he recalled Hugh's advice, not to let any Indians come too close to him. These men were galloping along and would soon overtake him; and if, by any chance they should happen to be Sioux, from Sitting Bull's camp, or worthless Indians of any tribe that he did not know, they might take his horse and gun, even if they did nothing worse. He decided then that he would find out who they were, and drawing up his horse on a little rise of ground, he dismounted and stood behind it, facing them with his rifle barrel resting in the saddle. The Indians were now only three or four hundred yards off, but when Jack did this they at once halted, and turning toward each other, seemed to consult. Then, one of them, raising his hands high in the air, held his gun above his head, and after handing it over to his companion, struck his horse with his quirt and galloped toward Jack, while the other man remained where he was.

The swift little pony was soon within easy rifle shot, and as its rider drew nearer and nearer, Jack seemed to recognize something familiar in the look of the man, yet he could hardly tell what it was; but when he was within speaking distance the man called out; "Why, don't you know me, Master Jack? I'm Hezekiah;" and instantly Jack recognized his negro friend of the Blackfoot camp. He called back to him; "Hello, Hezekiah! come on; I didn't know who you were." And Hezekiah, turning about, waved to his companion, who started toward them.

Jack and Hezekiah shook hands, and Hezekiah said; "You done mighty well to stop us, Master Jack; you're making a good prairie man all right, and I'm glad to see it. Plenty Indians traveling through this country, back and forth, that would be willing to kill you for your horse and gun; and it ain't far off to the line, and they'd skip across and go to Sitting Bull's camp, and nobody'd ever know who done it. It's just like what all the Piegans said last year, after the Medicine Lodge, that you was sure goin' to make a good warrior."

"Well Hezekiah," said Jack, "I don't know as I'd have stopped you if Hugh hadn't spoken to me about that only this morning. He said that there were Sioux traveling back and forth, and that I had better not let any Indians come up close to me until I knew who they were. That's the reason I stopped you." At this moment the other Indian rode up, and handing his gun to Hezekiah, shook hands cordially with Jack. It was Bull Calf, one of his companions on the trip to the Grassy Lakes, where Jack had shot the Assinaboine who was trying to steal horses from the camp; a young man of good family whom he knew very well, and with whom he had been on several hunting excursions.

"Where's the camp Hezekiah?" asked Jack. "Hugh and Joe have gone on ahead with the pack train, and I stopped behind to kill a deer. We're looking for your camp, and going to stay a little while with you, and then we're going off south into the mountains."

"The camp isn't far off Master Jack," said Hezekiah. "I expect it's right over there on Muddy Creek; somewhere in that timber. Some days ago they left Carroll, and are moving south now after buffalo; but Bull Calf, here, and me, we came 'round by the mountains here, to see if we couldn't kill some sheep. I want to get a couple of shirts made, and my woman says she'd rather make 'em of sheep than of antelope.

"I expect we'll strike the camp this afternoon somewhere and maybe we'd better be starting right along now." They mounted, and rode on over the prairie. Jack had many questions to ask about what had happened in the Piegan camp during the winter, for though Joe had told him much, there were still plenty of matters to be discussed. Hezekiah and Bull Calf wanted to ride fast, but Jack did not feel like doing so with his load, so he put the two shoulders of the deer on Bull Calf's horse, and tied down what he carried so that it would not shake, and they went on at a good pace. An hour or two of brisk riding brought them close to the stream; but before they reached it they saw the trail where the camp had passed. There were tracks of a great band of horses, and many scratches left by travois poles; and in the trail there were a number of fresher horse tracks, which showed where Hugh and Joe and the pack animals had passed along after the camp.

Jack had a feeling as if he were almost home. It seemed funny to him to think how eager he was to meet all the brown-skinned friends that he had left so many months before, and how much pleasure he felt in having come across these two on the prairie. Two hours before sundown they began to see horses dotted over the hills ahead of them; and a little later they rode out into a broad open space in the river bottom, where stood a circle of white lodges, which they knew was the Piegan camp.

"Where do you suppose Hugh will camp, Hezekiah?" said Jack, as he ran his eye over the lodges, each one of which looked like every other lodge. It was evident that he could tell nothing by looking at the lodges, and he must look for the horses; and just as Hezekiah replied, he thought he saw old Baldy tied in front of a lodge on the opposite side of the circle.

"Why, I reckon he'll camp with Joe's people, Master Jack," said Hezekiah. "That's the Fat Roasters, you know, and they're over there across the circle. I reckon that's the old man now, drivin' pins for the lodge."

"Yes, that's it, Hezekiah," said Jack: "I see him now. I'll ride over there and get rid of my meat, and sometime to-night or to-morrow I hope to come to your lodge."

"Please do, Master Jack, and we'll be mighty glad to see you. I want to have you see the childern, too; they've grown a heap since you was here last."

As Jack stopped in front of the lodge, Hugh looked up from his task and said, "Well, you've got here all right, son. Killed somethin' too, I reckon."

"Yes," said Jack, "I killed a barren doe, and I reckon we've got meat enough to keep us going for a few days. I gave the shoulders to Bull Calf and Hezekiah, whom I met out here on the prairie, but I've got the hams here. Shall I turn Pawnee loose, or shall I tie him up here by old Baldy?"

"Better tie him up here," said Hugh. "I want to make arrangements with some young fellow to herd our horses; Joe's gone off now to try to do that. We've got the lodge up, and now pretty quick we'll have a fire and cook supper."

The news of the arrival of the strangers had already spread through the camp, and that night Hugh and Jack and Joe were invited to feasts at several lodges. They saw many of their friends: old John Monroe, Little Plume, Last Bull, and of course Fox Eye, and many others. Old Iron Shirt came around to their lodge, and shook hands cordially with Jack, from whom he accepted a plug of tobacco and a red silk handkerchief. It was late before the festivities were over, and when they turned into their blankets they were soon asleep.

While they were at breakfast next morning, Jack told Hugh about the sheep that he had seen on the prairie the day before, and how he had been about to kill the old ewe, and then had thought it better not to do so.

"You did just right, son," said Hugh; "I've said to you a good many times never to kill anything that you don't want, and can't use, and I believe that's the way to do. You were right not to kill the old ewe also because she wouldn't have been good for anything; she'd have been poor from suckling her lamb, and you'd have just killed her without getting any good out of it. Besides that, the lamb would have starved to death if you hadn't killed it, and if you had killed it it would'nt have been no good. No, you did right; you used good sense, and I like men, or boys either, to use sense."

"Well, Hugh, I'm glad I didn't shoot. Of course, maybe I wouldn't have killed the ewe anyhow, but I'd have tried. But what I wanted to ask you about was what those sheep were doing down there on the prairie. I supposed that sheep only lived on high mountains, or else in the very roughest kind of bad-lands. They're called Rocky Mountain sheep; that ought to mean that they live in the Rocky Mountains."

"Well now, son, you're like a good many people that think that sheep ain't found anywhere except in the mountains, but that's a big mistake. In old times sheep were found on the prairie just about as much as they were found in the mountains. I expect they were always in the mountains, and in old times they were always on the prairie too. It has got so now that they're pretty scarce on the prairie, because so many people traveling around all the time shoot at them; but in old times it was no uncommon sight to see sheep feeding right in among the buffalo, and we often used to see them all mixed up with the antelope, on the flat prairie. Of course, sheep always like to be somewhere within reach of the buttes or mountains, or rough bad-lands, that they can run to if they get scared, but as for them not being on the prairie, the way some people think, that's all a mistake. Up here in Montana, and in Dakota and Nebraska and Wyoming, I have seen them on the prairie, a long way from any hills. Why, I've even seen them out in the sand-hills, up not very far from the head of the Dismal River, and south of the Loup, but I suppose they came from up the Platte, where there are bad-lands and buttes, like Scott's Bluffs and Chimney Rock. But if ever people tell you that sheep are found only among the rocks, don't you believe them. I know you won't after to-day, because you saw them on the prairie yourself."

"Yes, Hugh, that's so; but just as you say, they started to run back to the rocks when they were scared."

"Why son, there's no better sheep country in America to-day, I believe, than within a day's ride of here. You take the Missouri River bad-lands, and the Little Rockies, the Judith Mountains, the Little Belts, the Moccasins, and the Bear's Paw; they're all good sheep countries, and always have been ever since I've been in the country; and I reckon if you ask any of the old Indians they'll tell you just the same thing. Why, years and years ago, before the Indians got bad, there was no place where there were more mountain sheep than right along the Yellowstone, where the bluffs don't run more than a couple of hundred feet high, and there's a flat bottom below them, and just rolling prairie above."

"Well, I didn't know this at all, Hugh," said Jack, "and yesterday when I saw those animals on that little ridge, I could not believe that they were sheep. I thought I must be mistaken, that they must be queer colored antelope, but then of course I saw the sheep horns and I knew that I wasn't mistaken."

"There's lots to learn about sheep yet, son; and you and I are not the only people that don't know much about them. The fact is, I don't believe anybody knows much about them.

"I expect there's more than one kind of sheep in the country, too. I have heard about a white sheep that they find away up north; and then a great many years ago, once when I went up north to Peace River, I killed a sheep that was pretty nearly black, and had black horns. I never saw but one little bunch of them, and killed one out of it, a yearling ewe; she was not like any other animal I ever saw before."

Not long after breakfast Hugh and Jack started out to make a round of the camp, and to call upon their friends. As they were passing a nice new lodge, a tall, slender, straight young man came out from it, and after hesitating a moment as he looked at them, walked up to Hugh, and extending his hand, said, "How d'ye do, Mr. Johnson. I guess you don't know me, but I've heard of you pretty near all my life. I'm Billy Jackson, a son of old Thomas Jackson, whom you may have known a long way back, and the nephew of John Monroe."

"Why yes, sure," said Hugh, "I've heard of you, and I used to know your mother right well. I'm glad to see you. Ain't you the young man that was with General Custer in the Black Hills, and afterwards scouted for Miles, down on the Yellowstone? or was it your brother? I think you're the man."

"Yes, I'm the man" said Jackson. "Bob scouted for Miles, too, and we both did a good deal of riding down there during the last of the wars, and now I've come up here to live in the Piegan camp."

"I'm glad to see you," said Hugh. "Let me make you acquainted with Jack Danvers; he and I've traveled together now for two or three years, and we spent last summer here in Piegan camp."

Jack and Billy Jackson shook hands together, and they parted; but Hugh asked Jackson to come round and eat with them that night, which the young man said he would do. He was a handsome fellow, lean and active; and after they had left him Hugh said to Jack, "Take notice of that young man, and if you've occasion to go on the prairie with him, do as he says. I've heard of him; he's a good man, brave, and knows the prairie well, and, at the same time, he has good sense, and isn't likely to get himself or his friends into any trouble."

At Little Plume's lodge they were made very welcome. His wife had apparently thought that they would come around that day, and as soon as they sat down in the lodge, food was set before them: boiled buffalo heart and back fat, and berry pemmican, with stewed service-berries, made a tempting feast, and Jack ate heartily of it.

Little Plume told them that the next day the camp would move south, and they hoped that before they got to the Musselshell, or if not, soon after crossing it, they would find buffalo. Hereabouts near the Missouri, there were but few, chiefly bulls. Further south, between the Musselshell and the Yellowstone, scouts had reported great numbers of buffalo. That evening, Last Bull, Iron Shirt, and Fox Eye, Jackson and Little Plume, all came to the lodge, and they had a feast; and after all had eaten, there was much general conversation, but no formal speeches. Much of the conversation was in the Piegan tongue, which Jack as yet could hardly understand, but Jackson talked much to him in English, and told some entertaining stories. Among them was one of an adventure that he had had a year or two before, only a short distance from where they were now, and which had in it something of humor, and a little of danger. Jackson said:

"In the fall of 1879, Paul Sandusky, Jo Hamilton and I built our winter quarters on Flat Willow Creek, about twenty miles east of the Snowy Mountains. The country was then still infested with roving war parties from the different tribes, some coming from Sitting Bull's camp on the Big Bend of Milk River.

"As we intended to do some trading with the friendly tribes, especially the Crows and Blackfeet, we built commodious quarters, consisting of two buildings facing each other and about forty feet apart, and containing altogether five rooms. Joining on to the 'Fort' -- as we called it -- we constructed a high stockade corral for the horses.

"Game of all kinds was very plenty, and bands of elk and antelope could be seen almost daily within a mile or so of our place. Glad to have company, we gave free quarters to all hunters and trappers who cared to stop with us, and by March 1 we numbered eleven men, including our cook, 'Nigger Andy.'

"A few hundred yards below our fort a little creek, which we named Beaver Castor, joined the Flat Willow. For some miles above its mouth it flowed through a deep cut in the prairie, bordered with sage brush and willows. At its junction with the Flat Willow, in the V formed by the two creeks, was quite a high butte. It sloped up very gently from the Flat Willow side, but was almost a cut bank on the Beaver Castor side.

"This butte was our watch tower. From its summit we could see miles and miles of the surrounding country.

"One morning in March most of the men went out antelope hunting, leaving four of us in camp -- Jo Healy, laid up with rheumatism; Harry Morgan, the herder; the cook and myself. About ten o'clock this morning I concluded to take a hunt, and before catching up a horse I climbed the butte to see if I could spy a band of elk or antelope near by. As soon as I reached the summit I saw some moving forms on the prairie not far off, near Beaver Castor, and adjusting my glass, I found that they were a large war party of Indians afoot. They also saw me, for I saw several of them stop and level their telescope at me. I took pains to let them know I was not an Indian, for I strutted about with long strides and faced them with arms akimbo. Finally, as they came close, I backed down from the summit, very slowly, and placing a buffalo chip on top of a bush, so as to make them think I was still watching them, I dashed for the fort.

"I found that the horse-herder had caught up an animal and gone out hunting; so grabbing a lariat I ran out to drive in the band, which was grazing nearly a mile from the house. I went down as fast as I could run, but found that I couldn't get within roping distance of a single animal. They had been in the corral all night as usual, and in spite of my efforts they kept straggling and feeding along, and every minute I expected the war party to swoop down on me. However, I finally got them home and into the corral, and, my clothing wet with perspiration, I sat down to get my wind.

"In the meantime Andy had not been idle. He had placed all our spare arms and ammunition by the loopholes, had dragged Healy, bed and all, to a place of vantage, where he could shoot without hurting his rheumatic legs, and had then gone on preparing our dinner. So we waited and watched, expecting every minute to be attacked. But no Indians came. We had our dinner, and as the afternoon passed the boys kept straggling in by ones and twos, until by five all were home. None of them had seen any Indians.

"Finally I proposed that two or three of us get our horses and make a reconnoissance.

"'We don't want no horses,' said Sagebrush Charlie, 'just you and me go up on the butte and take a look from there.'

"I didn't like the proposition, for I surmised that the war party were concealed in the brush on Beaver Castor, probably near the butte. But on the other hand I didn't care to be bluffed, so I went with him.

"As we neared the top of the butte we proceeded very cautiously, moving only a step at a time. Only a few yards more and we would have reached the summit, when we saw that an Indian on the opposite side of the butte was looking at us. We could see nothing of him but his head, and of course he could see only our heads. Thus we stood facing each other for what to me seemed a long time. 'Shall we shoot?' asked Sagebrush. 'No,' I replied. 'If we advance to shoot he will have the best of it, and if he advances we will have the edge on him.' So we continued to stare at him. After a while I saw that the Indian was beginning to back down out of sight, so I did the same. I made only a step and he had disappeared, but I kept backing away, watching the top of the butte, with rifle cocked ready to shoot in an instant. When half way down I turned to run and saw Sagebrush just disappearing around the corner of the fort. Until then I had supposed that he was at my side. So calling him some names I fairly flew down the hill, expecting every minute to have a shower of bullets about my ears. But I too reached the fort without any sign from the enemy.

"When I got inside I found the boys joking Sagebrush about leaving me, and seeing that he was ashamed of himself I said nothing to him, although I was quite angry.

"As soon as it was dark we put on a double guard, and kept ourselves in readiness for an attack. Late in the evening we concluded that the Indians would make a daylight raid on us, so we arranged about guard duty and slept by turns. However, we heard nothing of our dusky friends, and at six o'clock the cook called breakfast as usual. The horses had now been in the corral nearly twenty-four hours and were very hungry, so four of us saddled up and went out to make a big circle and find out if our friends had left us. We went down Flat Willow a mile or more, then swung up onto the prairie, crossed Beaver Castor and headed home, but could see no Indian signs. Finally we went up on top of the butte, where Sagebrush and I had seen the Indian the night before. There in the loose shale we found his tracks, and saw that after backing down a little ways he had, like us, turned and run by mighty leaps to the bottom. There we found a great number of tracks and a lot of moccasins, some meat, etc., and following the trail we found that the Indians had crossed Beaver Castor and gone up on the prairie, where in the thick dry grass we lost all traces of them, and concluding that they had left we went home and turned the horses out to feed, with a herder and one other man to herd them.

"After dinner, perhaps two or three o'clock, we saw a person on foot come down to the creek from the prairie, about half a mile below the house. I went down to see who it was, and found to my surprise that it was a lone Indian woman, and as soon as I came up to her she began to talk to me in a language which I at once knew to be Nez Perces, but which I could not understand. I replied to her in Sioux, and found that she understood and could speak a little of that tongue, and by piecing it out with signs we got along very well. I told her to go up to the fort with me and get something to eat, and afterward she could tell us her story. When we reached the place the boys all crowded around and stared at her, and asked all sorts of questions, but I told them to wait, and we would hear what she had to say.

"The woman didn't seem to be at all embarrassed. She sat at the table and calmly and slowly ate the food the cook set before her, not heeding the ten or eleven pairs of eyes that were intently watching her. After she had finished eating I asked her to tell us where she had come from, where she was going and all about herself, and I interpreted her tale, sentence by sentence, to the boys. She said: 'I came from Sitting Bull's camp on Milk River, where some of my people, Nez Perces, are living with the Sioux. Two years ago, my son went with some Sioux and Nez Perces to war against the Crows. They had a big fight on the Yellowstone, and it was supposed that my son was killed. But not long ago I heard that the Crows had captured my boy, and that he is still living and in the Crow camp. Having no relatives and no husband, I made up my mind to go and live with my son, and started out; this is the twenty-third day since I left Milk River. I have been starved most of the time and am very tired.'

"'Hush!' said one of the boys, 'That's too durned thin. I move that we hang her right now.'

"At this, every one began to talk at once. Some said she was a spy, others that she was all right.

"Finally I said to her, 'The boys, some of them, think you are not telling the truth. Yesterday a big war party was here, and they think you belong to that outfit.'

"'How they lie,' she interposed. 'I haven't seen an Indian since I left Milk River.'

"'That may be,' I replied, 'you cannot blame the boys for being a little suspicious. However, they will not harm you. You are as safe here as you would be among your own people. Just as soon as this snow goes, one of our men will start for the Yellowstone with a four-horse team after some provisions, and you can go with him. From there it is only a short distance to the Crow camp. In the meantime you can stay with us here and rest up. Throw off your robe and make yourself at home.'

"'I like what you say,' she replied, 'but I am afraid of all these men. Let me stay close by you.'

"Wherever I went that afternoon she followed me, and when it came time to turn in I made her a bed of buffalo robes behind the counter. Some of the boys spread down in the room and others in the cook house.

"'I don't like this,' the woman said to me. 'I am afraid to sleep there; let me make my bed down beside yours.'

"'Don't fear,' I replied, 'no harm will come to you. No one in this place cares for you or wishes to harm you.'

"'Well, then,' she said, 'if that is so I will step out a minute and then go to bed.'

"Now the door to this room was fastened from the inside, when we wished it, by two wooden bars; outside we closed it merely by a rawhide thong and pin. Some of us were always at home, and when we all left this room we fastened the door with the thong to keep the dogs and the cold air out. As the woman started to go out I went up to the counter and took my six-shooter, intending to follow her out, but quicker than a flash she darted through the door, and closed and fastened it with the thong and pin. Of course all the boys in the room made a rush, and two of us getting our fingers between the door and the jamb gave a strong jerk, snapped the fastening and we all ran out. The woman had disappeared in the darkness, but we could still hear her footsteps as she ran toward the brush. Suddenly she gave a peculiar kind of a whistle and from all around in the brush she was answered by the hooting of owls. We all rushed back into the fort, put out the lights and made ready for an attack.

"After an hour or so the boys began to talk. 'I knowed,' said one, 'that she was a spy.'

"'Didn't I say to hang her,' exclaimed another. 'You fellers that thought she was all right are sure soft.'

"We all sat up until long after daylight, and not until eight or nine o'clock did any one turn in. But we were not attacked, nor did we see the woman again.

"Several weeks afterward, when Hamilton went to the Yellowstone after supplies, he learned that this woman had stopped at the 'Circle N' ranch and that they had lost one hundred and forty horses."




Chapter V

Buffalo Hunting With The Blackfeet


Early next morning the camp was in motion, and they travelled south all day, making a long march. Hugh left the pack horses in charge of Fox Eye's people, who drove them along with their own, while he and Jack and Joe joined the flankers, who marched off to one side, and who killed a few antelope, a few bulls, and hunted out the stream bottoms that they passed. Each day these hunters killed just about fresh meat enough to support the camp, which as yet had plenty of dried meat, so that there was no suffering. That night Hugh told Jack that the next day they would strike the Musselshell, and very likely buffalo, but if not, they would cross the river and move on down toward the Yellowstone, where, on the Dry Fork, or Porcupine, they would be sure to get what they wanted.

"We can't stop very long with these people, son," he said; "not if we're going into the mountains, and going to work our way down through them back to the ranch. Of course we've got lots of time, but then we don't want to stay up here too long, and be rushed at the last, so that we'll have to hurry along and make our horses poor, and keep ourselves tired all the time. We can stop here for a while and kill buffalo, and then we'll leave the people, and strike west into the mountains."

The next night they camped on the Musselshell, and word was brought that about twenty or twenty-five miles to the south buffalo were plenty. Orders were given that from now on no one should kill buffalo, and camp was moved a day's march still further south, to the neighborhood of the herd. The next day a bunch of buffalo was located in a place suitable for a surround. That night the old crier, as usual, rode around through the camp, telling all the people to get in their horses, to tie up their running horses close, ordering the women to sharpen their knives, and the men to whet their arrow-points, because the next day they were going to chase buffalo. The following morning, very early, Jack heard him shouting through the camp, calling to the people to "Get up! get up!" It was still black night; the stars shone brilliantly in the sky, the light of the fire showed through the lodge-skins, and sparks were rising with the smoke, when Jack went out to saddle up Pawnee. Hugh had had offers of buffalo runners from several of his friends. Last Bull had asked him to ride the spotted horse that he had several times used the year before, while Jackson had pressed upon him a beautiful buckskin that he declared was the best buffalo horse in the camp. The excitement which always precedes a buffalo chase pervaded the camp, and every one seemed to be hurrying in the performance of whatever task was at hand. It was still long before daylight when Jack and Hugh, following the men who were starting out, found at a little distance from the camp the group of hunters who were being held there by the soldiers.

The sky was just becoming gray in the east when the soldiers started off, and the hunters followed; and just after the sun had risen, the halt was made behind a hill which hid the herd from them. After a little pause, and a few low-voiced directions, horses were changed, the line spread out, and at first going slowly, rode up to the crest of the hill, pushed over it, and hurried down toward the unfrightened buffalo. These were slow to see their enemies, and the horsemen were close to them before the herd got started. Jack held back Pawnee until the word came for the charge, and even after that he still restrained him, not wishing him to run too hard at first, for the horse was fat, and might lose his wind if pushed at the start.

He gave no thought to the whereabouts of his friends; Joe and Hugh would no doubt take care of themselves. Just before he overtook the last of the bulls, however, he was aware of a man riding close to him, and turning saw Billy Jackson, riding the little buckskin, without a saddle, and carrying in his hands a bow and some arrows, while he had a quiver on his back.

Jack laughed at him, and signed to him that he was armed with good weapons, and Jackson nodded. A moment later they were mixed up with the dust of the flying herd, and surrounded by buffalo, and Jack bent his energies to killing a couple of cows. The bulls were soon passed, and Pawnee, running free and easily, forged up to the cows. Two fat ones were running just ahead of him, lumbering heavily, and with their tongues out, yet getting over the ground with surprising speed. He drew up alongside of one, and shot it, and it turned a somersault; then touching Pawnee with his heel, he was soon riding close to another, which also he killed by a single shot. Then turning, he rode back to the last cow, and looked at her. She was quite dead.

The task of butchering seemed rather a heavy one, but he went to the cow first shot, and, with some trouble split her down the belly, and then re-mounting, went back to the other cow, which he treated in the same way. Then he sat down on the ground in the shade of his horse, and waited.

An hour later the women and girls and children were seen coming over the hills with their travois, and scattering out to look at the dead buffalo, over many of which men who had returned were now working. When Fox Eye's family came along, Jack spoke to the wife, and made her understand that these two were his buffalo, and with two of the other women she set about skinning and cutting them up.

That night in the lodge, as they were getting ready for bed, Hugh said to Jack, "Son, have you ever been through this country before? Do you see anything that you recognize?"

"Why yes, Hugh, of course, we came through it last year when we were coming north, but I haven't seen anything to-day that I knew."

"Well," said Hugh, "I'm not very much surprised at that, but right along here somewhere is where we passed last year, the second or third day after we crossed the Yellowstone River, coming north. Now, I ain't never forgot that sheep's head that we left up in the tree down there. As I told you then, it's a better head than most, and likely a better one than you'll ever kill again, and I was thinking that it wouldn't be a bad idea for you and me to ride down there and get it. We can go in a day, and come back in another, and we can easily enough carry the head with us, and take it back to the ranch. What do you say?"

"Why, sure Hugh;" said Jack, "I'd like to do that mighty well. I've always felt sorry that we lost that sheep head, and felt that I wanted it to take back east. I never thought of our getting it this year; in fact I never expected to see it again. I'd like very much to get it, if you feel like it."

"Well, say we do it. We can start to-morrow or next day; the Indians'll be here now two or three days at least, killing and drying meat, and we can easily enough go there, and come back and catch them before they leave these parts. You and I can go alone, or we can take Joe; or if you like, we can ask anybody else that we want to go down there with us. It'll be a nice little trip."

So it was arranged that within a day or two they should start for the Yellowstone River, to get the sheep's head.

It was the second day after that they finally got away. Joe wanted to go with them, and when they told Jackson what they intended doing, he said that he too would like to go. This made a party of four capable men, to whom no danger could come. They took a couple of pack horses, to carry their bedding and provisions, but no shelter, for the weather was bright and dry, and there seemed no prospect of rain. On their way to the Yellowstone they rode constantly through buffalo and antelope, tame and unsuspicious, and just moving aside from the track of the travellers as they passed along. That night they camped on the little stream just where Jack had killed the sheep, and reaching camp before sundown, Hugh and Jack rode up the stream to the tree where the sheep's head had been placed, took it down and brought it to camp. The ashes of the fire of the year before, and the bones of the sheep from which they had cut the meat called up old memories. Even the places where the lines had been tied for drying the meat were remembered.

Jack was glad enough to get this head again. As Hugh had said, it was a very fine one. The great horns swung around in more than a complete curve, and although near the base they were more or less bruised and battered by the battles the old ram had fought, the tips of the horns were very nearly perfect. The skin of the head and neck had been picked by the birds and bleached by the weather, and Hugh said; "I'm not sure that it will do to use in covering the skull, son; but even if it is too hard and sunburned to make anything out of, I'd take it along. If we get another good ram on the trip you can take his scalp; but if we don't, maybe the man that puts up your head can make something out of this."

The next morning before starting back, they rode down to the Yellowstone River, and looked up and down the valley. There were some buffalo here too, and a few elk; but there was nothing to keep them, and they turned about and returned to the Piegan camp, which they reached that night.

For some days longer the camp remained here, killing buffalo and drying the meat. Then they moved east, one day's journey, to another little stream, and again hunted from here. By this time many buffalo had been killed, and many robes made. The parfleches were full of dried meat and back fat; and now presently the chiefs began to consult as to whether they should not go north again to the neighborhood of the mountains, for the women wished to gather roots and berries for the winter.

One evening when Jack came in from the hunt he saw a great crowd of people, men, women and children, gathered just outside of the circle. They seemed to be having a good time, for shouts of laughter and shrill screams from the women told that something was happening which amused them all.

Riding up to the edge of the crowd, Jack saw in the midst of it a little buffalo calf, standing there with its head down and tail in the air, facing with very determined attitude two or three small boys who were trying to approach and get hold of it. Every now and then one of the little fellows would get up his courage and venture close to the calf's head, when the calf would charge him and the boy would jump out of the way; but just as Jack came to a place where he could see, one of the boys went slowly forward toward the calf, and just as the calf began to charge, one of the boy's companions gave him a push forward, so that instead of dodging the calf he met its charge, and was knocked sprawling on the ground. Then everybody screamed with laughter, and the boy scrambled out of the way as fast as he could.

At one side of the ring of people, Jackson was standing, evidently much amused at what was going on. Jack called out to him, "What are they doing, Billy?"

"Why, I roped this calf to-day and brought him in to try to take him back to the river, where there are some cows, and raise him, but some of these small boys got bothering and teasing him, and I told them if they didn't let him alone I'd turn him loose, and let him take care of himself, and now it seems to me he's doing it pretty well; he's knocked a half dozen of 'em out of time already, and once in a while, if he gets real mad, he charges into the crowd, and I tell you they scatter."

The fun went on for a little while longer, and then Jackson, after speaking to the people, put a rope about the calf's neck, and with the assistance of two young men, dragged it away to his lodge, where it was picketed to a stake firmly driven into the ground.

That night, Joe said to Jack, "Say, Jack, do you want to see some fun to-morrow?"

"Of course I do," said Jack. "I always want to be around when there's any fun going on."

"Well," said Joe, "there's going to be some fun to-morrow; at least I think there is. Some of the young men have been making fun of Eagle Ribs; they say that there's something he dare not do; to jump from his horse to the back of a bull, and ride it. When they said that, Eagle Ribs said, 'Why do you talk about doing that? You should talk about something that is really dangerous. I should not be afraid to jump on a bull's back and ride him; but it's too easy; I do not care to do little things like that. It would be a trouble to me, and could not do any one any good.' The others kept teasing him, and making fun of him, and at last, after they had bothered him a good deal, Eagle Ribs said, 'It will be a little trouble to do this, but if you want to see me I will do it. I will ride a bull; the fastest and strongest that I can choose. Watch me to-morrow, and see whether I do it or not.' So to-morrow we're all going together, to see whether Eagle Ribs will ride the bull."

"But isn't there danger that the bull will throw him off, and catch him and kill him?"

"No," said Joe, "I guess he can stick to it; or, if he can't do that, why he'll have to be quick on his feet if the bull does throw him; they can't turn very quickly, you know, and Eagle Ribs, if he's smart, can get around and keep out of the way of his horns. Besides that, there'll be a lot of us there, and we can tease the bull, and get him to chase us, if Eagle Ribs should be in any danger."

"Well," said Jack, "it's going to be a regular circus, I guess, and I'll have to be there."

"Yes," said Joe, "you want to be there if you can; and a lot of us young fellows are going to keep pretty close together, and I think we'll have a real good time, even if we don't kill any buffalo. The camp has got about all the meat now it wants, anyhow."

The next morning before the chase began, Jack and Joe found themselves among a lot of boys about their own age, many of whom were making fun of and teasing Eagle Ribs. When the chase started the boys did not ride as usual to try to catch cows, but instead of that singled out some old bulls that made up the rear of the herd, and turned them off on to the prairie.

Then they all began to whoop and yell, and call out Eagle Ribs' name, and say to him, "Now is the time to show us what you can do. Here is your horse; now ride him." Eagle Ribs was riding a good horse, and at once accepted the challenge. He pressed the animal close up to a bull, and when he was so near that his horse's side almost touched the buffalo's side, he reached far forward, grasped the long hair on the buffalo's hump, and threw himself from his horse onto the bull's back. The bull was frightened, and for a few minutes it ran faster than all the horses; and then forgetting that it was being chased, and only anxious to get rid of the terrible burden that it was carrying, it stopped, and began to plunge and buck, and skip around, and acted as if it were a calf instead of a huge old bull. Eagle Ribs clung to it with both hands, and with his legs, but the bull jumped so high, and came down so hard, that two or three times he was shaken from his seat. The boys all about him were shouting with laughter, some of them calling out encouraging words to the bull, and some to the rider.

The bull seemed very strong, and for a long time did not get tired, and two or three times Jack feared that the boy would be thrown from his back. Presently, however, the bull stopped, and stood with his head down, glaring at the horsemen about him, as if he wanted to fight. Now the boys began to ask Eagle Ribs why he had stopped; why he did not ride further; and one of them threw his quirt to him, telling him that he should use this to make his horse go better. Others ran their horses close by, in front of the bull, trying to make him charge. Toward one of these horses he rushed furiously, and as he did so, Eagle Ribs slipped from his back and ran away in the opposite direction, and got behind a horse ridden by one of the boys. Jack rode up to him, and signed to him to get on behind him, and then they went back to where Eagle Ribs' horse was feeding, and he mounted him. Meantime, the bull had run on, and some of the boys had killed him.

The next evening the old crier rode about the camp, shouting out the orders of the chiefs; telling the people that the next day, early, the camp would move back to the great river.

On the evening of that day Jack was awakened by a shot in the camp, and then another, and then a rush of people, followed by a swift pounding of horses' hoofs on the prairie. He scrambled from his bed, put on his moccasins, and seizing his gun and cartridge belt, rushed out-of-doors. Joe was standing in front of the lodge, having just come out, and Jack asked him what was the matter. "I don't know sure," said Joe, "only horses have been stolen."

"Well," said Jack, "why don't they go after the thieves?"

"Oh," said Joe, "that would not do; that is too dangerous. Suppose we were to run out onto the prairie, chasing the thieves, they could stop behind any sage brush, or the edge of any hill, and shoot us as we came up to them, before we could see them. We'll have to wait until to-morrow, until it gets light, and then take good horses and try to catch them."

The whole camp was now thoroughly awake, and the fires were made up in every lodge, while people went about visiting each other, and trying to find out what the extent of the loss had been. It appeared that only three good horses had been taken; but more would have been stolen if it had not happened that a man coming back late from a gambling game, and seeing somebody cutting the rope of a horse in front of his lodge, had shot at him with a pistol that he carried. The enemy threw himself on the horse and rode swiftly away, and at the sound of the shot a half dozen men rushed from their lodges and fired at the retreating sound.

It was several hours before the camp quieted down again, and before daylight next morning forty or fifty men on good horses were prepared to follow the trail, and try to overtake the thieves. Both Jack and Joe wished to accompany the pursuing party, but Hugh advised them not to. He said, "If we had come up here to spend the summer with these people, maybe there'd be no harm in your going off, but now in the course of a few days we're going to leave them and go into the mountains, and if you run your horses down, or if either of you should get hurt, why it might spoil our whole trip back to the ranch. These Indians ain't likely to overtake those fellows, and 'twill just be a long hard ride for nothing. We'd better stop at the camp for two or three days more, and then strike out for the mountains, just as we intended to, and go on down there and see that place they used to call Colter's Hell, and then go on down through it, and back to the ranch." The boys, rather unwillingly, agreed to do this.

Three days later the Piegan village was once more camped not far from the Judith Mountains, and all the pursuing warriors had returned, not having overtaken their enemies. Dire were the threats that they made against the Crows who had stolen the horses, and a number of war parties were made up to go south and make reprisals on that tribe.




Chapter VI

Amid Wonders Of The Yellowstone Park


It was toward the middle of August that Hugh and Jack and Joe, with their little pack train, started southwest, to strike the Carroll Road, to go to the place once known as Colter's Hell, and now as the Yellowstone Park. Their animals carried only their provisions, messkit and bedding, and a skin lodge which Hugh had purchased from Fox Eye's wife. Their way led them through the beautiful Gallatin Valley, crossing the surveyed line of the Northern Pacific railroad, then being built westward, and then over the mountains to the valley of the Yellowstone, which they followed up to the canon. Before they reached the Gallatin Valley they had seen plenty of buffalo, and had killed one for fresh meat, while in the Valley there were many antelope. In the Bridger Mountains, by which they passed, elk and deer were abundant; and one morning in the trail which they followed were seen the tracks of an enormous bear and two small cubs.

In the mountain streams which they crossed, trout were abundant, and they greatly enjoyed the delicious fish which were so easily caught.

A wagon road had been built through the canon into the Yellowstone Park, and here a number of white people were travelling back and forth, and wagons were hauling material for hotels and other buildings that were to be put up near the Mammoth Hot Springs. They reached these one night, and spent the next day wandering about them, marveling at the floods of hot water which poured over the many tiny falls, and deposited the lime which had built up the terraces of what the people there called "the formations." From an old German, Jack purchased three or four articles: a horse shoe, a nail, and the twig of a tree which had been suspended in the water until coated with a beautiful white covering of lime.

The next day they climbed the hill to the right and came into a level park-like country, which they followed south. It was a picturesque region, with grand mountains showing on every hand, yet nearby, a green level meadow, spangled with wild flowers, and a little further back dotted with clumps of pines and spruces, which were very beautiful.

At every step there was something new to be seen: new birds, new animals, and new scenery. The trail led up a fork of the Gardiner River, and then, crossing over, struck one of the heads of the Gibbon River, down which they passed, and then suddenly found themselves in a country of hot springs, which steamed, and sometimes threw up boiling water to a considerable height. This was the recently discovered Norris Geyser Basin, and here they camped, and spent the day walking about among the hot springs, which at first were very awe-inspiring. In many of them there were old tree trunks and branches of trees, which, when taken out and examined, seemed to be partly turned to stone. Fine particles of a flinty material seemed to have penetrated all the pores of the wood, and while the branches were not hard, the woody matter in them seemed gradually to be changing to stone. As they sat eating their supper that night, Hugh said to Jack, "Well, son, I don't wonder that the mountain men in old times used to call this Colter's Hell. It is surely a place where the flames down below seem to be mighty close to the surface of the earth."

"It makes me afraid," said Joe.

"Well," said Jack, "it does me too a little. This morning I was afraid pretty nearly every minute that I'd fall through the ground and get into hot water below."

The next morning they moved camp, and rode over toward the river intending to look at the Grand canon, and the wonderful falls of which they had heard.

Although the Yellowstone Park had been known for more than ten years, few people had as yet visited it. Nevertheless, they saw a number of visitors, some travelling with teams, and some with pack trains, and altogether the Park seemed quite a bustling place. That night they camped on the head of Alum Creek, and the next day, leaving their pack horses picketed and hobbled at the camp, rode over to see the falls. They rode first down toward the river, passing the Sulphur Mountain, a great barren hill, full of hot springs and sulphur vents, about which much sulphur had been deposited. Many fragments of the bright yellow mineral were strewn on the ground, and at one place Hugh noticed where two or three grass blades had fallen across one of the vents' and calling the boys' attention to this, they all dismounted to look at it. About these blades of grass, and on their slender heads, most delicate and beautiful crystals of sulphur had collected. These were so fragile that a little motion made them loose their hold, and drop from the grass, or else break, so that it was impossible to carry them away. Near here, at the foot of the hill, was a large spring, six or eight feet in diameter, and boiling violently. The water was sometimes thrown up eight or ten feet high, not in jets, but seemingly by impulses from the center of the pool, so that the spray was sent outward in all directions.

They then followed down the river for two or three miles. It was a broad stream, swiftly-rushing yet smooth, and nowhere interrupted by rocks or rapids until the upper falls were almost reached. Here were short rough rapids and then the tremendous falls. The great mass of dark water glided rather than plunged into the depths below, and just below the crest of the cataract was broken into white foam, which, further down changed to spray. The falls are 162 feet high, and clouds of white vapor constantly rose from the water below, and hid the view. Looking down the stream, they had a glimpse of the wonderful canon below.

The roar of the falls was so tremendous that conversation was impossible, and nothing was said; but presently they left the upper falls and rode on north to the lower one. Here was repeated the marvelous impression which they got from this tremendous body of water falling 150 feet sheer to the great basin below, and from under the mist cloud that hid the foot of the fall came out the narrow green ribbon of the river, winding and twisting, hardly to be recognized as a river, dwarfed by distance, and creeping with a slow oily current. On either side the stream rose the walls of the canon, five or six hundred feet to the pine-fringed margin above.

Looking down the stream, Jack saw a canon a thousand feet deep, and perhaps twice as wide, extending for miles to the northward. Its sides were curiously sculptured and carved into fantastic forms. In one place a vertical cliff supported lofty cones of rock, ranged side by side upon the same horizontal ledge along its face. Again, a narrow buttress arose from the river's level in a series of pinnacles and turrets overtopping one another, until the summit of the canon wall was reached. At one place that wall was so nearly perpendicular that it seemed as though a stone dropped from the edge of the cliff would fall at once into the water of the river. In another, the decomposing rock had been eaten away above until a talus of fallen rock and earth arose in a steep slope half way to the top. But to Jack's mind the glory of the canon was in its color. The walls glowed with a vivid intense radiance which is not less wonderful than beautiful. Browns and reds and pinks and yellows, and delicate grays and pure whites had painted these hard rocks with a wealth of coloring hardly to be described in words. In the sun the canon walls shone with brilliancy. When the clouds passed over the sky they grew duller and softer, but were hardly less beautiful. Down close to the river were the most vivid greens, and in the mist which rose from the foot of the fall were seen, when the sun was shining, all the hues of the rainbow.

The travellers sat long watching this wonderful sight, and then pushing along the margin of the canon, below the falls, walked out on a projecting point of rock, and looked up and down the river. The more they gazed, the more wonderful it seemed, the harder to take it all in, and the harder to put into words.

On a pinnacle of rock, rising from the end of the point on which they had walked, was a great nest, in which the boys noticed two large and downy young birds. Flying up and down over the river, sometimes low over the water, again far above the heads of those who stood on the edge of the canon, were great hawks -- eagles, Hugh afterward said they were, but Jack recognized them as fish-hawks -- and while they were standing there, one of these great birds brought a fish to the nest, and tearing it to pieces with its beak, gave the fragments to its greedy young. Jack noticed, also, little sparrow-hawks flying about the edge of the canon, and, far below at the edge of the river, saw little birds flying from point to point, which he thought must be dippers.

The whole day was spent here, for no one seemed to wish to return to the camp; but at last, as the sun swung low, and the pangs of hunger began to be felt, they returned to their horses, and mounting them, were soon at camp once more.

The next morning they set out up the river to go to the lake. On the way they passed two well known places. The Mud Volcano, a huge hot spring of gray clay, which steamed, and bubbled, and thumped, and sometimes spouted, throwing up its mud to a great height. Jack in his mind compared the boiling mud to mush boiling in a kettle, but as this pool of mud was fifty feet in diameter, the comparison was not a good one. All about, the trees were splashed with mud, which had dried on them, showing that at some time, not long before, there had been an eruption. Nearby, on the hillside, was a steam spring in a little cavern, which they had heard of as the Devil's Workshop. From this cavern came constantly great volumes of steam, while within it were heard hollow bubbling noises, which sounded like the clang and clash of great pieces of machinery turning. It was a mysterious place, and neither one of the three cared to go very close to it. There were boiling springs and sulphur vents hereabout in great plenty, and the place seemed an uncanny one.

The way to the lake was attractive: it led through forests, sometimes of living green, and at others killed by fire. Occasionally they passed through pretty grassy meadows, and from them had charming views of the river, which grew wider as they approached the lake, and seemed to spread out over wide flats. To the right the mountains rose sharply, forming the "Elephant's Back," a thousand feet in height.

Presently they came to a broad opening, and saw before them the lake. At the outlet the grass grew thick and rank, and in the marshes, pond-holes and sloughs here, they saw many flocks of wild ducks and geese; and sand-pipers and beach birds fed along the shore. Some swans were seen, and a few great white pelicans.

Their fresh meat was now exhausted, and for a day or two they had been living on trout, of which great numbers were caught in the streams that they had crossed, for fish are abundant everywhere in the mountains. When they made camp that night, Jack got out his line, and cutting a pole, went down to the shore to catch some fish, while Hugh and Joe made the fire.

Jack had hardly thrown his hook in the water when it was seized, and he dragged a large fish to shore. As he was taking it off the hook however, he noticed a bunch on its side, and after examining it for a moment, cut into this bunch with his knife, and drew from it a long white worm. He got a dozen trout, but all of them seemed to be afflicted with this parasite, and finally putting up his line he carried them to the fire, and showed them to Hugh. Both Hugh and Jack agreed that these fish were not fit to eat, and that night they supped on dried meat and back-fat.

As they had made camp that night they had noticed, just beyond them, two white tents, and had seen some horses feeding near the lake shore. Shortly after their supper, a man walked into the camp, and after saluting them, sat down by the fire. A little talk showed that he was a member of the geological survey that worked in the Park, and he had been attracted to their camp by the fact that they had an Indian lodge. He was a pleasant man, and seemed quite willing to talk, and to answer all their questions, and very much interested in his work. After he and Hugh had talked together for a while, Jack ventured to ask some questions about the Park, and especially about the place where they now were. "Won't you tell me, sir," he said, "what you can about this big lake that we are on. It looks to me awful big to be up here high in the mountains. Of course I know it isn't anything like the Great Lakes; still it's the largest lake I ever saw."

"It is a large lake," said their visitor, "for it contains about 150 square miles of water, and there is probably no lake in North America of equal size at so great an elevation. You see, we are about 7700 feet above the level of the sea. Roughly speaking, the shape of the lake is like that of an open hand which lacks the first and middle finger; the wrist is the northern end of the lake, the west arm answers to the outstretched thumb, and the south and southeast arms to the ring and little finger. If you are going to travel around it, you will feel that it is a lovely sheet of water. It is very picturesque, and in fair weather it lies here like a great sapphire beneath the unclouded sky. But when the storms come up, and the wind rolls down along the mountain sides, the lake can get up a great sea, and one would not care to be out on it. But in fair weather it is very beautiful -- to me the loveliest spot in all the park. And what is more, I never get tired of it; the more I see it, and the more familiar I become with its scenery, the lovelier it is. From every promontory and every bay, and from every hillside above it, one has always a different view, and each view has a charm that is all its own."

The geologist sat there long with them that night, talking to them in a most interesting way about the Park and the geysers and the canons. He told them that all this country was volcanic in origin, and that for some reason or other, which he did not know, the heat still remained close to the surface of the earth; and that this was the reason that there were so many hot springs and geysers here.

"It's one of the most interesting regions in the world," he said, "and one of the most beautiful. As yet, people do not appreciate it. Many people do not even know that it exists; but the time will come when thousands will gather here each summer, from all quarters of the world, to see its beauties. Geologically, it is most interesting, and already geologists from all over the world are coming to see it, or are making plans to come. I predict that the time is coming when the Yellowstone Park will be acknowledged to be the most wonderful place in the world."

As the visitor rose to go, he looked about the lodge and said, "So this is an Indian lodge, is it? I've often read about them, but this is the first one I've ever seen. They seem warm and comfortable, but are they not rather smoky?"

"No," said Hugh, "they're not smoky; but you must remember they're not made to stand up in; people in the lodge are expected to sit down, or to lie down. If there's a fire burning, and no wind blowing, or if the air is damp and heavy, smoke often gathers in the top of the lodge, and a man standing in it finds about his head more than he likes. Stoop down a little bit and you will see that the smoke no longer troubles you." The geologist did as Hugh advised, and seemed to be greatly interested by the discovery that it was as he had said; and then bidding them good night, he left the lodge.




Chapter VII

Geysers And Hot Springs


They were afoot before the sun had arisen next morning, and the outlook over the lake was beautiful. Away to the east and south were many mountain peaks, the names of which they did not know; but all grand and majestic, and far away to the south was one larger than any of the others, and covered with snow. As Jack looked at them, he saw these snowy crowns take on a glow of pink, and then grow brighter and brighter, and then could see the sunlight creep down the sides of the mountains, and finally it was broad day. The islands in the lake interested him, and he thought them beautiful.

As they passed the geologist's camp, they saw him standing with his back to the fire, and he called out good morning to them; then, signing to Hugh to draw near, he said, "Excuse me for asking you, but I suppose you have been to the Upper and Lower Geyser Basins?"

"Well," said Hugh, "we've been to one geyser basin; that one on the way to the falls, but that's the only one we've seen."

"Well," said the geologist, "of course you know your own affairs best, but it seems to me you will make a great mistake if you do not get to the Upper and Lower Geyser Basins, because it's there that the most wonderful geysers are to be seen."

"Well," said Hugh, "we're travelling through here to see the sights, and I'd be mightily obliged to you if you'd tell me what we'd better do. We are strange to the country, and don't know anything about it."

"I shall be very glad to help you in any way that I can," said the geologist, "and you certainly should not miss the geyser basins. You can follow the trail along the lake here for about twenty miles, and then turn to your right, at the end of the Thumb, and strike northwest across through the timber, to the streams running into the Firehole River, and follow them down, and that will take you to the Lower Geyser Basin; then from there you must travel up the Firehole to the Upper Geyser Basin. Then, if you want to, you can cross over to Shoshone and Lewis Lakes, and go on south, following Snake River, to Jackson's Lake. From there you can go wherever you please, but if you choose to follow up Pacific Creek, and pass through Two Ocean Pass, that will bring you back on the upper Yellowstone, and then you can come down to the lake again."

"Well," said Hugh, "we want to go south, and to get down on the streams that run into the Platte. I reckon we might as well go down to Jackson's Lake the way you say, and then strike across the country, over into the Wind River drainage, and then over onto the Platte."

"Yes, I guess that is one very good way to go if you know the way across the range," said their friend.

"Well," said Hugh, as he started on, "we'll try to find a way, and anyhow we're mightily obliged to you for telling us about those two geyser basins, and we'll sure see them before we go south;" and saying goodbye to their acquaintance, they rode on.

A few miles further along the trail, they came to a natural bridge, spanning a brook which now carried little water, but showed that in the spring it was much larger. The stream had burrowed its way beneath a dike of lava, at right angles to its course, and was bridged by a nearly perfect arch of rock, about six feet thick above the keystone. From the top of the bridge on its lower side to the bed of the stream is about sixty feet, and the bridge is twenty-five feet long, and the arch fifteen feet in width. The lava stands in upright layers, from one to four feet in thickness, and seems to have separated into these thin plates in cooling.

Beyond the bridge, the dim trail which they followed led for the most part through the pleasant green timber, but at midday they passed over several hog-backs, from which the timber had long ago been burned off, most of the tree trunks had rotted away, and only a few charred fragments of the roots remained on the ground. No young growth had sprung up to replace the old, and the ground was bare: not merely bare of timber, but bare even of underbrush, weeds and grass. Exposed for years to the full force of the weather, the rains and melting snows had swept away all the rotted pine needles, twigs and fallen branches which had formed the old forest floor and soil, leaving only the fine lava sand and gravel, without any soil to support vegetation. Dry, thirsty and desolate, these hog-backs resembled the desert, a barren waste in the midst of the green pine forest.

Hugh turned to Jack and said, "You see, son, what the forest fires may do in these mountains. When the timber burns off, unless there are seeds in the soil to spring up at once, the snow, melting quickly, washes away the soil, and leaves the rock, whether it is solid or broken up fine like this here, uncovered and without the power to support anything. Every year the snow melting quickly washes off a larger tract, and so these little deserts increase in size. The time is coming, I am afraid, when these mountains will all be burned over, and then what the ranchmen down on the prairie are going to do for water for their hay meadows and their crops I don't know."

"But, Hugh," said Jack, "aren't there laws forbidding people to set the timber on fire?"

"Yes," said Hugh, "there's plenty of laws, but the trouble is nobody pays any attention to them."

Toward evening they camped on the shores of the lake, at what Hugh supposed was the Thumb, and he told the boys that the next day he was going to start off northwest through the timber, and try to strike the streams leading down to the Firehole.

Making an early start, they rode up the hill, following a deep ravine through the cool green timber, over ground covered with feathery moss, where the hoofs of the animals made no sound as they struck the ground. Soon the lake was lost to view, and then, on all sides of them rose the tall straight boles of the pine trees. There seemed not very much life. A few small birds were seen in the tops of the trees. Some gray jays gathered near them when they stopped at midday to eat, and uttered soft mellow whistles, and two came down very close to Jack and Joe, and picked up little bits of dried meat that they threw to them.

Soon after they started on, they came to a stream, and following that down, about three or four o'clock rode into the Lower Geyser Basin.

Here was a large wet meadow, with green grass, and plenty of good camping spots; and before long they had the lodge up, and closing the door, started out to make a tour of the basin. The many geysers, large and small, and the wonderful hot springs of surpassing clearness and deep blue color astonished and delighted Hugh and the boys. Many of the springs were very hot, seeming to boil from beneath, bubbles of steam following one another to the surface, and then exploding. One of these large springs, about twenty-five feet long and more than half as wide, gave a vigorous display, beginning first to boil at the middle, and then to spout; at length throwing the water about in all directions, from twenty to forty feet in height. The margins of all these geysers and hot springs were beautifully ornamented with yellow gray and pinkish deposits of stone, which took the form of beads and corals and sponges, and all the tree trunks and branches seen in and near them were partly turned to stone. Close to the geysers were what are called the paint-pots. These are boiling pools of finely divided clay of various colors. The air seemed to be forced up slowly through the thick fluid, making little puffs, much like those that one would see in a kettle of boiling indian meal. Some of these paint-pots were very large, others small, and they were of a variety of colors -- some red, some white, some yellow, and some softly gray. The clay was exceedingly smooth to the touch.

The Geyser Basin was long, and contained a great many wonderful springs and geysers, of which some, like the Grotto, had built up great craters for themselves, twelve or sixteen feet high.

The Grotto was at the end of the Lower Geyser Basin, and from here they turned back to go to their camp. Much talk was had during the evening of the wonderful things that they had seen, and of what they expected to see in the morning.

An early start brought them to the Upper Geyser Basin not long after the sun had risen. Not far from the Grotto which they had seen last night was the Giant, with an enormous crater, from which great volumes of steam were escaping, and where the water could be heard boiling below the surface, and occasionally rising in great jets which splashed over the top. They camped near at hand, and turning out their horses, proceeded on foot to see Old Faithful, the Bee-hive, the Giantess, the Grand, and many other large geysers, besides many hot springs wonderful in color and in the purity of their waters.

Just before they reached Old Faithful, the roar of its discharge was heard, and its wonderful shaft of water was seen rising, by two or three rapid leaps finally to a height of over one hundred feet, with clouds of steam reaching far higher, and drifting off with the wind. The great column of water maintained its height for fully five minutes, and then, dropping by degrees, it sank down and disappeared. All about the crater the naked shell of silica which surrounds it was flooded with water, so hot that Jack and Joe, who tested it with their fingers, shook them violently and at once thrust them into their mouths. The crater of this geyser is very beautiful. It stands on a little mound and is four or five feet high, and its lips are rounded into many strange and beautiful forms, beaded and shining like glistening pearls, while all about it are little terraced pools of the clearest water, with scalloped and beaded borders. The margins and floors of these pools are tinted with most delicate shades, white, buff, brown and gray, and in many of them are beautiful little pebbles, which are also opalescent.

Many cruel hands had been at work breaking down these beautiful borders, to carry them away, and people who had visited the place had scrawled their names on the smooth pebbles and in the beautiful flooring of the pools.

Hugh said to Jack, "Well, we come from the Indians, and we belong in a cow camp; but we ain't low down enough to spoil pretty things like these, by writing our names on 'em, are we, son?"

"No, Hugh, we're not," said Jack, "and I'm mighty glad of it. I don't think anybody that had any love for pretty things would want to spoil them in this way, or take any of this beautiful bordering away with them. You get these pretty things away from their surroundings, and they are not pretty any longer. It's like picking a beautiful flower and carrying it away with you; before you've got far, it's all faded and gone, and good for nothing except to throw away."

During the day, which seemed to them all too short, the geysers were good to them. The Bee-hive played, throwing up a slender shaft of water to a height of about 200 feet; the Grand Geyser sent up a stream eighty feet in height; the Castle played, but its exhibition was not very showy compared with the others that they had seen. But toward afternoon, the greatest of all the geysers, the Giantess, gave an exhibition of her power, throwing up a vast quantity of water, sometimes to a height of one hundred feet. While the geyser was playing, Jack and Joe brought a large tree stump and threw it into the basin, and it was instantly whirled to a height of 200 feet, looking at the last like a tiny piece of wood. The wind, which was blowing, kept the steam and water from going nearly as high as the stump went. The roar of the geyser was tremendous, and its force shook the ground all about, so that those who were looking on were almost afraid.

As they returned to camp that night they saw a party of tourists moving about among the geysers, and passing near they could see that they were busy with axes and a pick, cutting away and prying out the borders of some of the geyser pools. It was an irritating sight, but they could do nothing, and much of the way back to camp was devoted to talking of the wickedness of destroying the beauties of this place, and declaring that the government ought to do something to protect the wonders of the region from the destruction which constantly threatened them.

At night, after supper, they sat in the lodge talking about what they should do to-morrow, and for the following days. Generally, their idea was to travel in a southeasterly direction, and finally to bring up at Mr. Sturgis' ranch; but just how they should go was uncertain. Neither Jack nor Joe had ever before travelled in the mountains, and they were therefore quite dependent on Hugh for advice. Jack said, "Of course, Hugh, we want to get back to the ranch, but then, too, we want to see as much as we can of what there is in the mountains; but I suppose we'll have to travel by some trail or some road, because we can't take the horses everywhere."

"Well, that's so," said Hugh; "we can't go everywhere, but then again, when you are travelling with a pack train there's mighty few places where you can't go; you're mighty free and independent when you're packing. Of course you can't take a pack train up a cut cliff; but, on the other hand, the rough mountains and down timber don't cut much figure; you can pretty much always go round, and keep your general direction. You can go and come about as you want to."

"Well," said Jack, "of course I never travelled before with a pack train in the mountains, but I tell you I like it. It's a mighty pretty sight to see the white packs winding in and out among the timber, or to see them following one another along a narrow ridge, or zigzaging up and down a steep hillside, as we've seen them since we've been here in the Park."

"Yes," said Hugh, "it's a nice way to travel; of course it's a little slower than a wagon, and it takes you some time to load and unload; but then again you can often go straight, instead of going a long way round, and I like it."

"I tell you," said Joe, "I like to watch these horses. I don't know whether they've ever been in the mountains before, but it seems to me they're smart. They seem to know a whole lot, and I notice that when they're going along among the trees, sometimes I see a horse start to go between two trees, where I think there isn't room enough for the pack, but generally they get through. Then, sometimes, going under branches it seems to me that the pack has got to strike the branches, but the horses generally get under them without touching. Of course if they follow old Baldy close, there is always room enough; but now and then that dun horse tries to cut off a corner, and get in ahead of one of the others, and then sometimes I think he's bound to get caught. He only did so once, day before yesterday, and then he went between two trees where there wasn't room enough; then he pushed and pushed and pushed for a long time, and I had to run round in front of him and drive him back, and then he got out."

"Yes," said Hugh, "horses that are used to the mountains, or mules or burros, get to be mighty smart in going through thick timber, and if the packs are properly put on, there isn't likely to be much trouble, unless you strike down timber. Of course, down timber is bad."

"Well, what is down timber, Hugh?" said Jack. "I've heard of places in the woods back east where a hurricane goes along and tears up all the trees in a strip for miles in length. They call that a wind-fall there. Is that the way down timber is made here?"

"No," said Hugh, "we've plenty of wind here, but it don't often act that way. Down timber comes like this: say that you have a rough and rocky mountain side, where the timber stands thick, most of the trees will be from six to ten inches in diameter, but they'll all be pretty near of a size. Now, suppose a fire passes over this, and kills all these trees; likely it doesn't burn them to amount to anything, but it's hot enough to sort o' cook the sap, and kill the trees. They'll stand there naked, with the bark gradually drying up and peeling off them, maybe for twenty, thirty or forty years; and likely while they're standing there, there'll be a new growth of young pines springing up among them, and grow to quite a height. But after a while these dead trees get white and weathered, and the dead roots that hold them in the ground keep on rotting and rotting, and at last these roots become so weak that there's nothing to support the tall trunk that stands there, and then with every big wind that comes blowing along, some of the trees get blown over, and fall to the ground. They don't all fall at once, but some may fall to-day with a south wind, and some may fall next week with a west wind, and some the week after with a north wind. In this way they're falling all the time, and in all sorts of directions, and presently the timber will lie piled up on the ground there, criss-cross in all directions. Now, if the logs are not more than a foot or two above the ground, and don't lie too close together, you can take your train through them, but if they lie three or four feet high, of course the horses can't step or jump over them, and you've either got to go winding round among them, picking out the low places where the animals can get across, or else you've got to chop your way through, or else you've got to back out and go round. That's down timber."

"But Hugh," said Jack, "I should think it would be kind of dangerous to ride through one of those patches of dead timber when the wind is blowing; they might fall on you."

"Well," said Hugh, "so they might. I've sometimes had to ride through a patch of that timber when the trees were falling all about, but I never happened to have one fall on me, nor on any animal that I was driving. The chances are mighty few that you'll get hit. I mind one time a big tree fell, with the top about twenty feet from one of my animals, and threw dirt and splinters all about him. The horse was scared a whole lot, and ran away; but of course I got him again."




Chapter VIII

Across The Continental Divide


The next morning they made an early start, and following up the Firehole, turned up a branch coming in from the east, only a short distance beyond Old Faithful. They purposed to go over to Shoshone Lake, and camp there, and to do this they must pass over the Continental Divide, for the Firehole finds its way through the Madison River, and the Missouri, to the Atlantic Ocean, while the waters of the Shoshone Lake fall into Snake River, then into the Columbia, and so at last reach the Pacific.

The way was pleasant, through park-like openings and green timber, and the distance not great. There was no trail, but they followed up a narrow grassy valley, whose slopes on either side were clothed with pines.

At last, when Hugh thought they must be near the Divide, they found down timber, and began to wind about among the logs. Little by little, however, matters grew worse, and presently a stick was encountered over which old Baldy could not step, but on which he caught his foot and almost fell. Here all hands dismounted, and getting an ax out of a pack, Hugh and the boys went ahead, and by lifting some of the larger sticks, and breaking smaller ones, and a little chopping, a way was soon made by which the horses could pass along.

Beyond this timber was an open and almost level country, which Hugh declared was the Divide, and passing along a little further, they began to go down a gentle hill. Here there were park-like meadows and low wooded hills on either side. There were a few little gullies, but no water; and in the dry stream-beds and water-holes were many tracks of elk, all made in the spring when the ground was soft. From the summit of this Divide, when snows are melting in the early summer, little trickles of water pour down the opposite sides of the mountains, some to the north, to find their way into the Firehole; others south toward Snake River. Hugh followed the general direction of one of these water-courses, which constantly grew larger, and presently turned into one still wider, whose sandy bottom was dotted with great blocks of black lava. Hugh pointed out these to the boys, and said to them, "That's the stuff that in old times many of the Indians used to make their arrow points from. It must have been a great article of trade, for away up north of the boundary line I have seen little piles of chips of that black glass lying on the prairie, where men have been making arrow-heads, and I know that there wasn't any of the rock within 400 miles."

All along the valley of this dry stream was a beautiful park of gently rolling country, with timbered knolls and open grassy intervales. Some of the trees were very large -- two or three feet in diameter.

It was early in the afternoon when they reached Shoshone Lake, and riding along its smooth, firm beach, camped in a little point of spruces. The lake was large, and looked as if it should have a fish in it. Jack got out his rod and put it together, and standing it against a tree, went back into the open meadow where the horses were feeding, to catch grasshoppers. He caught half a dozen, and then, returning, fished faithfully for quite a long distance along the shore, but without success. Neither could he see anywhere that fish were rising, and he wondered whether it could be possible that this beautiful lake, which seemed an ideal home for trout, should have none in it. Joe, on the other hand, as soon as camp had been made, had taken his rifle and started out on foot, working along the edge of the lake and looking for game. He found many old elk tracks and a very few made by deer, but went quite a long distance without seeing anything. Then, turning away from the shore of the lake, and taking the hillside at some distance from it, he began to work back to the camp. Here there were more deer tracks, but none that seemed worth while for him to follow, and he began to feel discouraged. When he had come almost opposite the camp he crossed a wide dry water-course, going now rather carelessly, though still making no noise, yet not trying to keep out of sight. As he climbed the gentle slope, after crossing the little valley, and had almost reached the top, he stopped, and turned about and looked backward, and there to his astonishment saw, projecting above a patch of low willows and weeds, the heads of two fawns. They were staring at him most innocently, but the camp needed meat, and bringing his rifle to his shoulder he fired at the neck of one of them, and the little deer disappeared, while the other turned about and raced away through the brush.

Going to the place Joe found the fawn quite a small one, though it had already lost its spotted coat. He dressed it, and then throwing it on his shoulders walked quickly to the camp. As he came in front of the lodge, Hugh said to him, "Hello, Joe, what have you got there, a jack rabbit?"

"Well," said Joe, "it is not much bigger, but it's the only thing I have seen except another of the same size, and that I could not shoot at."

That night as the sun went down the wind began to blow a fresh dry wholesome breeze from the west. The wind raised quite a sea on the lake, and big waves tumbled up on the beach one after another, so fast that it was not an easy matter to get a bucket of water without at the same time getting a wet foot. Jack and Joe walked along the beach a little way.

"Do you know, Joe," said Jack, "this looks to me just like the seashore; the wind blows in the same way, and the waves have the same white-caps, and the surf roars as it pounds on the beach; and there is the moon on the water. Why it seems to me just like some nights I have walked on the beach, back east on the Long Island shore."

"Well," said Joe, "it's not like anything I ever saw before. Up in our country we don't have sand beaches like this, though we do have the lake, and the waves and the wind."

The animals were packed early next day, and they followed the shores of the lake southward. In some places they could see where elk had passed along recently, and there were tracks of bulls and cows and calves. In some places, too, along the beach the pines, which were small yet looked old, were all bent toward the eastward, and had no branches on the western side. Joe pointed these trees out to Hugh and said, "Why is it Hugh that these trees seem all bent one way, and have no branches on the other side; is it the wind?"

"Yes," said Hugh, "the wind. You'll see that in lots of places, especially on mountain tops, and along big waters like this, where the wind blows mostly from the west and northwest, and gets a wide sweep."

The wind was still blowing hard, and the lake was in a turmoil. The air was cold, and all hands wore their coats as they rode along.

A day's journey took them by Shoshone Lake and Lewis Lake, and they camped below it on Lewis Fork. For much of the distance the trail passed through an attractive open country, full of streams and springs, and dotted with clumps of thick willow brush; while on the higher lands were the ever-present pines. To the left was the lofty ridge of the Red Mountain Range, down which half a hundred beautiful cascades hurried toward the river. To the right was the stream, and beyond the steep sides of the Pitchstone Plateau, so called from the black glossy fragments of the lava rock, of which the soil is largely made up. It was evident that this would be a hard trail in the early spring, for it was low and wet, and animals would have trouble in passing over it at any except the dry season.

A few miles below the camp they began to look for a ford. The stream looked deep and difficult, yet it was necessary for them to cross it, for on the east side the mountains came down close to the river in a steep and impassable jumble of slide rock. Just above them they could see a great water-fall, not far below the lake. It was now getting toward night, and Hugh was a little uncertain whether to cross this stream, or to camp on this side. However, he determined to cross, and stopping, had the boys catch up the pack animals, while he rode into the stream to prospect for a ford. He kept diagonally down the river, going very slowly, and feeling for the shoalest places, but at last, reached the opposite bank and climbed out. Then, turning about, he recrossed, and telling the boys to keep the horses close to him, he led them into the stream. The ford was rather deep, the water coming more than half way up the horses' bodies, so that they all tucked their feet up behind them on the saddle, and rode along with some anxiety, lest a false step or a stumble over the great stones which formed the river bottom should throw down one of the animals, and so wet either a pack or a rider. However, the crossing was made safely, and then climbing the steep hill, they kept on through the timber, soon, however, camping by a little spring, in an opening where there was food for the animals.

By the time camp was made, the sun had set and it was too late to hunt. The little deer had all been eaten, and once more they made their meal on dried meat and back-fat.

The next day they kept on through the green timber, riding over ridges and at a distance from the stream, though now and then they had glimpses of its dark hurrying waters. To the right were seen some little lakes, one of them covered with water-fowl. Across the trail that they were following -- if it could be called a trail -- was some fallen timber, but nothing that delayed them. Jack noticed that some of the living trees were curiously bent in their growth, sometimes at right angles to the vertical a foot or two from the ground, the trunk growing six inches or a foot horizontally, and then turning once more straight toward the sky, the remainder of the tree being straight as an arrow. In some cases the bend was more than this, the tree growing straight up for a foot, and then turning over, growing down for a few inches or a foot, and then making another curve, and growing upright once more. Some of these curves were almost shaped like the letter S, and Jack kept wondering what caused these bends. As they stopped at midday to unsaddle and let the horses feed and to eat something themselves, Jack asked Hugh about the curious way in which these trees grew.

Hugh smiled and said, "I don't much wonder you ask about that, son. I remember that I used to think about that a good deal, and wonder how it happened. But it is easy enough to explain if you once get onto it, and you can easily enough get onto it if you travel around through the mountains enough.

"You know I told you the other day," he continued, "that when a country has been burned over, the trees stand for a good many years, and then they commence to fall in all directions. Likely enough before they begin to fall, a whole lot of young trees and sprouts have started from the ground, and are growing among them. Now, nothing is more likely than that some of these falling trees may happen to fall upon these young saplings and sprouts. Some of them they smash down flat, and the sprout dies; but sometimes they fall so as just to bend a sprout over, or so that a little small sprout just growing is bound to grow up against the log as the sprout grows larger. These young trees are springy and bend easily. Of course the ones that are smashed down and broken off short are killed; we never hear anything more of them. But likely enough there are some young and hardy plants caught beneath the tops or branches of the fallen trees within a foot or two of the ground, and not much hurt but just held down. Sometimes these little trees are pressed flat to the ground, and when they are, they usually die. But if they are only bent over a few inches, or a foot or two from the ground, they don't always die. Instead of that they keep on growing, and of course the top of the growing tree keeps on reaching up all the time toward the light. No matter if it is bent flat, it tends to turn upward, so that all of it beyond the place where the dead tree is pressing on it grows straight, just like all the other trees around it. Then, after a while the dead stick which is holding the young tree down, rots, and at last disappears. The injured tree grows larger and larger, and at last gets to be a big tree; and there is then nothing to show how this big tree should have grown in such a bent, queer fashion."

"Well now, Hugh, that's mighty interesting," said Jack, "and I ought to have worked it out for myself, for three or four times to-day I saw dead trees pressing little green sprouts over to one side; but I never thought about that being the reason for the bends in these big trees. The fact is, I never thought of them bending while the trees were young, but supposed it must be some accident or disease that had struck the trees after they were big."

"Well," said Hugh, "you see it's all simple enough, if you understand it."

"Simple!" said Jack, "Why it's simple as rolling off a log; but you've got to understand the reason."

"Well," said Hugh, "you keep your eyes open as you ride through the timber, and you'll see the very thing I've been talking about, happening before your face all the time."

The wind blew fiercely all day long, though when they were in the timber they hardly felt it, and only the sighing of the pines and occasionally the crash of some distant tree told of the force of the gale. They crossed Snake River about noon, and kept on southward. During a halt at the river all hands went to the fishing, and caught some splendid trout, which they promptly cooked and which gave them a delicious meal. A little more fishing furnished them with enough fish for two or three meals more, and Jack was hard at work trying to catch a big one that he had seen rise, when he saw two great shadows on the water, and looking up, saw only a few yards above him a pair of great sand-hill cranes. They were not in the least afraid, and flying on a little further, alighted in the meadow where they fed, walking about in most dignified fashion until the train started on again, and alarmed them.

As they went into camp that afternoon at a little spring, Hugh said to the boys, "Now, look here; if one of you don't go out pretty soon and kill something, I'll have to do that myself. This camp needs fresh meat. Dried meat and back-fat is good; fish are good; but we want either a deer or an elk; or, better still, if you can find it, a buffalo; but I reckon these bison here in the mountains are a little too smart for any of us. They're pretty scarce, and they're pretty watchful."

"Well," said Jack, "which one of us shall go? We can't both go, because one has got to stay and help drive the animals. I'll toss up with you, Joe, to see which shall hunt to-morrow morning."

"All right," said Joe, "I'll toss up;" but as no one of them had a coin, Jack took a fresh chip, and rubbing some black earth on one side of it, said, "We'll call that black side heads, and the other tails; and Hugh will throw the chip. You call, Joe." Hugh tossed the chip into the air, and Joe called heads. But the chip came down the clean side up, and so Jack was to go hunting next morning.

As soon as the animals were packed, Jack started off, keeping to the right of the trail and up the hill. He knew, of course, that at this time of the year the elk were likely to be found high up, and the deer, too; for the flies and mosquitoes were bad. The underbrush was thick, and there were many marshy places, and once this hillside had been covered with a great forest, for it was strewn with logs. The underbrush seemed higher and thicker than he had been accustomed to, and he saw many sorts of plants that he did not remember to have seen before; and at last it struck him that perhaps as he was now on the western side of the Continental Divide, the rain-fall might be greater, and that this might make a difference in the vegetation. Willow and alders, and other brush, made riding rather difficult, and besides that, the hillsides grew steeper and steeper, until at last Jack dismounted, and clambering up on foot, left Pawnee to follow, as he had long ago been trained to do. Getting up on a high ridge, bald now, though once forest-grown, for the ground was strewn with great charred and rotting tree-trunks, long before killed by fire, he followed the ridge toward higher land, and gradually climbing, at last reached a commanding height, from which he saw the beautiful Jackson's Lake, and its lovely surroundings.

To the eastward the Red Mountain Ridge, rising above him, cut off the view, but northeast he could see the valley of Snake River, broad near at hand, but narrowing further off, until the mountains, closing in, hid the silver ribbon of the stream's course. To the west were the splendid gray and white masses of the Teton range, low and rounded toward the north, with long easy ridges of moderate steepness, and crowned with great fields of snow. Toward the southward the mountains became more and more abrupt, until at last the highest peak of all, Jack knew must be the Grand Teton. From this pinnacle the ridge gradually sank away again, becoming lower and lower in the blue and misty distance. Immediately under the ridge, and south of where Jack stood, was Jackson's Lake. He had often heard Hugh speak of Jackson's Hole and Jackson's Lake, spots for many years hardly known to white men, and about which most marvelous stories were told. Here, men used to say -- the miners that the streams were paved with nuggets of gold, the trappers that the rivers and forests abounded in fur, the hunters that game was so abundant and so tame that there was always plenty to eat, and the camp never starved; and now this wonderful region lay before him.

And yet he knew that within the past few years many people had passed through this place. He knew that the miners had washed the sands of the rivers, but found that they did not pay; that trappers had caught the beaver and the marten, and had soon trapped almost all of them. Now it was for him to find whether the game was as plenty as had been said.

At all events, Jackson's Lake with the wide meadows that surrounded it, and the superb mountains that walled it in on one side, made this a lovely spot. The lake shone in the sunlight like a sheet of silver, and was dotted with pine-clad islands. On the west its waters flowed close beneath the great mountains which rose above it, but on the other three sides a belt of forest grew close to the water, and back of this belt, broad meadow lands, with groups of trees and low rounded clumps of willows, looked almost like a park. Further to the eastward bare ridges rose higher and higher, forming the foot-hills of the main range, and still further to the east and southeast were massive mountains, more distant -- and so seeming lower -- than the Teton Range, but which were the Continental Divide. Jack looked, and looked, and enjoyed this beautiful view; but after a little he realized that time was passing, and that he must move on, and do his hunting, and get to camp.

He crossed the ridge, and began to ride down the side of the mountain toward the south, following the crest of a hog-back, which would take him down to the valley of the lake by a gentle slope. Below, and to his left, was a narrow valley, in which stood green timber, and among the green timber much that was dead and much that was down.




Chapter IX

An Elk Hunt Under The Tetons


He was riding along slowly, letting Pawnee make his own way among the loose rocks and tree-trunks, when he caught sight of an animal standing with its tail toward him, in a little opening among the trees. For an instant he thought it was a buckskin horse, and the idea flashed through his mind that there must be a camp down there. Almost before the thought had taken form, the animal moved a little, and he saw that it was an elk. He slipped off his horse on the side furthest from the animal, and led Pawnee out of sight behind a clump of pines, and left him there. Then he crept back to the ridge. In the timber below he soon made out half-a-dozen elk, and as he watched, he could see quite a large bunch of cows and calves. He lay there, watching and waiting. The drop down the hill into the valley was very steep, and he was hoping that the elk might move into some position where he would not have to go down to them. They seemed uneasy and suspicious, and presently something startled them, and they ran a little way, and then stopped, looking back up the valley. Two big heifers stood almost side by side facing opposite ways, with their shoulders close together, and their heads in such position that their necks seemed to cross. Jack raised his gun and took a careful sight at the necks, just below the heads, and pulled the trigger. One of the cows dropped instantly, while the other, standing a moment to look, turned and ran off. He heard the elk crashing through the timber of the valley, and then saw them climbing the bald hills on the other side, stopping every little while to look back, and at last walking slowly off over the hills.

A convenient side ridge gave Pawnee a good road down to where the cow had fallen, but she had rolled far down the hill, and finally had stopped on a little level place. She was quite dead. The animal was rather large for Jack to handle, but with some trouble he managed to cut off her hams and sirloins, and tying the two hams together by the gambrel joints, he balanced them on his saddle, and then tying the sirloins on behind, set out on foot for camp. There was much scrambling up steep hillsides, and down others quite as steep, and some working through the thick underbrush, before he came out into the open lake valley. Here progress was more rapid. Jack walked swiftly, and Pawnee followed close behind. After a time he came on the trail made by the pack train, some hours before, and hurrying along this, presently saw in the distance what looked like a house. Before he reached it, however, the trail that he was following turned sharply to the right, and led down toward the river, two or three miles below the lake.

As he approached the tall cottonwood timber, which he supposed grew on the shores of the river, he saw the horses feeding close to it, and before long the cone of the lodge showed through the leaves, and a little later he stopped by the fire.

"Good boy," said Hugh. "I'm mighty glad to get that meat. That'll keep us going for quite a while, and now that we've got fresh meat, and dried meat and fish, we're bound to live well."

"Animal's in good order, too," he continued, as he began to lift the meat from the saddle. "I expect you picked out a heifer, didn't you?"

"Well," said Jack, "I tried to, but I wasn't sure that it wasn't an old cow until I put a knife into her. The only thing I was sure of was that she had no calf." "Well," said Hugh, "it's a nice piece of meat, and I'm mighty glad you got it."

"What's that house that I see up there, Hugh? Nobody lives here now, does there?"

"No," said Hugh, "I reckon that's some kind of a shelter or stable, built by hunters or prospectors, for their horses in fly-time. Flies are pretty bad here now, and I reckon close about this lake the greenheads must be enough to drive the horses crazy. I noticed to-day when we were crossing some points of that meadow up above that they were bad. If it hadn't been for that, I reckon we'd have camped up there by the lake. It's an awful sightly spot, but there were too many flies."

Supper was almost ready, and they feasted royally that night on trout and the fat sirloins of the elk; and after the meal was over, it was pleasant to sit round the big camp-fire that Jack and Joe built out in front of the lodge, and watch the blaze, and listen to the murmur of the river as it hurried over the stones, just beyond the camp. Every stick tossed on the burning pile sent a great cloud of sparks soaring upward to disappear among the dark green foliage of the spruces, which here grew among the taller cottonwoods. The warmth of the fire was grateful; the willows and cottonwoods and spruces all about their camp sheltered them from the strong wind which still blew down the valley; and Jack, as he lay stretched out on the ground between Joe and Hugh, thought that he never could have a happier time than that very moment.

"Now, boys," said Hugh, "I don't know how you feel about it, but it strikes me this is a terrible nice place to stop for a day or two. This is a good camp, and these mountains right opposite to us are things I like to look at. What do you say to our stopping here, say for one day, anyhow; and maybe to-morrow we'll take a little ride across the river, and get closer to these mountains, and see something of what they look like. I'd like mighty well to look at them long enough to kind o' carry a remembrance of them back with me to the ranch."

"Well," said Jack, "let's do that. There's no reason for our hurrying; we've got plenty of grub, and I think we'd all like to stay here for one day, anyhow."

"Now, there's two things we can do," said Hugh. "We ain't made up our minds how we'll go home; but we can cross the range in a whole lot of different places. We can either follow down Snake River for a way, and then work up one of the creeks, and go over and strike the head of Wind River, and follow that down, or we can go back to the park, and then cut across, and get down onto Stinking Water, and then go back on the prairie. My idea is that we'll do better to keep on south, and try to go straight on our course. We can either go up Buffalo Fork, and then strike across to the head of the Wind River, and follow that down; or go down and follow up the Gros Ventre, and get across some way there. We don't have to make up our minds to-day; we can settle that to-morrow night. Let's agree that we'll stop here to-morrow, and then to-morrow night decide what we'll do."

"All right," said both boys.

When the three friends got up next morning, and went to the stream to wash, they could see nothing of the great range beneath which they were camped, for the tall spruce trees which grew on the opposite bank cut off the view of everything beyond. After breakfast they saddled up and having picketed two of the pack horses, set out to cross the river, and to get nearer to the mountains. The river was wide, and so deep that the water came almost up to the saddle blankets, but they crossed comfortably enough, and riding through the open dry timber of the bottom, before long were approaching the high bluffs which formed the first terrace above the river. In the bottom were many tracks of deer and elk, some of the deer tracks quite fresh; and they almost rode over a huge old porcupine, which waddled awkwardly to one side, and then stopped among some low rose bushes, with its head between its forefeet, its quills erect, and its tail thrashing about in a threatening way. Jack stopped his horse and said to Hugh:

"Hugh, is there anything in that story that porcupines throw their quills? I've heard lots of people say it is so, and then other people say it isn't."

Hugh drew his horse up, and turning in his saddle said, "Why no, son, there's nothing in that; though I've heard plenty of men who ought to know a heap better say that there was. Take a stick and go right up close to that fellow, and poke him with it, and then bring it to me."

Jack picked up a dead branch, and going to the porcupine, poked him in the sides and back, and when he did this the porcupine thrashed his tail about more vigorously than ever, and two or three times struck the stick. Leaving him, Jack went to Hugh, carrying the stick in his hand, and Hugh said, "Look at the end of that stick now, and see those quills." The end of the stick was pierced by a dozen or twenty sharp, strong quills, and Jack, taking hold of one and trying to pull it out, found that the point was firmly fastened in the wood, so that it required quite a little effort to pull it out.

"Now, son," said Hugh, "a porcupine, as you have seen, is slow, and can't run away. His back and sides and tail are covered with these quills, which are mighty sharp, and which have little stickers pointing back toward the root, so that if a quill gets fast in the flesh, it is a very hard matter to pull it out again. If a quill gets stuck in an animal's head or foot, it keeps working forward all the time; it never works backward and comes out; it has to go through to the other side. Most animals know that it isn't good to fool with a porcupine. The only way to kill him is to turn him over on his back, and get at his throat and belly, which are not covered with quills. When a porcupine sees an animal coming he holds his body close to the ground, makes his quills stand up all over him, and thrashes around with his tail, which is pretty well covered with quills too. His tail is strong, and he can hit a hard blow with it; and so you see he's pretty well defended. The quills are not set deep in the skin; they are loose, and they pull out mighty easy; you see that just by poking the porcupine you got that stick full of quills. Sometimes when he thrashes hard with his tail he may hit a piece of wood, or may knock loose some of the quills on his tail so that they may fly a little distance; but as for throwing them any distance from his body, or with any force, why he can't do it.

"I have had dogs that would tackle porcupines, and when they did, it was a terrible job to pull the quills out of them."

"Well," said Jack, "I'm glad to hear all that I've been told of dogs tackling porcupines, up in the Adirondacks, but I never saw one that had been pierced by quills."

"Most dogs," said Hugh, "soon learn never to bother porcupines, but some seem never to learn, and will go for one every time they see it. Bears sometimes tackle them, and so do lynx and panthers, but they say the greatest animal of all to kill a porcupine is a fisher. I've seen two or three panthers with their jaws full of quills. I've heard people say that the fisher kills them by turning them over on their backs and then jumping onto the belly, but I never saw this done. What I have seen is fishers with lots of quills in their bodies: some in the legs, some in the belly, and some in the sides. And the Indians say that these quills don't bother them at all; that is to say, that a fisher full of quills don't swell up the way a dog or a panther does. The porcupine is a pretty stupid beast, but its effect on its neighbors is quite interesting."

Jack listened with much attention to this lesson in natural history, and they mounted and rode on again.

Soon they came to a great slough, evidently an old beaver meadow, and as Hugh drew up his horse and looked at it, he shook his head: -- "Too soft for us to cross, I reckon, we'll have to go round some other way. There's plenty of sloughs and mud-holes in there where our horses would go out of sight."

They turned northward, and for the next two hours were occupied in trying to make their way out to the high prairie. At frequent intervals they came to what looked like a tongue of hard dry land extending out to the bluffs, but after following it for a little distance they found at its end a mud-hole, which obliged them to turn back and take another road. At length they reached a strip of hard ground which led them to the bluffs; and just before they rode up the steep ascent, Hugh's horse started from the ground a brood of grouse, which scattered in all directions, many of them alighting on the willows and spruce branches close to them. They were singularly tame, almost as much so as the fool hens they had seen farther north, and Jack rode up to within three or four feet of one, and then reached out his gun to touch it, but before the muzzle was within a foot of the bird, it flew away.

When they reached the higher prairie they rode off toward the range, which was now plainly to be seen. There were three principal peaks, the names of which Hugh gave them. One, he said, was Mount Moran, a great square-topped mass of granite, with two or three vast snow or ice banks on its north face. To the south of that were the three pinnacles of the Tetons, whose slender summits ran far up into the blue sky. The prairie over which they were now riding was uneven: -- here cut by dry, grassy, ancient water-ways, there with mounds of great extent rising above the general level. There was much gravel -- some of it very large -- which looked as if it might have been carried down by the water. Long ridges composed wholly of this gravel ran for long distances out from the foot of the range, and were now for the most part bare of timber, having been burned over. On some of them the fire had spared many of the pines, and young aspen timber grew on their slopes. The terraces of the river's flood-plain rose one above another, and on the highest of all, on the west side, were groups of evergreen trees, and now and then a single pine standing alone in the wide sage-plain. Scattered about over the prairie were many antelope.

They rode on toward the mountains, trying to get up high enough so as to look down on Jackson's Lake, which runs in close to the foot of Mount Moran; but the ridges became higher and higher, more and more timber grew on them, and cut off the view, so that at length they gave up the effort and turned off to one side to ride through the timber. Here were many fresh elk tracks and trails, some made the night before, and some since daylight; and here, quite unexpectedly, as they rode over a ridge a little higher than any that they had yet passed, a fine view was had of the southern end of Jackson's Lake. It seemed to wind and twist about among its points and islands, and sent out long and narrow finger-like bays into the hills in a most curious way. A little further on they saw from a hilltop another lake, not nearly so large as Jackson's, but still perhaps two miles long. It was surrounded by dense forest, and reflected the great peaks which overhung it. Here they dismounted for a while to look at the range, which was now plainly seen.

"Big mountains, ain't they, son?" said Hugh, as they sat there looking up at them.

"Yes, Hugh," said Jack, "they're awful big, and how bare and gray they are. There seems to be a little timber in small patches, but except for that, there doesn't seem to be anything growing on them at all; they are just rocks with snow on top and in the ravines."

"Well," said Hugh, "I expect for the most part that rock is so steep that the snow can't lie there. Even if the wind don't blow, just as soon as any weight of snow falls on the rocks it slips off.

"Have you got your glasses with you, son?" he continued, and when Jack had handed them to him, he looked through them and said: "I thought so. Do you know, son, that snow up there in those highest ravines isn't snow at all, it's ice; just like them glaciers that we have up there in the mountains to the north. Look through the glasses, and you can see the cracks on the lower border, and you can see too that it is blue, and not white like snow."

Jack and Joe both looked through the glasses and saw what Hugh meant, and both were reminded of the masses of ice that they had seen in the mountains of the north, the year before.

It was pleasant sitting in the warm sun and looking up at this wonderful scenery, but at last they caught up their horses, and mounted and rode back to the camp. As they were going along side by side, down the wide point of a ridge, a great brown deer bounced out from an aspen thicket on Joe's side and ran down the ravine. Joe sprang from his horse and raised his gun to shoot, but just as he did so she sprang into a little gully, so that Joe could see only her ears as she raced along. She followed the ravine down and was not seen again.

Hugh and Jack both laughed at Joe, and told him that he should have stayed on his horse, for from their point of view on horseback, the doe's body had been in sight for quite time enough to shoot.

When they reached the level bottom, they rode out close to the river, and keeping along the bank found firm ground all the way to the camp. There remained still some hours of daylight, and both boys got out their lines and began to fish, catching a number of fine and heavy trout. Just as they were about to go to camp with their catch, a flock of seven wild geese flew up the river, calling loudly, and after they had passed a little beyond the boys, Joe began to honk in response, and presently the great birds turned about and came back, flying directly over the boys, looking down at them, as if to see who it was that was talking to them. The air was cool and damp after dark and they sat about the fire in the lodge. A great horned owl a little way down the river was hooting regularly, and Joe said, "We're going to have a storm."

"Yes," said Hugh, "I hear him now, and I heard him last night. I reckon we're going to have change of weather."

"What do you mean, Hugh?" said Jack, "has the owl anything to do with the weather?"

"Well no, son, I don't know that he has; but some of the Indians say that if you hear an owl calling it means a storm's coming."

It was raining the next morning when Jack thrust his head from under his blankets, and as the fire had not been started, and nobody seemed to be moving, he knew that this day also would be spent in camp. When he went out of the lodge the ground was covered with an inch of very wet snow, and the weather seemed to be trying to make up its mind whether it would rain or no. Big wet flakes were falling in a mixture of rain and snow, and moisture was everywhere.

After breakfast, Hugh cut some crotches and poles, and with the ropes and two of the mantas made a very good shelter, under which they built an outdoor fire. By this they sat for a long time, discussing various matters, and then, since the rain had stopped, Jack went down to the stream and began to fish. He caught a few fish weighing from three quarters of a pound to a pound, and there were enough of them to make it interesting. The small ones seemed to trouble his hook very little, and one or two little ones that he caught he shook off before getting them to shore. Suddenly, after a long cast that he had made out toward the middle of the stream, a huge fish rose to his fly, but in its eagerness, missed and sprang over the fly showing its full length out of the water. This was such a fish as Jack had not seen before, and he was very anxious to get it. He cast again over the same spot, and this time drew in his line a little more slowly. The great fish rose again, and just at the right moment Jack struck, and had him fast.

For a moment the fish did nothing, but then came a fight the like of which Jack had never witnessed. The fish made a strong rush toward the deepest water of the rapid, and twice on his way there he sprang into the air, shaking his head savagely to rid himself of the steel that was biting his jaw. Then he turned about and rushed back toward the bank, again throwing himself out of the water. Jack was excited, but was trying to keep cool. Whenever the fish gave him an opportunity he took in line, and when the fish ran he gave him as little as possible.

Suddenly the trout started down the river at great speed, so fast that Jack was afraid to check him, and started racing after him, running over the slippery stones of the beach, and through the pools of water left by the river. Presently the fish stopped, and refused to move, and Jack recovered all the line that he could, and then began to try to move the fish. Now it began to give a series of tugging jerks on the line, as if it were bending itself from side to side in the water; then it began to throw itself over and over, as if trying to twist the line; and then it would rush off, as if striving to break it. As the splendid fish grew tired, Jack worked it nearer and nearer to the beach; but he had no net and of course could not lift it from the water. After looking about a little he found a place where the beach was shelving, and laying down his rod, he drew the fish out by the leader and soon had it safely in his hand. It was a handsome fish, deep and thick, and yet graceful in all its lines, and it seemed to Jack as big as a North River shad. As soon as it was killed, Jack took his rod and started back to the camp for he wished to show them there the biggest trout that he had ever seen.

White clouds hung low over the valley and hid the mountains on either side; but as Jack walked along the beach the western sky grew lighter, and for a few moments the sun struggled to shine through the clouds. Then suddenly, far down the valley the white wall that shut out the view broke away, and Jack could see the great mountain mass of the Teton Range. He stopped and gazed, waiting for the rent to close up again. Through it he could see, like a picture in its frame, the mountains, not dark and gray as they had been yesterday, but white now, in all the purity of new-fallen snow. As he looked, the break in the clouds moved rapidly northward, exposing one mountain after another, each seeming more beautiful than the one seen just before. A wreath of mist hung around and concealed the needle peak of the Grand Teton, adding to, rather than taking away from its height. The rift in the clouds passed northward, and after it had shown him Mount Moran, it closed again and the white vapor cut off the view. Jack had seen the glories of the Tetons, snow-clad. He returned to camp.




Chapter X

Trailing Black-Tails


It was pleasant that night after supper was over, as they lay about the bright fire in the lodge. During the afternoon, while Jack had been fishing, Joe had split fine a lot of dry cottonwood sticks, and a good pile of them lay within the lodge door, just to its left. The fire blazed and crackled merrily and the draft was good, so that there was no smoke even in the top of the lodge.

Joe said to Jack, "Jack, have you seen all this old beaver work up north of the camp?"

"No," said Jack, "I have seen plenty of small beaver cuttings. There have been lots of beaver here, but I haven't seen any big work."

"Well," said Joe, "you'd better go up fifty yards from the camp, and you'll see there bigger trees cut down by the beaver than I've ever seen, and I've seen some beaver work in my day. Why, there's cottonwood logs there cut down by the beaver that are bigger round than my body, and I believe they're more than a foot through. You surely ought to see them."

"Well," said Jack, "I will in the morning."

"This used to be a great place for fur, didn't it Hugh?"

"Yes," said Hugh, "I expect when the white men first came in here that beaver were awful plenty. Wherever I've been since I came into this valley I've seen lots of old work but not much new work. All the same, these sticks that Joe is talking about are not very old; they were cut down only a few years ago. I guess 'twas a great fur country. But, Lord! I've told you about the stories that people used to tell about Jackson's Lake. They used to say that pretty nearly everything good in the mountains was to be found here, and plenty of it.

"Do you know, boys," Hugh continued, "I've about made up my mind what we'd better do? Now, we don't know the country here, none of us, but I expect we can find our way around pretty well with the pack-train. I think the best thing we can do is to go back to that last big creek that we crossed, and follow that up to its head; then cross the mountains there, and get over onto Wind River; and then we can follow Wind River down; and then over and strike Sweetwater, and follow Sweetwater down to the Platte; and then, you know, we're pretty near home. What do you say? Would either of you rather go any other way, or will you leave it that way?"

The boys sat silent for a little while, and then Joe said, "I think it will be good to do as Hugh says; he is the leader, and we will follow him."

"I think so, too," said Jack. "Neither of us boys knows anything about the country, and we want to do just what you think is best, Hugh."

"Well," said Hugh, "I guess that is best, and if you say so, we'll do it; and we'll start to-morrow morning if the weather is good and the things are dry."

"All right," said both boys.

The next morning saw the little train following its back trail up Snake River for a few miles, when Hugh turned off to the right, and entered the valley of a great stream which rushed down from the Red Mountain Range. The hills were low and rounded and composed of sand and gravel, covered with grass and sage-brush. On either side, from time to time, the stream had cut into the hills and washed away the gravel, and its bed was full of huge boulders; so that it was necessary for them to keep back on the ridge, at some distance from the water. The river was so large and along it there were so many evidences of a vast body of water running down through this valley in the spring, that it seemed evident that it must be a very long stream, and must drain a wide area of country. Before they had gone very far, the sun, which had been shining, went behind clouds; it began to rain hard; and before long they began to get wet. Early in the day, therefore, Hugh drew up his horse in the shelter of some spruces on a little bench about thirty feet above the valley, and said, "Let's camp, boys, and get out of this wet." It took but a little time to put up the lodge, to unsaddle, get things covered and a fire in the lodge, and also one outside under a shelter of manta, so that they were soon dry and comfortable again. Jack tried the fishing, but the fish would not bite. The rain continued, and by the middle of the afternoon had changed to snow, and before dark the ground was white. When they went to bed at night the snow was still falling and the weather was growing colder.

The next morning the snow had stopped, but it was two or three inches deep on the ground. Everything was wet, and it looked as if it might snow again at any time. Jack got tired of sitting round the fire, and watching Hugh fill his pipe, and light it and smoke it out, and then fill and light it again, and presently he proposed to Joe that they should go out and try to kill a deer. Joe was ready and they started. For a short distance, they followed the trail up the river, and then turning to the left, took the first ridge and began to climb the hill on the north side of the valley. It was pretty wet. It had begun to rain again, and the snow was damp, and under the snow there seemed to be an inch or two of water. When they had to pass through willows and other underbrush, these wet the upper parts of their bodies. The ground was soft and slippery, and the down timber and the loose stones made walking and climbing quite hard work. Nevertheless, they pushed on, and having reached the top of the ridge, could see beyond other ridges toward which they climbed.

They crossed one or two elk tracks, made since the snow had stopped falling, but the animals were going pretty fast and they did not follow them. A few deer tracks, made while the snow was falling, tempted them; but they did not follow them and continued to climb. The higher they went the harder it seemed to rain, and every little while a heavy fog would rise from the valley, and creeping slowly along the mountains would shut out from sight one hilltop after another, until it reached them and hid everything from their sight. There was a little breeze blowing from the west, and these fogs did not last long; but while they were about them the boys could only stand still and wait for the mist to lift.

As they climbed they saw a good many birds: flickers, robins, and blue snow-birds, as well as some other western birds that Jack did not know.

The boys climbed hill after hill for several hours, but saw nothing but tracks, and none of these seemed worth following. At last Jack turned to Joe and said, "What do you say, Joe, shall we go any further? It's pretty cold, and we can't see far, and perhaps we might as well go down the hill again and get back to camp."

"Well," said Joe, "it's pretty cold and wet up here and we don't see much."

They turned and followed the ridge they were on for some little distance, trying to see down into the valley, and to determine just where the camp was. As they were doing this, all at once the fog lifted, and Jack saw, a little way before them, a green timbered ridge leading down into the valley, pretty near where the camp should be. As he looked down into the valley, Jack heard Joe whisper, "Hold on!" Jack stopped, slowly turned his head and threw a cartridge into his gun, and then stood motionless; for over the crest of the ridge just above them had risen the horns, head and body of an enormous black-tailed buck. Almost at once, two others, much smaller, followed him, and in a moment more two others, one nearly as large as the leader, and the other smaller, came up to the top of the ridge and looked over. They were a long way off, perhaps three hundred yards, and neither boy dared move for fear of startling them, for two or three jumps would have taken them out of sight. The great leader had seen the boys at once, but could not make out what they were, and perhaps for ten minutes he stood there and watched. He was not alarmed or suspicious, but these two upright objects, which might be stumps or might be something else, excited his curiosity, and he kept looking at them. The deer stood on the very crest of the ridge, with only a white sky for a background; so that the outline of his graceful form and large branching horns was plainly visible.

While he stood there watching, the other deer wandered about, now taking a bite of grass and again giving a long look over the country. One of the smallest came a few steps down the face of the ridge to a low pine, three or four feet in height, against which he began to rub his horns and head, just as a deer or an elk does when ridding the antlers of the velvet, or, as it is termed, "shaking." The large one, next in size to the leader, came still further down the bluff and began to feed at a bush that grew there. A third, the smallest of all, was very playful and frisked about almost as a fawn might do.

At length, after his long, long stare, during which the boys scarcely breathed, the big leader seemed satisfied. He shook himself, and then turned and gave a long look to the east and one to the west; then he lowered his head, took a bite of some weed, and stepping proudly along the ridge for a few yards, turned away and walked out of sight. While he was doing this, two of the young deer, like boys when the schoolmaster's back is turned and they feel that they can begin to play, backed away from each other, and then charged each other, coming together vigorously, head to head. It did not seem to be done angrily, but rather in sport, and one of them, being evidently much the stronger of the two, as he was the larger, pushed the other a few feet backward, when the smaller one sprang lightly out of the way, and both turned and walked off after the big buck.

Four of the deer had now moved out of sight, and there remained only the large one feeding on the hillside. A couple of dead trees, one leaning against the other, stood sixty or seventy yards in front of the boys, between them and the deer, and it seemed possible by moving up behind these to approach within rifle-shot. He was busily eating, and when he had his head down the boys whispered to each other. Jack said, "Let us sneak up behind those trees, and we can get near enough to kill him, I guess."

"Better wait," said Joe, "pretty soon he'll go off over the hill, and then we can follow him, and get one sure."

But Jack had not yet learned the patience which makes an Indian so certain of his game; he began to make a slow approach, but had taken only a few steps when suddenly the deer stopped feeding, looked about him, walked briskly up to the top of the ridge, and then pausing for a moment to see where his companions were, followed them over the ridge and out of sight.

At last the coast was clear; the boys hurried toward the ridge, and clambered up its steep face with breathless haste. When they reached the crest they cautiously looked over, but saw nothing, and still as they slowly advanced in the direction which the deer seemed to have taken, the game was not seen. They were just about to go back and take the deers' tracks, when suddenly, without an instant's warning, a mountain hurricane of hail, rain and snow swept down upon them, blotting from view every object save those directly at their feet. The wind blew cold, and the rain and hail pelted them. There was no shelter, and all they could do was to turn their backs to the blast and stand there waiting. The storm lasted but a few moments, and as soon as it was over they started back, and soon crossed the tracks of the deer, not far from the ridge. All had been walking slowly, except the last one, who was trotting to catch up with the others. The trail led over the rolling ground, toward two little groups of spruces, and when the boys saw these, and could not see the deer on the open ground beyond, they looked at each other and nodded, each feeling sure that the animals would be found in this timber.

They were still a hundred yards from the nearest clump of trees when Joe's eye caught sight of something moving just beyond them, and almost at the same time Jack saw something dark move against the snow. They made themselves very small, and keeping the thick foliage of the trees between themselves and the deer, crept carefully up almost to the timber. Suddenly, through a little opening in the branches, Jack saw three deer standing close together -- the big leader and two of the yearlings. He wanted the leader, of course, and yet he could see only his head and neck, and hesitated to shoot at the neck, for he was chilled and shaking with the cold. However, he determined to risk it, and looking round at Joe saw that he was ready, and that he nodded. Jack fired, the leader disappeared, and a moment later four deer ran out over the snow, beyond the trees, and stopped; and as they turned to look back, Joe fired, and killed the other big deer.

"Hurrah!" said Jack, and he shook Joe's hand, "we've surely got plenty of meat now."

"Yes," said Joe, "good meat, too."

They found the big leader lying on the snow just beyond the trees, his neck broken, and the other big deer not more than fifty yards beyond him.

"Now, Jack," said Joe, "I tell you what we'd better do: you go back to camp and get two pack horses, and fetch 'em up here, and I'll butcher these deer, and then we can take 'em back to the camp to-night. We don't want to make two trips."

"That's so," said Jack, "I'll either go back for the horses or butcher, whichever you like."

"No," said Joe, "you go back, and when I get through butchering I'll make a little fire here and dry off, and wait for you."

"All right," said Jack, "I'll do it. I don't believe it'll take me very long to get back to camp, and I'll be back here in an hour or two, anyhow."

He at once started, and was soon following the green timbered ridge down to the stream. When he reached there he found that camp was only a short distance further down the creek, and he was soon standing by the fire. Hugh had heard the shots, and was not surprised when Jack told them that they had two deer. Jack went out to look up the horses, and soon returned with two of them, and putting saddles on them, mounted one, and rode off up the hill leading the other.




Chapter XI

Tracks In The Snow


Meantime Joe had proceeded with his butchering and after he had finished, gathered some wood and made himself a little fire. It took some time to do this, for almost everywhere the wood was wet; but by looking carefully he found some dry branches that were sheltered by the foliage above them, and others that lay under a fallen tree, and presently he had a good fire lighted, and one that was so strong that he could throw wet wood on it and it would soon dry and burn. He built his fire in a sheltered place, and the light breeze drifted the smoke off down the stream. Before long he was warm and dry. After he had waited a while, he went out beyond the trees and looked off toward the ridge where Jack had gone, to see whether he was not yet coming back, but he saw nothing. A little later he went out again and Jack was not yet in sight, but as he turned about he saw coming down the hill about half a mile off, thirteen elk, mostly cows and calves, but one spikehorn, and following last of all and keeping the others together a monstrous bull with a great pair of horns. Of course when he saw them Joe stood still. The elk had come down from some higher hill, and when they came to where the snow was not very deep they began to scatter out and feed. When most of them had passed behind the point of hill which backed the next ridge above the one Joe was on, he began to move very slowly and cautiously toward the shelter of a clump of trees. Every now and then, one of the old cows would lift her head, and as she munched the grass that she had just plucked, would look all around the horizon, and when she did so, Joe stood without moving a muscle. Then when all the heads were down again, he very slowly moved a little toward his cover. At last only one of the elk was in sight, and when she put her head down he could see nothing but her back and hips, and two or three steps took him out of sight even of these. Still he did not run, but walked slowly, watching closely the sky-line above him, for at any moment one of the elk might walk up there to look over the country. None appeared, however, and in a very few moments he was hidden by the trees.

Now he did not know what to do. His first idea was to creep up to the ridge and kill some of the elk, but before he determined that he would do this he considered. He remembered how Hugh often spoke of not killing anything more than they needed to eat, and he knew that these deer that they had would last them for a long time. He did not wish to do anything that Hugh would not like, and so, instead of deciding that he would kill anything, he took his gun and walked over to the ridge, to look at the elk. He had crept up to the top of the hill and peered over, and was watching the elk feeding not far in front of him -- half a dozen of them within easy rifle-range -- when he heard a faint whoop behind him, and turning his head saw Jack coming with the pack-horses. Slowly creeping back a little way, Joe waved to him to come on, and to hurry, and Jack galloped the pack horses over to the foot of the ridge, and at a sign from Joe, dismounted. Then he crept up to Joe and they both lay there on the hill and watched the elk.

It was a pretty sight, and an interesting one, too. The bull, although all the time feeding, seemed to keep close watch of his companions. Once in a while one of the cows would stray off to a little distance from the others, and the bull would walk over toward her, shaking his head as he approached, and when the cow saw this she turned back to the bunch and joined them again. Then the bull began to feed once more.

"Watch him," said Joe, "he's a pretty good herder, isn't he? He won't let one of those cows wander away; he's afraid that somewhere there might be some other old bull looking for cows, that would take her and carry her off. Pretty smart at this time of year they are."

While they were watching the herd as they fed along a little beyond them, presently some eddy of the wind brought their scent to the cows farthest down the stream, and they lifted up their heads, and looked for a moment; then turned and trotted swiftly away up the hill. As soon as they did this, the other cows began to look, and then to move off; but the bull seemed to understand at once that there was danger near at hand, and rushed around the cows, thrusting at them with his horns, so that in a moment they were all in motion, and swiftly trotting away. At the top of the hill the cows paused to look back; but the bull, which was laboring along behind, shook his head at them, and they began to run again. When the elk had disappeared, the boys rose to their feet, and then realized that they were both of them chattering with cold. The breeze was blowing harder now, and lying on the hillside exposed to it, they had both become chilled. They went down to the horses and took them over to where the deer lay and then built up the fire and got warm again. Then they packed the deer on the two horses, but the animals were so large that they could not lift them without cutting them up into quarters. At last the loads were arranged, the ropes tightened, and they started down the hill toward camp, which they reached just before dark.

Supper was ready, and as soon as the boys had hung up their meat on the branches of a tree, and had washed their hands in the brook, they fell to eagerly. Not much was said during the meal, but after it had been cleared away and Hugh had filled his pipe and was sitting by the fire comfortably smoking, Jack said to him, "Hugh, we had a mighty nice view of a bunch of elk this afternoon, and watched them for quite a while, and saw the old bull gather up the cows and drive them away when they found that we were there."

"Yes," said Hugh, "haven't you ever seen a bull do that before?"

"No," said Jack, "I've seen plenty of elk but I never happened to see that."

"Well," said Hugh, "you know the bull elk is mighty rough with his cows, after he has gathered them and got a bunch, and what is more, when he is looking for them in the early fall, just about this time, he is mighty systematic in the way he hunts for them. I've sat on a hill and seen an old bull hunt out a lot of ravines in the elk country just as systematically as a cow-puncher would hunt them out for cattle. He makes a regular business of it, and after he's got them together he don't allow any straggling, and if a cow don't mind what he says, and he can catch her, he gives her a terrible thumping with those old horns of his."

"Well, Hugh, did you ever see two bulls fight?"

"Yes," said Hugh, "I've seen 'em do that a good many times. I reckon I've told you about that before. They don't fight quickly; they're not active like an antelope when they're fighting: but they're mighty powerful, and they come together pretty hard, and then they just push and push, and at last, if the footing is good, the biggest one is pretty sure to push the other out of the way, and if the smaller one doesn't hop round pretty lively, he gets a good punch with the horns. I've heard tell of elk killing each other when they fought; but I never saw anything like that, and I never even saw an elk get cut up with the horns of an animal that he was fighting with. Of course I never had a chance to look close at many elk that I saw fighting, but I never could see any blood or any cuts. An elk-hide is pretty thick, and I guess they just scratch and bruise each other.

"I've heard of elk-horns being locked, same as deer-horns often are, but I never myself saw but one pair; they were locked and you could not pull them apart. I heard that some chap bought them, up on the Missouri River, to send back east to some museum."

"Well, I tell you, Hugh," said Jack, "I don't think much of elk, anyhow, except to eat. You remember that tame one we had down at the ranch? There wasn't anything interesting or nice about him; he was awkward and clumsy and mean. Of course he looked nice, but that was about all."

"No," said Hugh, "that's so; elk meat is good, but that's about all elk are good for -- to eat."

The next morning the sun came out bright and strong, and the snow began to melt rapidly. Lines were strung among the trees, and all the blankets, ropes and saddles, which had been more or less wet during the last day or two, were hung up to dry. The flesh of the deer was sliced into thin flakes, and hung up on scaffolds made by Joe and Hugh, and under this a small fire was made, and the smoke passing under the flakes of meat partially dried it. The hams and saddle of one of the deer were kept for fresh meat.

"I'd like to get off this afternoon," said Hugh, toward midday. "Of course it's early in the season yet, and no heavy snow is likely to fall; but often we have a storm late in September that might stop us for a week, and I'd be pleased if we could get over the ridge before that comes. We must start as soon as these things get dry, and as soon as that meat will do to pack; it's pretty fat, and it won't dry fast in this kind of weather; this air is too damp."

In the effort to hurry up the drying process they built a large fire near the wet things that were hung up, and as the heat from the fire and from the sun grew strong, the steam rose from them. A little after noon, Hugh, who had been inspecting the things, said, "Come on, now; let's saddle up. The robes and blankets are dry, and we'll shove this meat in a sack and give it another steaming when we get to a good place. The weather is cool enough now so that it will keep until we get over the range." Before long the packs were lashed, and all the members of the party were in the saddle and pushing their way up the stream.

There was now no visible trail. The snow covered everything, and though it was dripping fast from the trees at their level, they could see that on the higher hills it still hung thick upon the branches. From time to time the stream narrowed, so that they were obliged to leave it and climb the ridges, which often afforded much better going than the creek bottom. As they climbed higher and higher, everything was draped in white; but now the sun went behind the clouds, and the glare of the white snow was not uncomfortable. Hugh had said as they started, "You boys better take and blacken your faces; I am going to do it;" and taking some charcoal from the fire, each of the party rubbed the black over the upper parts of the face, the cheeks, the bridge of the nose, and around the eyes, to keep the glare from the snow from affecting the eyes.

They climbed higher and higher, and as they climbed, the stream grew smaller. From time to time they reached some point from which there was an extended view, showing far-reaching, snow-clad mountains and evergreen forests; and ahead of them the high peaks of the main divide, with precipices of bare black rock, to which the snow could not cling. As they passed along, Jack noticed frequent tracks of deer and elk, and others of smaller animals which he did not recognize, and which there was no time to stop and ask about. Hugh rode fast, and the boys kept the animals close behind him. Often for a little distance through an open valley, or along a bare ridge, Hugh would trot or gallop. He was evidently anxious to get on.

It was growing dark when, at the head of a pretty, open valley, Hugh turned his horse into the timber, and after looking around for a moment, said, "We'll camp here, boys. Bring the horses right up close to Baldy." They did so, and soon had the loads on the ground. Poles were quickly cut, the lodge was put up, and the ground within it was soon cleared of snow, and a fire started. Then, under Hugh's direction, the boys went out and broke several armfuls of spruce boughs, which they brought in and placed around the walls of the lodge where the beds would be spread, to keep them off the snow. Two of the horses had already been picketed and the others hobbled. There was danger that night they might desert, and take the back trail for the lower ground, where, of course, they well remembered that there was good grass, while up here to get anything to eat they would have to paw through the deep snow.

"You boys had better cook supper," said Hugh. "I'm going down to the end of this valley, to see if I can't stop it up in some way so that the horses can't get away to-night; they're likely to leave us, and if they do, we'll have to hunt them to-morrow."

Before entering this valley they had passed up through a narrow canon, riding for a short distance in the stream-bed, and Hugh, who had noticed two or three spruce trees standing on either side of the stream, took an axe, went down there, and felling two of the trees across the stream, made a fence that the horses could not surmount. They could possibly get around by climbing high on the hillside, but as all the loose ones were hobbled, it was not likely that they would go very far up hill.

When he returned to the camp supper was ready, and before long they were all fast asleep.

The next morning was bright and cold. No more snow had fallen. The horses were all there, but those that had been hobbled looked gaunt and hungry. Hugh was up before daylight and took off their hobbles, and when the sun rose they were all busily at work getting what must have been their supper and breakfast. When their front feet were tied together, they could not paw through the snow to the grass beneath.

"Now boys," said Hugh, as soon as breakfast was over, "let's saddle up and get along. I'd like mightily to get over the range to-day, if we can." It took but a short time to get started, for the three had now been working together so long that they wasted no time, and made no unnecessary motions.

Neither of the boys had noticed the night before how deep the snow was; but to-day they could see that down here under the trees it was eight or ten inches deep, though perhaps in the open where it had a chance to melt or to blow off there was not so much.

As they went forward, Jack was more and more interested in the tracks. Down at the foot of a canon wall in the valley he saw a series of tiny parallel dots in the snow, which he thought must have been made by a little striped squirrel, which had run out from the broken rock-fragments where he had his home, down nearly to the water's edge, and then, frightened by some sight or sound, had turned and hurried, with long bounds, back to his rocky home. Higher up on the hill, about every weed-stalk that showed above the surface of the snow were numbers of long parallel depressions, and scattered about on the snow were fragments of the seed-cases of the plants, and strips of the bark of the stem. Here the birds had been at work, and so hard pressed for food that they had visited almost every projecting plant.

There had been killing during the night; death had been abroad, travelling over the barren hills, and pushing his way among the thickly clustered pines. There had been battles and ambuscades, and stern unrelenting pursuits; fierce struggles; resistance, feeble and unavailing; despair, and, at last, yielding, when the hope of escape was lost. More than one life had gone out that night on the hillside. Here, close to the margin of a little brook, was a pile of bright blue feathers, telling its story of death, and near it in the light snow, long, light strokes, which told of some fierce bird, that, in the gray light of the morning, had crushed in his strong crooked talons a little blue-bird which was just beginning his journey toward the south. There were tracks of a fox winding about on the hillside, often quartering the ground like a well trained hunting dog. He had covered much ground, and had visited every spot that might give shelter to his prey. In one place Jack saw the tracks of a grouse, and those of a fox following them, then suddenly the tracks of the grouse were seen no more, the last two sunk deep in the snow, showing where the bird had sprung from the ground and had darted away among the snow-laden trees. A few feet from these, Jack could see where the fox had stopped when the bird took flight, and he could fancy how angrily the sly fellow gazed after it as he saw his wished-for breakfast disappear. A little further on the fox had been more lucky, and a hole dug in the snow and a tuft or two of bluish fur showed where the keen-nosed hunter had caught a mouse.

At the border of a grove of pines, Jack saw the impress of the great pads of the snowshoe rabbit, scarcely sinking into the light snow. For the most part, the rabbits kept close under the evergreens where the snow was less deep, and food most easily to be found; but if startled by fox or wolf, they could readily run over the drifts, where the heavier pursuer must sink into them, far behind.

As they climbed higher and higher, the trees grew larger, and now they began to see, through the valley and coming down from the higher hills on either side, the tracks of elk. The heavy snow-fall, warning these animals of the near approach of winter, had set them in motion down from the peaks, and everywhere trails were seen leading from the hillside into the valley. They saw none of the animals, for the footfalls of the pack-train clambering over the rocks, the sound of dead branches rattling against the packs, and the calls to the horses alarmed the elk at a distance, and they retreated to the timber, out of sight.

Presently the climbing seemed at an end for the present, and the valley became more open and nearly level. Not far ahead off to the southeast they could see a low pass in the mountains, which seemed likely to be the one they were trying to find. As they ascended, the stream continued to grow smaller, large branches, almost equal in size to the main brook kept coming into it, and often it was uncertain which was the main fork. Hugh gave no hint of what was passing in his mind, but pushed on, and the boys kept the animals close behind him.

In this broad level valley there were more elk tracks than ever. These, seen at a distance, were very pretty, often looking like two delicate chains laid side by side, and running for a long distance almost in a straight line. Sometimes the animals seemed to have wandered about, biting off the heads of the grass and weeds that stood above the snow; but always at last the tracks turned and kept on down the valley. In the middle of the great meadow stood an old pine stub, and a number of the tracks converged to this, and then went away from it in one path. It seemed that the elk, coming along, had gone to this stump, and rubbed against it, and then all followed the same trail going away.

As the afternoon advanced, the valley grew narrow again and they entered the timber, and soon afterward came on what was evidently a trail that had been travelled both by whites and Indians. Some of the trees were blazed with an axe, but many years ago, for the bark had partly grown over the old blazes; there were later marks where little three-cornered patches of the bark had been knocked off, showing where the hard corners of packs had struck against the trees. On one or two of the trees were seen little woolen threads, white and red, showing where some Indian's blanket had rubbed against the trunk and left a little sign, to remain there for years. At length, the trail again passed out of the timber into a narrow valley, and a sharp climb brought them to a place where water seemed to be flowing down hill both before and behind them. Hugh stopped and waved his hand and pointed ahead; and beyond they could see a valley, steep-walled and full of timber, stretching off toward the southeast.




Chapter XII

What Will Become Of The Elk?


"Here we are, boys; this is the divide -- the top of the range," said Hugh. "Now if we can only get down this hill and find decent travelling in the valley, we'll soon be out of this snow. I expect this is one of the heads of Wind River, and I hope we can make it down below the snow to-morrow."

The way down the new stream was steep, and for a while progress was slow. There appeared to be no trail, and several times Hugh dismounted and went ahead slowly on foot, to pick out a way for the animals down steep rock slides. At last, however, they came to a point where the stream had a little bottom, thickly overgrown with timber, but all of it green; and working their way along through this they came, shortly before sundown, to a little open park surrounded by willows, where they camped.

There was a little daylight left after camp had been made and supper eaten, and Jack, with Hugh, walked out to the edge of the stream. There was a good deal of water flowing in it, for ever since they came into the valley they had been crossing rivulets and brooklets, tumbling down from the high hills and pouring their current into the valley. The little river flowed among the close-set pines, and its bed was composed of great blocks of stone. Just opposite the camp it opened out into a pool twenty feet long, and half as wide; and, as they stood here, they saw two little dippers at work in the stream.

Although Jack had often seen these birds in the northern mountains, they constantly interested him. He knew that, although living always in and about the water, their nearest relations were not water-birds, such as ducks or snipe, but instead were thrushes, of which the common robin is one. Yet as many times as he had seen them diving into the water, swimming about on it, and again disappearing beneath its waves, he could never quite get over his astonishment at seeing a bird walk down the shelving rock or smooth beach into the water, and keep on walking, without attempting to swim or to dive, until it had disappeared.

He spoke about this now to Hugh, and said, "Those are the queerest little birds I ever saw, and I don't know of any like them anywhere."

"Yes," said Hugh, "they are queer; but they're mighty cheerful -- mighty good company if you're alone in the mountains. They stay here, you know, all summer and all winter, wherever the water is open, and they've got a real nice little song, and they sing, too, at all seasons of the year. There, listen to that one," he said, as a dipper appeared from under the water in the pool before them, and then flying to an old dead stick that projected from the bank, alighted on it and began to warble a simple but pleasing song. After it had finished, it flew part way across the pool, and then dived from the wing, and came to the surface again some distance below where it had entered the water. Then flying to a rock it seemed to batter to pieces some small object which it had brought up from the bottom, which it then devoured.

"Don't it seem queer, Hugh," said Jack, "that they never get wet; their plumage seems light and fluffy, like that of a land bird, and not close and compact like that of the duck or grebe. They must have a big oil-sack, and must oil up their feathers pretty often."

"I reckon they do," said Hugh, "but I'm sure they never get wet. I've often wondered what it is they feed on; I suppose it's insects that live at the bottom of the water. Anyhow, I've often seen them bring up one of those little worms that build sort of houses for themselves out of sticks and little bits of sand, and take it to a rock and pound it to pieces, and then eat the worm that's inside of it. You've seen those things, haven't you? I don't know what they do, or what they're good for, without it is to feed the birds and the fish."

"Oh yes, Hugh," said Jack, "I've often seen those. Mighty queer little houses they are, but I don't know any more than you do what the insect in them lives for. I expect he may turn into a dragonfly, or maybe some kind of beetle or other. I know I've heard that there are lots of insects that lay their eggs, and live part of their lives in water, and then finally, coming up to the surface, change their shape and become perfect insects."

"Well," said Hugh, "I expect likely that's the way it may be."

Jack noticed that the dippers seemed to dive into the upper part of the pool, and to be carried down by the swift current close to a little point of rocks, and slowly walking out there, and standing perfectly still, he soon saw one of the birds drop down from a large stone near him, and disappear under the water. He could see a sort of a flying shadow under the surface, and in a moment the bird came up a little below him, and flew off to the other side of the stream. As it grew darker, the dippers disappeared, having probably gone to their roost; and as the two returned to camp, Hugh said to Jack, "Son, did you ever see one of the nests made by these birds?"

"No, Hugh, I never did," said Jack.

"Well, we must be on the lookout for that. They're mighty queer little nests. On the outside they seem to be made of green moss, so that the nests look just like a bunch of moss growing on a rock. Often they build them close under some little water-fall, and I expect maybe it's the mist from the fall that keeps the moss wet and growing; but if the outside is damp and wet, the inside is just as dry as can be, and the young birds have a good warm place, and a good roof over their heads. It's kind of fun to watch one of these nests and see how hard the old birds have to work to keep the young birds quiet. They come with an insect, and give it to some one of the young ones, and then dart off, and are not gone more than a few minutes, and then come back again, so both the old birds keep travelling back and forth; and all the time the young ones are making all the noise they can, only you can't hear'em for the sound of the water -- they're a hungry lot, I tell you. Of course, the breeding season is past a long time now, and maybe if we keep our eyes open we'll be able to see a nest and get it for you to take home with you, though often they're in a place where it's mighty hard to get at them."

The little circular meadow in which they had camped was not large enough to give good feeding for their horses, even if the ground had not been covered with snow; but Hugh felt certain that the horses would not try to follow the back trail up the hill again, nor did he think that they would venture away down the stream into country unknown to them. However, he picketed two horses and hobbled most of the others, and when morning came they were most of them in sight, though one or two had strayed away into the timber. The snow on the ground made it an easy matter to follow them, and soon after sunrise the train had started on again.

The travelling was better than had been expected. Although sometimes the walls of the valley drew so close together that there was hardly room for the stream to flow, they managed to get along without very much climbing, and were all the time going down hill. The next night when they camped, the snow had almost entirely disappeared from the valley, only patches lying in some of the most shady spots. There was abundant sign of game here, but they saw none, nor did they look for it. The next afternoon however, Hugh stopped as they were crossing a meadow, and, calling Jack to him, pointed out some tracks in the soft ground, which Jack at first supposed were elk tracks, but on more careful examination found to be quite different; and after thinking for a moment, he asked Hugh if they could be moose tracks.

"Yes," said Hugh, "that's just what they are. This was a good bull, and he crossed here early this morning. Follow his tracks a little way and see if you can make out anything special about them, and then come on after us and tell me what you saw."

Jack followed slowly along on the tracks until they entered the timber. Then he returned to take his position in the pack train. By this time the way was so open that it was not necessary to travel in single file, and Jack, riding up to Hugh said, "Well, Hugh, those tracks are about twice as long as an elk's track, and only a little bit wider; that makes them look long and narrow. Then, besides that, I noticed that whenever the animal went over a soft spot, and his foot sank in a little, there seemed to be two marks behind the main track, and I suppose those are the dew claws sinking in. Is that so?"

"That's it," said Hugh, "I'm glad you took notice so carefully. Maybe we'll get a chance to kill a moose before we get down out of these mountains. We don't really want one now; but you've never seen a moose, and I expect if one should show up, why maybe you'd want to shoot at it."

"Well, Hugh, I guess I would," said Jack; "but I suppose as long as we're travelling here with the pack train, and making so much noise, there isn't much chance of our seeing one."

"No, not much," said Hugh.

As the valley became wider, and the stream larger, there seemed to be more life in the bottom. Several broods of ruffed grouse had been noticed during the day, and all were so tame that they scarcely moved out of the horses' way as they passed along. In the river there were a few ducks, of the kind that breed high up in the mountains; and the next morning, when Jack was down at the water's edge, just after he had risen, he saw a hawk make a dash at a family of ducks. The ducks were flying down the river when the hawk came out of the timber and darted toward them. They all fell into the water, with loud splashings, and the hawk swooped at one of them which was a little apart from the main flock; but the duck made a rush to one side and easily avoided it. Then the hawk gave up the chase, and flew into a tall tree, where he watched the ducks as they swam swiftly down the stream. Jack was amused at a little spotted sandpiper that had been flying up the stream when the hawk darted for the ducks. The bird was very much frightened, thinking that the hawk was after it. It dropped into the water as if it had been shot, and sat there with its head cocked to one side, watching the enemy, and prepared to dive at a second's warning, if the hawk should dash at it.

The weather was bright and pleasant, and they kept on down the stream, which constantly grew wider. Now there was some sage-brush on the benches above the bottom, and often the trail kept away from the stream, and close under these benches, in order to avoid the frequent wet and miry places which would have troubled the horses. As Jack was riding along he suddenly heard a shot behind him, and looking about, saw three deer running near the top of a ridge, and just below the timber. Joe had shot at one of them, and just after Jack looked round, two of them disappeared over the ridge. The last one stopped almost at its crest, and looked back, and Joe fired again. The doe fell, and Joe rode up to where she lay. The train was halted, and when the deer had been brought down to the trail she was put on one of the packs and they started on again. As the bottom became wider it was evident that beaver had been much at work here, and although they had long deserted it, the marshes and sloughs and mud-holes caused by their damming of the stream still remained as pitfalls for the traveller.

Ever since they had left Snake River they had heard from time to time the shrill bugling call of the elk, though near the top of the range where the snow was deepest they had not heard them whistle. Now, however, they frequently heard elk, and on this day an old bull came out of a point of timber near which they were travelling, and stood and looked at them. He was but a short distance off, and might easily have been killed; but they had meat enough, and there was no reason for shooting him. He was but forty or fifty yards distant, and seemed disposed to come even nearer, making some threatening demonstrations with his head, and advancing a few steps; but no attention was paid to him, and presently he turned about and disappeared in the timber. Hugh said that very likely the elk took some of the pack animals for cows, and wished to gather them in.

That night they camped on an enlargement of the river, which almost seemed like a little lake. Behind them and on either side were timbered hills, before them the water, and beyond the mountains rising steeply. The lodge stood in a little grove of pine trees, which furnished shelter and fuel, and the hungry animals fed on the rich grass behind it. The bright fire in front of the lodge lit up the trees and the lodge and the pack saddles, and as it flamed and flickered, curious shadows peeped out from the dark caverns that stretched back beneath the pine branches to the gloom beyond, and sometimes creeping stealthily forth, danced for a moment within the circle of the firelight, and then chased one another back into the darkness, and were swallowed up in it. The soft murmur of the river over its stones came to the campers in a monotonous undertone, while now and then from the nearby trees came the plaintive call of some bird, and the mountain sides echoed at intervals to the fierce shrill challenge of the angry elk.

"This is a great elk country, isn't it, Hugh?" said Jack. "It seems to me that elk are 'most everywhere, and I suppose they'll always be here, won't they?"

"Well, I don't know, son," said Hugh; "it's pretty hard to say about that. They'll likely be here until the white folks come; but as soon as they come, why the elk are bound to go. I've heard they're talking about passing a law not to let them be killed in the Park we came through -- that place where the hot springs and spouting fountains are. But just as soon as mineral is discovered in these hills, the game will go. I reckon, too, that this law they're talking about passing for that Park back there won't amount to much, for I talked with two hunters there who said that they expected to get the contract this winter to kill meat for all them fellows that's working on those buildings that we saw. Of course what two men'll kill in a winter won't amount to much; but just as soon as many people begin to come into this country, the game will all get killed off. I've seen places down in the south, in Colorado, where twenty or twenty-five years ago game was so plenty that you could kill all you wanted right close to camp, any time; and now that country is full of settlers, miners and ranchmen, and they've killed off the game for the mining camps and tie camps and every settler has to go and get three or four wagon loads for his winter's meat, and the first thing they know there won't be a hoof left in the country."

"Well, but Hugh," said Jack, "what's going to become of all the game? Isn't there going to be any left after a few years?"

"You can't prove it by me, son. I don't know; but I expect there won't be any game left, unless they pass some laws, and enforce them, to stop the killing of it. Of course laws don't mean anything without they're enforced, and as far as I can see, these laws protecting the game never are enforced."

"But, Hugh," said Jack, "that seems to me all wrong. Do you mean to say that if I come out here twenty years from now there won't be anything for me to hunt?"

"Looks that way to me, son," said Hugh.

"And if I should have a son, and ever want to bring him out here and show him the things that I saw when I was a boy, he could not see them?"

"I don't believe he could. I tell you, son, this country has changed an awful lot since I first saw it, and it seems to me it's changing more and more all the time, and quicker now than it used to. I used to think that the time would never come when I couldn't go out and kill meat if I wanted it; but my ideas have changed a whole lot in the last year or two, and I believe now that the time will come when there won't be any game left for a man to shoot with a rifle. I used to think that the buffalo could never be killed off, but I've seen 'em killed off over part of the country, and I may live long enough to see 'em killed off everywhere."

"Well," said Jack, "it seems as if there ought to be some way to stop that."

"Yes, there ought to be," said Hugh, "but you see, every fellow that comes out into the mountains, he's just like you and me; we think the other fellow oughtn't to kill game, but we ought to kill it. We claim that we don't kill anything more than what we want to eat, and these other fellows claim, maybe -- if they're buffalo skinners or elk skinners -- that they don't kill any more than they want to skin. Each man thinks that what he'll kill won't do any harm; but when they're all at work killing as hard as they can, the upshot of it is that there's no game left."

"I see," said Jack; "each one of us is thinking about himself and about nobody else, and yet each one of us is likely to talk about what the other people do. You must have seen lots of game in your life, Hugh," he added.

"Yes, son," said Hugh, "I've seen a heap of game. Why, at one time men used to travel day after day, and never be out of sight of game; and most times the game was not afraid at all. Buffalo or elk or antelope would just move out the way, and a man never thought of shooting at anything until he needed meat to eat. Of course in those times we never took anything but the best parts, and so it often happened that we killed an animal every two or three days. But we never thought, up to within a very few years ago, when railroads began to come into the country, that things would be much different from what they were then; but when the railroads came, they brought a heap of people, a good many of them hunters, and a good many of them men who came to live on the land where the game had always roamed without being bothered by anybody, except maybe once a year when Indians happened to pass that way and perhaps camped in the neighborhood for a few weeks. Of course the time has been when a man could easily enough kill a car-load of game in a day, but in the old times no one had any reason for doing that. We could only eat about so much meat, and wear about so much buckskin; and ammunition cost money, and nobody wanted to waste it."




Chapter XIII

A Pack Horse In Danger


They had not gone far down the river the next morning when the mountains on either side drew closer together, and the valley narrowed greatly. Before they had gone far Hugh stopped, and, turning, said to the boys as they came up, "I don't like the looks of things ahead; I reckon we'll have to go up on the hillside down below here. Looks to me like we were coming to a canon."

A little farther along it proved so; and Hugh, after going ahead and making a little investigation, called out to the boys to bring on the animals. They found him on a narrow game trail, which began to climb the hill among thick timber, where the trees stood so close on both sides of the trail that it was evident that there might be trouble in getting the packs along. Hugh got an axe out of the pack, and, going ahead on foot, began to chop the branches on either side, so as to make room for the loaded horses. Two or three times he found small trees fallen across the trail, and, as it was extremely steep, it was necessary to cut out each one of these. Progress was slow, but after two or three hours they emerged from the timber and could see ahead of them the trail leading along a very steep hillside. Immediately below the trail grew underbrush, and below that the rocks fell off sharply to the river. From the hillside a number of little brooks and springs trickled down, making slippery, muddy places in the trail over which it was necessary to go carefully. Hugh several times called back to the boys, saying, "Go slow along this place, and don't crowd the animals; let each one take its time, and you boys go on foot. The horses will follow all right."

There was nothing on the trail that was difficult for a man on foot or for a careful horse, and for some time they went on very well, and made good time; but in crossing a little brook which ran down over the trail, and where there was a mud-hole, the bay horse, pausing and putting down his head to investigate the trail, was crowded upon by the dun and kicked back at him with both heels, and when his feet came down they were over the edge of the trail, and, trying to recover himself, he clumsily fell down and rolled over once or twice. Just below the trail at this point there was a big patch of stiff alders growing close to the steep hillside. Jack saw the horse begin to fall, and, dropping his own bridle rein and placing his gun on the hillside above the trail, he slipped by the dun, and before the pack horse had turned over twice he had caught it by its hackamore and checked it. In a moment Joe was by his side, and the two hung on like grim death, and held the horse there on its side, with its head a little up the hill. Meantime Hugh had left his horse and come back along the trail, and in a moment he too had hold of the horse's head. Fortunately, the horse lay perfectly quiet, and neither slid nor rolled, his hips being more or less supported by the alders. Hugh quickly unfastened the hackamore, which gave all hands a better hold, and then said to Jack, "Slip down there now, behind the horse, and see if you can loosen that lash rope. If you can't, cut the lacing that holds it to the cinch. We've got to get that pack off, or else lose the animal. Don't get where the horse can hit you with his feet; reach over his back."

The horse was lying on its off side, and it was impossible to loosen the lash rope, but reaching over the back, Jack cut the lacings of the lash cinch, so that the whole lash rope fell off. "Now," said Hugh, "come back here and hang on to the hackamore." Jack took Hugh's place, and Hugh quickly loosened the sling ropes, and removing the packs from the saddle, carried them up to the trail, and then along it a little distance until he reached a place where the ground on the upper side sloped more gradually. Here he deposited the packs one by one; then he took hold of the hackamore again and said to Jack, "Go and get your rope and bring it here, and tie it round this horse's neck in a bowline." When this had been done, the end of the rope was passed round a small spruce tree, which grew just above the trail, and then all three held the rope, so that now the horse could not possibly roll down the hill, unless the tree gave way, or the men let the rope go. While two of them held the rope, Jack led the horses along the trail, until a place was reached where it came out on a wider ledge, and leaving them there returned. Then the pack horse was made to rise to its feet, and without very great difficulty, assisted by the rope about its neck, it climbed back to the trail and was led along to a place where there was more room. Now, while Hugh mended the lash cinch, the boys carried the packs along the trail to where it was wider, and at length the horse was re-packed, and they started on.

While they were at work, Jack said to Hugh, "I want you to understand, Hugh, that I didn't drive the dun onto that horse. The dun came up behind him and stopped, and the bay kicked at him, and lost his footing, and went over the side of the trail."

"I know," said Hugh, "I know; I was watching. It wasn't anybody's fault, but the fool horse that tried to kill himself. You did mighty well to get hold of him as quick as you did, and if it hadn't been for that, if he'd made one more roll, he'd have gone over the rocks, and we'd have lost him, and likely a lot of the load he's carrying.

"We've got to look for things like this when we're travelling with a pack train, and I'm mighty surprised that we've had as little trouble as we have."

It was near sundown when Hugh stopped as they came out on a bench of the hillside, and said: "I reckon we'll have to camp up here to-night, boys. There don't seem to be any place where we can get down to the river. There's good grass here for the horses and a place where we can picket two or three of them, but I don't see any water just here. Jack, you ride up the hill, and see whether you can find anything that looks like a spring. Joe and I'll stop here with the horses."

Jack had not ridden far, when, passing over a little ridge, he found, issuing from a ledge of rock, a good spring, which ran down into a little ravine, and calling to the others, they came up there, unsaddled, and made camp. It was dark when supper was over, and their talk was chiefly of the difficulties of the day, and the narrow escape had by the pack horse.

"A man is bound to lose an animal in the mountains now and then," said Hugh, "not always through his own carelessness, but because there's always some horses and mules that are fools. After all a horse is nothing but a bundle of nerves, and if he gets scared and loses his head, why he doesn't do anything but jump round and kick and make things worse for himself. Now, that's where a good man has the bulge on any dumb beast that ever was. A man, if he's got sense, will stop and think, and reason, and try to find some way out of his difficulty; but a critter doesn't do that. That's the reason horses and mules and cattle stampede, and that's the reason often that human beings stampede too; they lose their senses, and become no better at all than just so many animals. We've always got to keep our wits about us, be ready, and when anything happens do the right thing, and do it right off -- like you did to-day, son, when you ran to grab that horse's head, and like you did too, Joe; for I saw that you were both ready. You saved us the horse, and a mighty good job it is.

"I remember one day, years ago, we lost our whole kitchen outfit just through the foolishness of a mule. It was near Henry's Fork of Green River, and I was guiding a lot of soldiers and bug hunters up from the Unita agency. To get down into the valley we had to follow down a mighty sharp crest that ran out between two deep ravines. It was mighty narrow, and a terrible long way down on either side, but there were no bad places in it; but a big bay mule that carried the kitchen, in two big baskets, tried to turn round and look at the rest of the train that were coming, and somehow she caught her hind legs over the edge, and they slipped down, and she hung a little while with her forefeet, but before any one could get to her she let go, and she fell. She was dead long before she struck the bottom, I guess, and the kitchen was all smashed and broken up. I believe we did get some knives and forks and tin plates out of the mess, but the plates were all battered, and had to be hammered out on a tree with an axe before they would set on the ground. It was one of the worst falls I ever saw an animal take."

The next morning the horses were seen scattered all along the hillside above the camp, and it took the boys some time to gather and bring them in; and while they were doing this, a big doe, followed by two little fawns, jumped up out of a patch of quaking aspen, ran a short distance up above them on the hillside, and then all three animals turning round stood looking at them, with their great ears thrown forward. The boys stood for a few moments and looked at her, and then she turned again and clambered still higher up, only to stop again for another look. Neither felt any desire to shoot at her.

The greater part of the day was devoted to working down stream along the hillside. They found that they could travel with some comfort on the benches, except when these were interrupted at frequent intervals by deep ravines, cut out by streams coming down from the hills, and the plunge down into these, and the subsequent climb up the other side, was tiring to the animals. Also they had to stop frequently to adjust the packs and tighten the saddles.

That night they camped again on the benches, and Hugh said, "I believe we'll do as well to stop somewhere, if we can find a good camp, and rest up for two or three days. These horses have been having hard work now for some little time, and they'll get poor. Besides that, this up and down work is awful hard on their backs, and I think it would be a good idea to given 'em a rest. If we can find a good camp to-morrow, any time in the day, as we're travelling along, I think we better stop and rest up, or we can stop right here. You boys might want to take a hunt or a fish. It's nice weather now, and we're low enough down so that there's no danger that the snow will catch us, and I think we can spare the time."

"Well, Hugh," said Jack, "I think that's a pretty good idea. I'd like to look over these hills and see what there is in them, and I guess we'd all like to rest for a day."

The next few days were spent in this camp. Hugh was busy mending up saddles and riggings, fixing blankets, and getting things in good shape for their further journey, while Jack fished a good deal in the river and took many trout.

One day while working around the edge of a large pool, and trying to cover it all with his line, he found himself close to a steep rocky wall, over which poured a fall six or eight feet high. He had fished here for some minutes, when suddenly his eye caught a round brownish-green bunch of something, resting on a little ledge close to the falls and over deep water; and as he saw it he thought that this must be a nest of the dipper. It was impossible to get close to it, and remembering that it was now autumn and that the nest by no possibility could contain anything, he reached over with his pole, and pushing it from its position, it fell to the water and was soon in his hand. He found it just what Hugh had described: a bunch of moss, containing a chamber within, lined with dried grass and a few feathers, and with a round hole at the front for the passage in and out of the birds. It was a beautiful piece of bird architecture, and he determined to take it with him and to try to carry it back east.




Chapter XIV

A Bighorn


While Hugh had been working and Jack fishing, Joe had been roaming the hillsides. He had found some signs of game and killed another little fawn, but had not been higher up than the first bench above the camp. From there, however, he had seen higher mountains rising beyond, and one night he said to Jack, "Jack, why don't you quit catching these fish, and let's go up high on the hills here, and see if we can't kill something?"

"That's a good idea, Joe," said Hugh, "the meat of these black-tails is about gone now, and it's a good idea for you boys to go out and kill something more. That last fawn that you got is almost gone, too. We don't want to keep eating fish all the rest of the trip.

"Good enough," said Jack. "I'll go you; and we'll start early to-morrow morning. Shall we take horses, Hugh?"

"Why, no," said Hugh, "if I were you I'd leave the horses here to rest, and go afoot. You can hunt better afoot, and then if you kill anything that's too big for you to pack in, you can come down and get a horse for it."

The next morning the two boys started early, and for a long time scrambled up the hill. When they reached the top of the bench above camp, they found before them a plateau, more or less level, and beyond that rose another ridge, which cut off the view. They climbed and climbed for a long time, passing over one bench after another, and at length, a little before noon, Joe saw far off on the hillside, at about the same level with themselves, three mountain sheep. They were on quite another mountain, for there were two wide gorges between them and the boys; and, what was more to the point, the sheep had already seen them and were looking. So the boys kept on climbing.

At last they reached the rocks, a great brown slope of broken weathered lichen-covered stones, which rose steeply before them; but the going was not bad, and they climbed up, heading always for a place where the precipices above seemed broken away, so that they could get through. It was now noon and the sun shone warm, but a cool breeze was blowing along the hillside, and the air was fresh and invigorating. Jack said, "Now, Joe, when we get to the top of this cliff we'll find a sheltered place, and sit down there and eat."

"That will be good," said Joe; "I'm hungry." They had now climbed quite high, and looking across at the mountain on the other side of the stream, could see that the timber was small, and that a little higher up it seemed to stop. Joe said, "We ought to see sheep up here, it seems to me."

"I should think so," said Jack, "but we'll have to wait until we get to some place where we can get a good look along the mountain." Before long they reached a ravine, and clambering up it for some distance came out on a rocky hillside, from which both to the north and south they could see a long way over ground that for the most part was open and steeply sloping. Above them the mountains rose in a series of narrow benches -- a bench not more than fifty feet wide, and then a cliff as high, then another bench, and another cliff, and so on up. Here, choosing a place which was sheltered from the wind, they sat down and rested for a while, at the same time eating their bread and dried meat, which tasted very good. When they had finished, Jack said:

"Now, Joe, you know more about the mountains than I do. What shall we do? Shall we keep on climbing, and try to get up to the top, or shall we walk along one of these benches? I suppose if we do that we might easily enough run across some sheep, for at this time of the day they'd be likely to be lying down in just such places."

"Yes," said Joe, "that's so; but if they're lying down there, they're looking 'round all the time, and pretty sure to see you before you see them. Then maybe they'll make one jump out of sight, going up the hill, or down, and you don't get a shot."

"Well, then," said Jack, "let's go higher."

"All right," said Joe, "we'll go ahead."

The climb was steep and rough and hard, but they kept at it for sometime longer, and at last found themselves up above the benches and on a gentle rounded rock slope, where little grass grew. There were no trees or tall weeds.

"Now," said Joe, "I think we've got to the place. Now we can work along and look down into these ravines, or little basins, or onto the ledges, and maybe if we see sheep we'll be above them and can get to them."

They followed the ridge down the stream, and in the first ravine that they came to they saw a big drift of snow. They headed that, and as they went on, found that in all the low places on the mountain top there was more or less snow. They had gone more than half a mile when, peering over a crest of rock, they looked down into a pretty little basin in which there was a good deal of snow, but above the snow grew green grass, and almost below them feeding were two good sized rams. The animals did not see them, and they drew back.

"Now, Joe," said Jack, "which of us shall shoot? I guess you'd better, because I don't think you have ever killed a big ram, have you?"

"No," said Joe, "I never killed a ram as big as this, but then I've killed sheep, and I'll have plenty of chances to hunt when maybe you won't. You'd better shoot."

"No," said Jack, "I'd rather have you."

"No," said Joe, "you shoot."

"Well, I tell you," said Jack, "let's toss up for it, the way we did before," and picking up a small flat stone he spat on one side of it, and said, "we'll call the wet side heads. Now, you call," and throwing it up in the air, Joe called "Head" and "tail" came uppermost.

"All right," said Jack, "that settles it." He stepped forward and shot, and Joe stood beside him, ready, in case Jack should miss. At the crack of the gun the two sheep jumped a little, but did not run away but stood looking in all directions. Jack said to Joe, "Now you give him another," and Joe fired at the sheep Jack had shot at. Almost as the gun cracked, the sheep sank to his knees, and its head fell down. The boys reloaded their guns, and began to pick their way down the rocks to it. The other ram stood until they had approached quite near to it, and then suddenly seeming to become very much frightened, rushed away along the mountain side, and was soon seen climbing the cliff.

They could see that the ram that had fallen was big and fat, and knew that they could not take the whole of the meat into camp with them, and both felt quite sure that they could not bring an animal up here. At least, if they could do so, it would take all day to do it. On turning over the sheep and examining it, they found that the bullet holes made by the two shots were only two inches apart. Both were shots that would have killed the sheep in a few moments. This merely meant that Jack's had not given the animal a shock sufficient to throw it to the ground.

When they had butchered, they found the sheep very fat, and neither Jack nor Joe liked the idea of leaving the greater part of it up here on the mountain to waste. "I'll tell you what we'll do, Jack," said Joe, "let's each of us take one of the shoulders and try to carry that down to camp, and then to-morrow we can come up here with the horses and see if we can get the rest of it down. We can tell as we go home what sort of a trail there will be up here for a horse. Of course we can't get him up here over these cliffs that we climbed, but maybe by following down the stream that runs out of this basin we can find a horse trail."

When the boys got into camp that night they were both pretty tired. They told Hugh what they had done, and that it was impossible to get a horse up as they had gone. Of course there might be some other way of climbing the hills.

"Well," said Hugh, "now I'll tell you what we'll do to-morrow: we'll take a pack horse, and all of us go up there on foot, and we'll take the horse as far as we can, and when we can't get him any further, why of course we'll have to leave him. Then we can bring the meat down, or most of it, on our backs, and when we get to the horse, put it on him, and so get it all to camp."

"Well, Hugh," said Jack, "let's do that; but I tell you, that sheep is awful heavy. I had all I wanted to carry one of those shoulders down, and of course the hams will be twice as heavy as the shoulders. I don't believe either Joe or I can carry those hams."

"Oh, well, we don't any of us know what we can do until we try. I'd like to stretch my legs on the mountains, and I'll see what we can do toward bringing in the meat to-morrow."

While breakfast was being cooked next morning Hugh told the boys to go out and bring in the dun horse, for he was the stoutest and toughest animal in the bunch, and besides that, Hugh thought him the best climber.

Before starting, Hugh had the boys point out as nearly as possible the direction from which they had come the night before, and then swinging off down the hill, he worked up on the mountain, the others following close behind. Studying each steep ascent as they approached it over the more or less level bench below, he avoided a number of the rock climbs that the boys had made the day before, and several times led the horse up through ravines where Jack would not have supposed it possible for any animal except a sheep or a deer to pass. Jack noticed, too, Hugh's method of climbing. While he walked briskly across the level and gently sloping country, he climbed steep ascents rather slowly and stopped frequently. The boys, of course, did just as he did, and Jack noticed that he was not nearly so tired or so out of breath as he had been during the climb of the day before.

During one of the rests which they made just after reaching a bench, Jack said, "I wonder why it is, Hugh, that I can climb so much better to-day than I could yesterday. Yesterday I lost my wind all the time, and it took me a long time to get it back. Every time I climbed up one of these steep places, when I got to the top I gave out, and had to throw myself down and pant for a long time before I could go on. I suppose it's because I've been riding so much, and doing but little on foot."

"Yes," said Hugh, "I reckon that has something to do with it; but how did you climb yesterday? Did you hurry on and try to get to the top of each cliff quick, going as fast as you could, and then stop and rest for a long time?"

"Yes, that's the way we did. We wanted to get up to the top as quickly as we could, and see what was over the next hill."

"Well," said Hugh, "that's natural, but I don't think that's the way to climb 'round among the mountains. You get along as fast, and I think easier, if you go more slowly and make frequent stops, but have them short ones. If you go hurrying all the time, you get all blown by the hard work you're doing, and then when you have to stop, you have to stop a long time, and after you've rested for a long time you don't feel much like getting up and going on again; you're all tired out.

"It always seems to me," he went on, "better to climb a little way and then stop and take a few deep breaths, and then go on a little way further, and then stop and breathe again. In that way you are not nearly so tired at any time, and the whole climb is easier for you. I have scrambled 'round considerable in the mountains myself, and that is the way I've learned to climb. You watch through the rest of the day, and see if you don't find it easier on you than it was yesterday."

"I will," said Jack. "It seems a good deal easier so far, but then we haven't climbed anywhere near as steep places as we did yesterday."

"That's another thing you want to learn," said Hugh: "when you're climbing the mountains, try always to pick the easiest road; it's a good deal less trouble to go 'round and take the easy slopes, even if it's twice as long, than it is to buck right against the steep face of a hill. Of course there's lots of places where there are no easy slopes, and you've got to go up over bad steep sliding shell-rock, and to climb up straight cliffs; but when you can do it, it pays to take the easy ways."




Chapter XV

A Charging Grizzly


They were now getting high up in the mountain, and pretty near, Jack thought, to where the sheep was. The horse was still with them, and it astonished Jack to see that Hugh found a means of getting him up or around every cliff or rock slide that they met. At length they were so near the top that, after speaking with Joe about it, Jack told Hugh that he thought they were pretty near the game. One more high cliff should bring them to the little basin in which the sheep lay.

"Well, boys, if you're sure of that," said Hugh, "we'll leave the horse here, and maybe we can pack the meat down to him. It's getting to be pretty steep and pretty rocky under foot, I don't want to take him any further than we must."

"Well," said Joe, "I think we're right close now -- that it's just over this little bluff ahead of us."

Hugh twisted the horse's rope around a little bush that grew on the hillside, and then turning to Joe said, "Well, Joe, go ahead, and take us up to it." Joe started, and they were soon at the ridge; but just before passing over it, Joe made a motion with his hand, and sank back out of sight, and whispered to Hugh, "There's a bear at the sheep."

"Sure?" said Hugh.

"Sure," said Joe.

"Well, how can we get at him?" asked Jack, who had pushed up beside Hugh.

"The same way we did at the sheep, I guess," said Joe. "It don't look very far from here. You take a look, Hugh." Hugh climbed up, and cautiously raising his head, looked for a few seconds, and lowering it again said, "Well, boys, we've got more than we bargained for; there's two bears there, a big one and a little one. Now, let's go 'round to the left here, and get behind those rocks and a little above them, and then we'll have a chance to look at them and see what we'll do."

They went back down the ravine, and then a little way around and again climbing the rocks, found that they could see the basin in which the sheep lay, and hurrying forward, they soon reached its rim and looked down on the spot.

Sure enough, there were two bears, tearing away at the sheep's carcass, and seeming greatly to enjoy themselves. They looked like mother and cub, and to Jack the mother looked pretty big. They had mauled and partly eaten the fore part of the sheep's carcass, and had dug into its belly, gnawing the flanks.

The cub paid no attention to anything, and was eating greedily, but the larger bear stopped feeding every few moments and looked in all directions, and throwing up her head seemed to snuff the breeze. Fortunately, the wind was blowing from the southeast, and so up the stream, and there was no danger that the animal would detect the presence of human beings; yet she seemed uneasy, and more or less suspicious.

"Well, boys," said Hugh, "what do you want to do? I expect you want to kill them bears."

"Yes, indeed, Hugh," said Jack, "of course we want to kill them."

"Hide's no good now," said Hugh, "they're in summer coat, and all sunburned, and the winter coat isn't started."

"Oh, Hugh," said Jack, "you don't mean you want to let those bears go. Why look how they've torn our sheep to pieces. Why they ought to be killed for that, if for nothing else."

"Well, well, well," said Hugh, smiling, "you are an unreasonable creature. Do you expect if you leave meat out on the mountain that bears, or wolves, or Indians, or white people either, are going to pass it by and not use it? How do you suppose those bears knew that you were coming back?"

Jack saw that Hugh was making fun of him, and said, "Well, how shall we take them, Hugh?"

"Fix it any way you like. Suppose you take the old bear and Joe the cub; and I won't fire until I have to."

"All right," said Jack, "but wouldn't you rather fire? I've had some hunting, and so has Joe since we've been out, and you haven't had a shot. Wouldn't you like to kill the old bear?"

Hugh laughed again, as he said, "No, I'll give that up to you. You take the old one, and Joe'll take the young one; but I tell you, the young one's hide is better than the old one's."

"Oh, I don't care about that," said Jack. "What do you say, Joe, does that suit you?"

"Yes," said Joe, "it suits me all right."

"All right then, let's shoot at the word; and you count, Hugh; when you say three we'll both fire."

"All right," said Hugh, "get ready. Are you ready?"

Both boys grunted in assent. One, two, three! the two guns cracked at the same instant. The smaller bear fell over, and then sprang to its feet, screaming dismally, and ran along the hillside. The larger one turned her head quickly and bit at the place at which Jack had fired, and then, without a moment's waiting, came rushing toward the spot over which the smoke of the two rifles still hung.

"Hurrah, boys!" said Hugh, with more interest than Jack had ever seen him show. "Here she comes; get ready, and shoot again." The two boys, having reloaded, fired, but both hurriedly, and the bear made no pause, but kept galloping toward them at tremendous speed. She was now within thirty or thirty-five yards, and Hugh, saying, "Scatter out if she keeps a-coming, and keep shooting," raised his rifle to his shoulder and fired; and as he did so, the bear crumpled up and fell to the ground, and after a few struggles, lay still; but for several moments all three stood with loaded guns, waiting to see what she would do.

"She was a tough one," said Hugh, "but I reckon that neither of you boys hit her a second time to do any harm to her. You were a little excited, I guess, and shot before you got your sights rightly drawed. I tell you when a bear is coming for you, that isn't the time to get excited. If you get excited when a deer or antelope is running away from you, that's all right, but when a bear is coming to you, you want all your wits.

"But what became of your bear, Joe," he continued.

"I don't know," said Joe; "last I saw of him he was going over that ridge, squealing a whole lot. I know just where he went over, and I can go there and look for him."

"Well, you'd better," said Hugh. "But first let's see if there's any life left in this old lady down here." They slowly approached the bear, and threw stones at her, but she did not move. Moreover, much blood was running from her mouth and nostrils, and she was evidently dead. When they turned her over to skin her they saw that she was not a very large bear, but a grizzly. Her coat, as Hugh had said, was not in good order, being faded and sunburned, and with many thin patches. Still, Jack thought it would be worth taking home with him, and he and Hugh proceeded to skin her, while Joe went off to look for the small one.

"Keep your eyes about you, son," said Hugh, as the boy started. "Even a little bear can scratch and bite a whole lot, if he gets hold of you. If you find the bear lying down, don't go up to him until you're sure either that it is dead or alive; and if it is alive, kill it."




Chapter XVI

Something About Bears


As they began to skin the bear, Jack said, "I want to find out why I didn't kill this bear, Hugh; I thought I held all right on it, and yet my shot never seemed to faze her."

"Well, I'll tell you what I think, son. I noticed where she seemed to snap at where you hit her, and I reckon you forgot you were shooting down hill, and shot a little high, and perhaps hit a little far back. Now, when we get her hide off we'll see."

Jack thought for a moment, and then said, "Hugh, I bet you're right. She made a kind of a step to one side just as I was pulling the trigger, and I never thought one thing about holding low because we were above her on the hillside. I guess if we open her we'll find that that shot of mine went nearer her liver than it did her heart."

"Well," said Hugh, "I wouldn't be surprised. Of course the liver is a pretty deadly shot after a while, but it isn't so good as the heart, and, as I've told you I guess more than forty times, it's always better to shoot under than over."

"Well," said Jack, "that was a pretty bad blunder. I feel pretty badly about that. I ought to have known better than to have done such a thing. I wonder if Joe shot over, too. I hope he'll get his bear, so that we can know about it."

The work of skinning the bear was long and slow, and Hugh said, when they drew the skin out from under the animal, "Now we've got it, it ain't worth anything."

It was found that Jack's ball had struck the bear much too far back, and so that it passed just under the spine, yet not quite high enough to cut the great vein that passes along close beneath the vertebrae. The bear might have lived a number of days, or even have recovered, with this shot alone. The heavy ball from Hugh's rifle had struck her in the back of the neck, and had smashed two of the vertebrae, and lay there flattened in the muscles of the neck. As Jack looked at the wound made by Hugh's ball, and then cut the flattened lead out and held it in his hand, he said, "Well, Hugh, it's mighty sure that you didn't get excited, anyhow. That was an awful good shot, even if it was close, and a mighty hard shot when you think how fast the bear was coming."

"Yes," said Hugh, "of course in a case like that a man's got to figure close. I took the chance of striking her on the top of the head, or breaking her neck, or breaking her back right between the shoulders; but I hit just the place I wanted to hit. I don't hear anything of Joe," he went on; "let's walk over to that ridge and see if we can see him. I'd like to see the trail left by that bear, and maybe call Joe back if he's going too far."

They walked quickly over to the ridge, and had just reached its top when they saw, a little way below them, the figure of Joe bending over something which they knew must be the bear, and going to him they found that he had nearly finished skinning it; and a few minutes help by Hugh and Jack completed the job.

"That looks like good meat, Hugh," said Jack. "Is it worth while taking any of it along?"

"Do as you like," said Hugh. "I don't go much on bear meat, myself. I've had to eat it, but then I've had to eat lots of other things that I didn't hanker after. If you like, we can take those hams along. The horse will have all he can carry, with the sheep if any of it is worth taking, and the bear skins. They've mauled that animal a whole lot, I reckon, and it may not be fit to carry to camp." Folding up the little bear skin, Joe put it on his back, while Hugh cut off the hams of the bear, which he said was a yearling, and he and Jack each taking one, they started back to look at the sheep. This was found in bad shape, but the greater part of both hams was uninjured, and cutting these off, and cutting away the part where the bears had gnawed, they were ready to start on their return.

"Jack," said Hugh, "do you suppose you can carry both of these little bear hams? If you can, I'll take both the sheep hams, and then come back here and get the bear skin. But one of you boys'll have to come back to carry my rifle, for I reckon I can't tote both the skin and the gun, at least not without a rope to tie the skin up with."

"I guess we've got to make two trips anyhow," said Jack, "there's too much to carry, and anyhow it isn't far."

"No," said Hugh, "it isn't far." The two trips were made, and all the things carried to the edge of the cliff, and then Hugh said: "Now, I'll go and get the horse. I'd rather get him myself, for the smell of the bears'll maybe scare him, and I may have to fool with him a little. You boys get these things down; get the bear skins down first, and then the meat. We're likely to have some trouble packing that horse. I don't think he'll mind the meat, but the smell of the bear is likely to scare him."

It proved as Hugh had said, the dun made a great fuss when approaching the pile which constituted the hunters' spoils, and after he was close to it it was necessary for Hugh to take off his coat and put it over the animal's head, and tie it there; and then Joe held the horse's rope, while Hugh and Jack packed the load. After the ropes were all tied, Hugh said.

"Now boys, you want, both of you, to get hold of that rope, for I expect when I get this blind off the horse he'll buck plenty, and if he bucks down the hill, he's likely to turn a somersault, and roll, and break his neck before he stops rolling."

The boys, having put their guns well up above the horse on the hillside, took the rope, prepared for anything. As Hugh had said, when the coat was taken from the horse's head he partly turned his head, and giving a frightened snort at the load on his back, began to buck. If he had gotten his head down the hill he would certainly have fallen, but the boys, and with them Hugh, kept his head from turning down the slope, and he soon tired of bucking, and though once or twice he staggered as if about to fall over, they managed to keep him on his feet. Though he bucked no more that day, he was still much alarmed by what he was carrying, and they were obliged to handle him with great discretion while going down some of the steep places; for, as the load pressed forward toward his neck he would snort loudly, and roll his eyes, as if he felt that he must do something to get rid of the terrifying burden.

They reached camp just before dark, and all were glad to get there. When they stopped before the lodge, Hugh again put his coat over the horse's head until he was unpacked and unsaddled, and when it was taken off, the dun threw head and tail into the air and trotted out to the other horses, looking back and snorting fiercely, showing that his alarm was not yet over.

"Well," said Hugh, "I believe if I had that job to do over again I'd rather carry the stuff down on my own back than fool with that horse. If I'd known we were going to have bear skins to pack, I wouldn't have taken the horse along."

Before doing anything else, Hugh sent the two boys with the axe down into the timber, and told them to get a slender pole, like a lodge pole, and trim it, and bring it up to him. Then resting the ends of the pole on the branches of two trees, about six feet from the ground, he spread the bear hides over it.

After supper that night the talk turned to what they had seen and done that day, and from that to bears. Jack had many questions to ask about them, some of which Hugh could not answer.

"I thought bears almost always had two cubs," said Jack; "but this one only had one, and that you say is a yearling."

"Well," said Hugh, "they do 'most always have two cubs, and sometimes three, and sometimes four. I've heard of five, but I never saw more than four, and those only once. I expect this old bear started in with two cubs, but that something happened to one of them. You see, when cubs first come out they are pretty small, and lots of things are likely to happen to them. This old she-bear very likely lost one of her cubs when it was a little one. You notice, the one we killed is pretty good size for a yearling, and fat and in good order. I wouldn't be surprised if he'd had all his mother's milk now for over a year, and that's maybe what makes him so fat."

"When are the cubs born?" asked Jack.

"Most people think they're born about the middle of the winter," said Hugh. "I know the Indians think that, and I've had one or two men tell me that they've come across bear dens in winter, and killed the mother, and found the cubs in there mighty small -- no bigger than a young pup. Anyhow, by the time they get to travelling round, in May and June, they're still right small, not near so big as old Shep, down at the ranch. They say that if you catch the black-bear cubs when they're right small, they make nice pets for a while; but I never heard of anybody that got very friendly with young grizzlies.

"I remember once, years ago, Joe Kipp had a couple on the Blackfoot Reservation, that one of the Indians had caught and brought in when they were right small. Joe put collars on them, and then forgot to take them off, and long toward the end of the summer both bears were like to choke to death, the collars were getting so small for them. I helped Joe and Hi Upham take 'em off, one day, and 'twas a regular circus. Those little cubs -- they weren't more'n a foot or fifteen inches high -- were awful mean, and regularly on the fight. They were hard to catch, too, and if you did get hold of them they'd turn quick as a wink and bite or scratch you. Finally, we cornered one of 'em, and Joe grabbed it by the ears and held it between his legs, while Hi held the forepaws and I loosened the collar; but it came pretty near scratching Joe's overalls to pieces with its hind feet. We did the same thing with the other one. I tell you they were mean little cusses.

"The Indians don't like bears much; ask Joe," continued Hugh.

"No," said Joe, "Indians don't like bears. Afraid of 'em. Bears are powerful medicine, you know, and some people won't speak about a bear, or won't sit down on a bear skin, and of course they won't eat bear meat. There's lots of stories about bears among the Piegans. In old times, you know, bears used to kill lots of Indians; and the Indians had only stone arrows, and couldn't do anything. If a bear took after a man, maybe the man would shoot three or four arrows into him, and they wouldn't much more than go through his hide, and just make him madder and madder all the time, and at last he'd just catch the man and tear him to pieces. One story my grandfather told me a long time ago, and I heard my uncle tell it again last winter. Would you like to hear it, Jack?"




Chapter XVII

The Story Of A Man-Killer


"Yes," said Jack, "this is bully; I'd love to hear it."

"Well," said Joe, "this happened a long time before the white people came. In those days we didn't have any guns. I expect the bears knew that they were stronger and better armed, and they weren't a bit afraid of the people. Often they wouldn't move out of the road if they saw people coming; but the people were always afraid of them and willing to let them alone. Very few men ever killed a bear, and those that had done so were thought brave. It was more to kill a bear than it was to kill two or three of the enemy, and a man who had killed a bear used to string its claws, and make a collar that he wore about his neck.

"In those times we had no horses, and the only animals that we packed, or that hauled the travois, were the dogs; and so the people did not wander far over the prairie as they do to-day; they used to stop in one place for a long time, and did not move camp except for some good reason. You see, the people could pack some of their things on the dogs, but besides that, men and women, and sometimes even the children, had to carry heavy packs on their backs whenever they moved. In those days, a great place for camping in summer was the valley of Two Medicine Lodge River. You know where it is, Hugh?"

"Yes, I should say so," said Hugh.

"That was a good place. Berries grew there, big and sweet; and along the river were high steep bluffs, over which the hunters used to lead the buffalo, which were killed by falling on the rocks below.

"One summer the people were camped there, as usual. It had been a good summer. All about the lodges, whichever way one looked, you could see only red, the red of meat hanging on the trees and bushes, and scaffolds, drying, above the reach of the dogs; and all over the ground, spread out so thick as to cover almost all the grass, were the skins of buffalo, elk and deer, on which were heaped berries, curing in the sun, to be used during the winter. No wonder the people were happy, and that you could hear laughter and singing all through the camp. They had plenty of food; they feared nothing. No enemies were near at hand; the Stonies of the north, the Kutenais and Flatheads of the west, ran away when the Piegans came in sight; they did not dare to wait to fight them.

"It was a very hot day; there was no wind, and the sun burned down, so that no one could work. The lodge skins were raised, and all the people sat or lay in the shade, some smoking, some talking and others sleeping. Even the little children had stopped playing, and the camp was quiet. Suddenly, at the west end of the village, a great noise was heard, cries and screams, and wailing by women; and from all directions men and women and frightened children began running to the place, crying to each other, 'What has happened? Who is it that is suffering?' About two women who were seated on the ground a crowd had gathered. These women were mourning and crying and sobbing as they wailed, 'Our husband! our husband! a great bear seized him, and carried him away into the bushes. Oh, we shall never see him again.'

"The chief talked to them; their relations and friends tried to help them, and little by little in broken words the women told what had happened. Early that morning, with their husband, they had gone up the river to pick berries. They had gone far, and the sun had reached the middle by the time they came to the bushes where the berries hung ripe and red. There were so many that it had taken but a little time for them to gather all they wished, and they had started toward home along the game trail which followed the stream. The women were walking ahead, their husband following, and were crossing a grassy opening between two points of trees, when suddenly the husband shouted to them, 'Run, run fast to the nearest trees; a bear is coming.'

"Looking back, they had seen their husband running as fast as he could, and behind him a whitish colored bear, so large that it seemed almost as great as a full grown buffalo bull. Its mouth was wide open, and they could see its long white tusks as it raced over the grass with great jumps. The women dropped their berry sacks and ran as fast as they could. Their husband was now close behind them, and kept urging them on; but fast as they ran, the bear ran faster, and the husband, seeing that it would soon overtake them, had once more shouted to them to 'run fast,' and then had stopped to face the bear, calling out that he would try to save them. Just as they reached the trees they heard a fierce growl, and looking back saw that the husband had shot an arrow into the bear, but before he could shoot another, the beast was upon him, threw him down, and taking him by the shoulder dragged him to the timber near the river. The women had continued to run, and had come to the camp as fast as they could.

"When they had told their story, a Kutenai woman, a captive, who had learned to speak Blackfoot, spoke and said, 'This bear is surely he whom my people have named Man-eater. He is a great traveler. One summer he may be living in the valley of the Beaverhead, and the next season perhaps he will be found on the Elk River of the north. The Kutenais, the Flatheads, and all the mountain people know him too well. He likes the flesh of human beings better than that of game, and has killed many of us. In vain the hunters have pierced his sides with their sharpest arrows. They cannot harm him, and we think that he possesses some strong medicine, and cannot be killed. Indeed, now they no longer try to kill him, but as soon as he appears, they move camp, and travel a long distance to some other place. Listen to my words: tear down your lodges now, pack the dogs, and move away at once, before he shall kill more of you.'

"That night the chief and all his warriors talked together about all this, and after they had counciled for a long time, they said, 'We are not Kutenais, to run away from a bear. We will go to hunt this animal, and avenge the death of our friend.' The next day they started, many brave warriors, and when they reached the park they placed some of the strongest and best bowmen at the upper end of the bottom, while the rest went through the timber to drive it toward them. They found the body of their friend, partly eaten, but there was no sign of the bear; he had disappeared. It seemed as if such a large and heavy animal must leave behind him a plain trail of weeds crushed down, grass flattened, deep marks of feet in soft and sandy places; but from where he had eaten that poor man no signs were seen.

"Why did they not listen to the Kutenais woman's words! The very next day, almost at the edge of the camp the great bear killed two women and carried one of them away to feast upon, as he had before done with the man. In the camp the screams of the poor women were plainly heard, but before the men could arm themselves and rush to the place, they were dead.

"Now the whole camp turned out, every man; and making a ring about the point of timber, they all drew toward its center. They moved slowly, carefully, each man with his arrow fixed on the string, and said to each other, 'Surely now this bear will not escape.'

"A thicket of close-set willow stems grew beneath the great cottonwoods, and from a clump of these willows the bear sprang on one of the men, and crushed his head with a single blow of his paw. 'Here he is,' cried those nearby, and they let fly their arrows into its sides, as the bear stood growling and tearing the dead person; but when the arrows struck him the bear sprang here and there among the men, turning like a whirlwind of fur, while his claws cut and his jaws snapped; and four more men fell to the ground dead or dying. The people all ran away.

"Now there was great sorrow and mourning in the camp. After a little time some of the men ventured back into the timber, and brought away the bodies of their companions; and the women, wrapping them in robes, lashed them on scaffolds in the trees, as was the old way. Then at last they listened to the words of the Kutenai woman. The lodges were pulled down, everything was packed up, and the tribe moved southward, to the banks of the Big River. Six long days they were on the trail, and the man-eater did not trouble them again. Perhaps he did not wish to follow them; perhaps some one of the arrows shot into him had killed him. So the people talked; but the Kutenai woman laughed. 'You may be sure,' she said, 'that he is not dead. The arrow has not been made that will reach his heart. His medicine is strong.'

"All through the winter the people talked of what had happened, and of the camping place under the cliffs of Two Medicine Lodge River. There was no place where it was so easy to kill meat as there, and when spring came they moved back there once more. The day after they had camped, the hunters went out, up and down the valley, and found the buffalo and elk and deer as plenty as ever; but they saw no sign of the great bear.

"The next day the chief's son went out with his mother and sister, to watch for them while they dug roots, and as they were going along, without any warning the great bear sprang from a thicket by the trail, struck the young man before he could draw an arrow, and carried him away without a glance at the women, who stood silent in their fear.

"When the chief was told what had happened, he was almost crazy with anger and sorrow. He ordered all the men in the camp to go with him to the place. But not one of them would go. 'It is useless', they said; 'we are not fools to throw away our lives trying to kill an animal whose medicine is so strong that he cannot be killed with arrows.' The chief begged and threatened them, but no one would go with him to recover the body of his son. All feared the bear. That day camp was broken, and the people once more moved away from the place that they loved best of all their camping grounds. It was no longer theirs. The bear had driven them from it.

"From that day the chief seemed different. Now he no longer laughed and made jokes and invited his friends to feast with him. Instead, he kept by himself, seldom speaking, eating little, often sitting alone in his lodge, and thinking always of the dear son who had been taken from him. One day he took his daughter by the hand, and went out to the center of the camp, and called all the people together. When all had come, he said to them, 'My children, look at this young woman standing by me. Many of you here have tried to marry this daughter, but she has always asked me to allow her to remain unmarried, and I have always said that she should do as she wished. Listen: I am still mourning for the death of my son. Now, I call the Sun, who looks down upon us, and who hears what I am saying, to hear this: whichever one of all you men that shall go out and kill that bear, to him I will give my daughter for his wife.' Then he turned to the girl, and said to her 'Have I spoken well, my daughter? Do you agree to my words?' The girl looked at him, and then said aloud, 'Since you wish it, I will marry the man who will kill that bear, and will thus wipe away our tears.'

"Then the girl hurried back to her father's lodge.

"All through the camp now the only thing talked about was the offer the chief had made, and the young men were trying to think how it might be possible to kill this bear; yet none of them said that he intended to try to marry the girl, for they all believed that the bear could not be killed.

"There was one young man who, when he heard the words of the chief, was glad. Ravenhead was very poor, he had not a single relation, and as far back as he could remember he had lived as best he could. That means that he had been often hungry, and had worn poor clothing, and had often lain shivering through the winter nights; that he had run errands for every one, and had often been scolded. Now he was grown up; he had gone out to dream for power, and had become a warrior. His dream had been good to him, and in his sleep there had come to him a secret helper, who had promised to aid him in time of danger and of need. For a long time the young man had loved the daughter of the chief, but he knew that one so poor as he could never hope to marry her. Sometimes when he happened to pass her on the trail, as she was going for water or as she walked through the camp, she seemed to look at him kindly and as if she were asking him something; yet she never spoke to him, but hurried by, and he was always afraid to speak to her; yet sometimes he used to ask himself what her kind looks meant.

"But now, since the chief had spoken, it seemed as if Ravenhead might hope. Those words had rolled away the clouds that hung over him, and if he could only kill the bear, he could marry the girl. He determined that he would kill the bear; some way could be found to do it, he felt sure. Now, for a little while Ravenhead kept by himself, praying, thinking, planning, trying to devise a way by which he might kill the bear, and yet himself not be hurt. Four days passed, and yet in all the camp no one had said that he intended to try to marry the girl. This made Ravenhead glad.

"And there was another thing. For four nights he had dreamed the same dream. In his sleep he saw the picture of a great bear, painted as large as if alive, upon the side of a new lodge. It was painted in black; the long claws, and open jaws, with their great white tusks, showed plainly; and from the mouth ran back the life line, a green band passing from the mouth back to the heart, which was red. Ravenhead was sitting by the river, considering his dream reaching out dimly with his mind for its meaning when suddenly he sprang to his feet as if he had been stung, for all at once there had flashed upon him what seemed to be the way of success. The dream had shown it to him.

"He turned toward the village, and there, only a step or two away, stood the chief's daughter, holding her water-skin, looking at him as she had looked before. Ravenhead stepped forward and stood near her. Twice he tried to speak, but the words would not come. Then he looked at her, and as she smiled at him, he said, 'I am going to hunt the great bear, and if I return I shall come to you.' The girl dropped the water-skin, and put her arms about his neck, as she said, 'I have tried to make you see, so far as a girl can, that I love you.' They kissed and clung to each other, there by the river; but soon the girl sent him from her, telling him to take courage; to go, and to return safe and successful. When he had gone she stood there by the river, and not able to see before her for the tears which filled her eyes, as she prayed to the Sun to protect the young man.

"Ravenhead travelled for four days before he reached the old camp grounds, near the Two Medicine Lodge cliffs. He had left the village alone; no one but the girl had known his purpose. He came out into the valley, and looked up and down it, seeing nothing except the game, feeding peacefully, and, lashed on their platforms in the branches of the trees, the silent forms that the bear had killed. He wondered if he, too, was to become a prey of this medicine animal.

"All that day Ravenhead walked about the valley, looking for the bear, keeping in the open timber or along its borders, where he could look over the parks and the slopes of the valley. He did not pass close to the thickets of brush, or to sloughs of tall grass, where the bear might lie hidden. On his back, in case and quiver, were his bow and his arrows; only three of these, for he had been too poor to trade for more, and he would not beg for any. He carried also a pouch of dried meat, that he had killed and roasted the day before, and a little bag of small stones.

"Although he kept looking until dusk, he did not see the bear, and then, building a platform of poles in a tree, he lay down on it and slept. That night, in his dream, he again saw the picture of the bear; and as he was looking at it, his secret helper came to him, and pointing at it said, 'Thick fur, tough hide, hard muscle, and broad ribs may stop the sharpest arrow. The easy way to reach the heart is down through the throat.'

"This was what had come to him so suddenly the day he sat thinking and planning by the riverside back of the village. He did not believe that this bear had powerful medicine, or that he could not be killed. If he only could shoot an arrow down its throat, he believed that he would be successful.

"As soon as day had come, Ravenhead climbed down from the tree, and again began to search for the bear, hopefully now, yet constantly praying to the Sun to grant him success.

"It was yet early in the morning when he saw the great bear, lazily walking across a little park toward the river, and stepping out from the shelter of the timber, Ravenhead shouted to attract its attention. The bear reared up at the sound; then Ravenhead first saw how great he was; and as the bear stood there on his broad hind feet, he turned his head slowly, this way, that way, smelling the air. Ravenhead waved his robe, and shouted again, calling the bear coward and other bad names; and presently the bear slowly dropped down on all fours and came toward him. The young man had gone out some little distance into the park, but now he began to go back toward the timber, and as he went faster, so did the bear, until both were running very fast, and the bear was gaining. To the young man, looking back, it seemed scarcely to touch the ground; and it drew nearer and nearer, though he was running as fast as he could. Presently, he could hear the bear pant, and just as he did so he reached the foot of the nearest tree. Almost in an instant he was up among the branches, but he was not too soon. The claws of the bear almost grazed his heels, and tore away a great piece of the bark. From the limb on which he sat, Ravenhead, panting for breath, looked down at the bear as it sat at the foot of the tree. The beast was huge, its head monstrous, its eyes little and mean, and from its mouth, in which the long white teeth showed, the foam dripped down over its neck and shoulders.

"The young man drew his bow from its case, and fitted an arrow to the string, and then taking a stone from his sack, threw it down, hitting the bear on the nose. The bear jumped up, growling with rage and pain, and then came a shower of stones, one after another, hitting him on the head, the body, and the paws, and each one hurting. He bit at the places where they struck, growled, and tore up the ground, and at last rushed to the tree, trying to drag it down, or to climb up it, reaching up as far as he could, in his attempt to seize his tormentor.

"Here was the chance that Ravenhead had been planning for, praying for, waiting for. He bent far over toward the bear, and drawing the arrow to its head, drove it with all his might down the bear's gaping throat. The great jaws shut with a snap, the growl died away to a wheezing cough, and then, after a moment, while the blood streamed from his nose and his lips, the great bear sank back to the ground. His gasping breath came slower and slower, and then, with a long shudder which almost frightened Ravenhead, so strong was it, he died."

*       *       *       *       *

"There was great excitement in the village; people running to and fro and calling to one another; women and children standing in groups and pointing to a young man who was entering the camp. Ravenhead had returned, weary, bloody, and dusty, and staggering under the weight of the head and part of the hide of the great bear. The people gathered about him, calling out his name and singing songs of what he had done, and followed him to the door of the chief's lodge, where he threw down the heavy burden. The chief came out, and put his arms about him, and led him inside, and gave him the seat at his left hand. The chief's daughter set food before him; she did not speak, but her face was happy. The young man told the chief how he had killed the bear, and while he was talking, the women hurried to make a sweat lodge for him, and when it was ready, with the chief and the medicine men, he entered it and took a sweat, purifying his body from the touch of the bear. Then, after the sweat had been taken, and the prayers said, and he had plunged in the river, they all returned to the lodge, just as the sun was setting. The chief pointed to a new lodge, set up near his own. 'There is your home, my son; may you live long and happily.' Ravenhead entered and saw his wife.

"Without, the people were dancing around the scalp of the bear. They were happy, for the death of the bear had wiped away the tears of those whose relations he had killed."

"That's a splendid story, Joe," said Jack. "That's about the best story I ever heard. I wish I could remember it to tell it when I get back east, the way you tell it."

"Yes," said Hugh, "that's a mighty good story, and mighty well told. Who did you hear it from, Joe?"

"I heard it first from Four Bears, and then afterwards I heard my uncle tell it."

"Well," said Hugh, "you told it mighty well, but I don't wonder much, for Four Bears is about the best story teller I ever heard. But you remember it mighty well, and tell it well. It's a right good story.

"Now, boys," he added, "I think to-morrow we'll pack up and go a day or two further down the creek here, and then see what turns up. These horses of ours have filled themselves up pretty well now, and are able to go along all right, and we might as well go on a little further. So, say we pack up to-morrow morning."

"All right," said the boys, and they went to bed.




Chapter XVIII

Jack's First Moose


Travel down the stream next day was easy. The valley widened out, and the hills on either side grew lower. Twice during the march they came to broad meadows, partly overgrown with willows, old beaver meadows, Hugh said; and instead of going through them they went around close to the hills, so as to avoid any possible trouble from miry spots.

After supper that night at camp Hugh said to the boys, "I reckon pretty quick we'll turn off south and follow up some creek, so as to get over to the Divide, and cross down onto Sweetwater. If I ain't mistaken, before we get much further along we'll strike a big stream coming in from the south, and when we do, we've got to turn and follow that up. I've heard tell of a little town off here to the south, but I don't know where it's at, and we don't want to go to it, anyhow."

About noon next day they began to see a wide valley opening up to the south, and Hugh told them that this must be the creek he had been looking for. They did not follow the stream down to where the river from the south joined it, but cutting across southwest, climbed the hill, and journeyed through beautiful green timber in the direction in which they wished to go. Several times they came on beautiful mountain lakes lying in the timber, and while passing one of these Hugh stopped and pointed to the ground, and when Jack came along he saw there a track which he knew must belong to a moose. He wished that he might get a shot at a moose, and kept his eyes wide open as they journeyed along, but saw nothing. Two or three times during the day they rode near enough to the river they were following up to hear its rushing, and the noise of water-falls, but they could not see them. Hugh did not seem to be following any road at all, -- there was not even a game trail, -- but he wound in and out among the timber, keeping in the general direction from which the river came. About the middle of the afternoon he turned to the left, and worked down into the valley of the stream, which, though often narrow, sometimes spread out and showed charming little park-like meadows, in one of which they stopped to camp. After camp had been made, the horses attended to, and supper eaten, Jack said to Hugh, "Are there many moose in this country, Hugh?"

"Well," said Hugh, "I don't know exactly what you call many. There used to be plenty here, and I expect if a man was hunting he might run across one once in a while. Of course moose stick close to the timber and the brush, and you don't see them as easily as you do the elk, that feed on the bald hillsides or on the prairie."

"I'd like mighty well to get a shot at one," said Jack.

"Well," said Hugh, "it might be such a thing as you could do that, but you're not likely to, unless we stop for a day or two to hunt. We can do that most any time now, if we feel like it. We've got over the ridge, and there's no danger of any snow falling, to stop us, but of course it's getting cooler all the time. If you're going to kill an animal for meat you'd better kill a cow. On the other hand, if you want a big head, why of course you'll kill a bull; but the bulls are pretty poor eating now; they were better two weeks ago, just like the elk was. We've got quite a little way to go yet, and of course we've got to have meat to eat; but, on the other hand, we've got the hams of that sheep, and the piece of that little bear, and we're going through a good game country all the way, so that I wouldn't kill anything more until we need it."

"Well, Hugh, we've had lots of hunting; let's not kill anything more until we need it. Maybe there'll be a show down on the Sweetwater to get a moose."

"Well," said Hugh, "maybe there will be; yet this is a better place than that. But we'll be in good moose country for quite a way yet, and maybe you'll get a chance to kill a moose, if you want to very bad."

The stream that they were following up grew smaller and smaller, yet Hugh continued to follow it, and in the same southerly direction. He told the boys that this stream headed in the Divide, between Wind River and Sweetwater, and that when they came to the head of this creek it was only a short distance over to others running into some of the heads of the Sweetwater.

"It ain't far, and it ain't a high climb," he continued, "and after we strike the Sweetwater, it's a plain trail right down to the Platte, and then across that is home. I don't rightly know how far it is, but I reckon it's not far from two hundred miles."

"That means ten days then, Hugh, does it?"

"Well," said Hugh, "you might call it ten days. Of course that means if we don't have any trouble. If we should get into any difficulties, or lose a horse or two, or something of that kind, it might take us longer."

Three days later they had crossed over the Divide, between the Wind River and Sweetwater drainages, and were making their way through the timber down toward the Sweetwater. Camp had been made early. One of the pack horses had hurt its foot during the day, and had gone lame, and Hugh wanted to rest the animal for a day or two; otherwise it might become so lame that he would have to leave it behind. About the middle of the afternoon, Joe and Jack started out from camp to hunt, Joe taking the hills to the right of the camp, and Jack those to the left.

It was pleasant going through the green timber so quietly as to make no sound, and watching constantly between the tree trunks, to see the motion of any living thing that might appear. There were a few birds in the upper branches of the trees, and now and then a grouse walked out of the way. Jack entered one of those level pieces of forest where the trees stand a little apart and the ground is covered with the pale green stems of the little mountain blueberry, which in fact is not blue in color, but red. This little fruit is very delicious, and a favorite food for birds and beasts. Jack came to a patch where the berries were thick, and sitting down began to strip them from the stems and eat them. Now and then he could hear the whistle of a meat-hawk, the harsh grating cry of a Clark's crow, and the shrill scream of a hawk that soared far above the forest. Jack thought it most pleasant, and he liked to be there alone and just look about him, and see and listen. It seemed to him a place where at any moment some great animal might step into sight, and begin to feed or to go about any of the operations of its daily life, not knowing that he was there watching and enjoying it all.

And just as these thoughts were passing through his mind, something of this sort happened. It was not a very large animal, but the sight was a pretty one, none the less. He saw the slender stems of the huckleberry bushes shake, thirty or forty yards from him, and the shaking came nearer and nearer, and presently he was able to distinguish that a dozen grouse were coming toward him, feeding on the berries. He sat still, hardly daring to breathe, and before very long the birds were close to him, and in a moment more were all about him. He could see the old hen, larger than all the rest, and with frayed and faded plumage, while the young birds, but little smaller, were much more highly colored, -- bright brown and white and bluish. They seemed sociable little creatures, for they were talking all the time, calling to each other much as a flock of young turkeys would call, and seeming uneasy if they became separated. There was one bird that wandered off quite a little to one side, and as the cries of its fellows became fainter as they passed along, the bird stood very straight, with its head much higher than usual, and erected the feathers of its head and neck so that they stood on end, giving it a very odd appearance. As soon as it had located the brood, the bird smoothed down its feathers and ran quickly toward the others. When the group got to where Jack was sitting, they paid no attention to him whatever. One of them stopped immediately in front of him, and looked carefully at his face, but at once resumed its feeding; and passing on both sides of him, they went on.

Jack did not wish to frighten them, and so turned his head and body very slowly to look after them, and he did it so carefully that the birds were not alarmed, but finally passed out of sight and hearing without being frightened.

This small adventure gave Jack very great pleasure, and he felt as if he had already been well repaid for his walk. Keeping on through the forest, he went down a gentle slope, and presently found himself at the edge of a little meadow, surrounding a very pretty lake. Nothing was to be seen there, and he stepped out of the bushes to go down to the water.

He was going along rather carelessly, holding his rifle in the hollow of his left arm, when from a bunch of willows just before him a huge black animal with horns rushed out, and trotted up the meadow toward the timber. Instantly Jack knew that it was a moose, and throwing his gun to his shoulder, he fired at the animal just before it reached the fringe of willows at the edge of the meadow. It seemed to him that the creature flinched a little and then went faster, but he could not be sure. What was certain was that it did not fall. Taking up the track, he followed it for some distance through the timber -- not a difficult task, for the moose was trotting rapidly and throwing up dirt at every stride. At length, however, he came to a piece of rocky ground, where the tracks were much harder to follow, and presently he lost them and had to circle two or three times to find them, and from that on the work of picking them out was slow. Soon, too, he noticed that it was growing darker, and looking at the sky he concluded that the sun had set. He had a mile or two to go, and as he did not wish to lie out during the night, he reluctantly left the moose track and started back for the camp. He hurried as fast as he could, and made good progress; but after it really got dark it was impossible to go very fast. He did not feel like firing his gun, because that would be as much as to say to the people in the camp that he was lost, and he did not wish to do this. He worked his way along, therefore, keeping toward camp as nearly as he could, but more by guess than anything else, because the trees stood so close that the stars could not be seen. However, the little light that still lingered in the west gave him some idea of direction.

At last the ground began to slope in the direction in which he was going, and before long he saw in the sky the glare of a fire. He made sure that this was the camp, and hurrying along as fast as possible, frequently stumbling over rocks and sticks and occasionally running his face into the twigs of a dry spruce limb, he at last found himself near the bottom of the hill, and could see the gleam of the fire through the tree-trunks. Before long he was close to camp, and saw that Hugh and Joe had built quite a bonfire in front of the lodge. It was the reflection of this that he had seen in the sky.

As he walked up to the fire, Hugh said, "Well, here you are, eh? We didn't know but you calculated to lie out all night."

"Well," said Jack, "I didn't know but I'd have to do that; but I didn't want to, and so I kept going. I think perhaps I would have stopped and built a fire back in the timber if it hadn't been that I saw your fire, and kept coming."

"What kept you?" said Joe.

"Why, Joe," said Jack, "I saw a moose, the first moose I ever saw; and I had a good shot at it, running nearly straight away from me, and I ought to have killed it, but I didn't. I think I must have hit it; anyhow, I thought I saw it flinch when I shot, and it went through the timber in great shape. I followed the tracks quite a long way; but then it got dark, and I had to give it up and come back.

"I'd like to go out and look for it to-morrow, and I will, too, if we stay here."

"Well," said Hugh, "we'll stay here, all right enough. I want to rest up this horse's foot for a day or two. If I stay here and bathe that horse's foot, and keep him quiet, he's likely to be all right in two or three days. If we make him follow us over these hills now, he may get so that he can't use the foot at all.

"Pity you didn't kill your moose," he continued; "what do you think was the matter?"

"I don't know," said Jack. "I had as good a chance as I ever had at a running animal, but I think maybe I wasn't careful enough, and didn't hold low enough. I wouldn't be a bit surprised if I shot high on him. That seems to be my trouble often."

"Well," said Hugh, "you'd like to go to-morrow and see if you could follow him up and find him. Of course he won't be good for anything if you do find him, but you'll have the satisfaction maybe of knowing that you killed him."

"Won't be good for anything," said Jack; "how do you mean? You don't mean he'll spoil, just lying out for one night."

"Why, son, didn't you know that? Is it possible you've travelled with me all these months and haven't learned that unless you dress an animal as soon as it's killed it's going to spoil? It don't make any difference whether the weather's cold or warm, but if you leave a critter with the entrails in for four or five hours it is no good; the meat gets tainted."

"Well," said Jack, "That's news to me. I never heard that before."

"Oh," said Joe, "everybody knows that."

"Yes," said Jack, "everybody but me."

After Jack had put his gun in the lodge, he brought out the coffee pot and frying pan, and ate some food, and then sat there by the fire, very melancholy, because he had not got his moose.

"He had horns, Hugh," Jack said, "and if I should be able to find him to-morrow, I could bring those in, couldn't I?"

"Yes," said Hugh, "the horns won't be spoiled. It's only that the meat wouldn't be good to eat. Were his horns big?"

"No," said Jack, "I don't think they were very big; they stuck out on both sides. You see, I didn't get much of a look at him, except when he was running away. Then I could see his horns, but I wasn't looking at them; I was trying to pick out the place to shoot, and I didn't pick it out very well."

The next morning Hugh told the boys that they had better go out and see whether they could find the moose, or another one, but warned them to watch the sky, and keep their direction, so that they would be sure to get back. He warned them also to notice carefully, and not get over the Divide. So long as they stayed on this side, the streams running down toward the Sweetwater would always help them to find camp; but if they crossed the Divide and got into the Wind River drainage, then the streams would only confuse them, especially as the timber was thick, and the sky could not be seen, and so the direction could not be told from that. Jack did not attempt to go back to the point where he had lost the moose tracks, but instead kept off to the south, in order to cross the tracks again, and pick them up where they were plain. He felt sure that he and Joe would have no trouble in following them up to the point where the darkness had obliged him to give them up.

They soon found the tracks, and Jack, from his memory of the country passed over the night before, was able to follow them quite rapidly to the place where he had finally left them. Beyond here the trail was not hard to follow. The timber was thick and the ground damp; there was much moss, and the great hoofs of the moose tore this up, so that the trail was plainly visible; and here Jack had the first confirmation of his belief that he had hit the moose, for Joe called attention to a bush against which the animal had rubbed, and showed on it a little smear of dried blood.

By this time the moose had stopped trotting and was walking; and after a while they saw before them lying on the pale soil, among the tree-trunks, a dark object stretched out, which they presently recognized as the moose. He had lain down here and died as he lay. The body was rigid now and somewhat swollen. Although the moose was not a large one, to Jack he seemed enormous -- much taller, longer, and deeper through than an elk, and with a huge ungainly head and a swollen upper lip.

"Well, Jack," said Joe, "what are you going to do now? You killed the moose, and you know it, but we can't take any of the meat. You might come up here and get the horns, if you want to pack them back with you, but it's no use to butcher the animal; you can see for yourself that the meat is spoiled."

"Yes," said Jack, "I suppose it is. I'm awfully sorry; I hate to see a great big lot of meat go to waste like this, but there's nothing to be done now. I ought to have shot better."

"Well, I'll tell you what let's do," said Joe: "let's go back to camp, and catch up our horses, and come up here and get those horns. In fact I guess we may as well bring a pack horse with us. Horns are awful unhandy things to carry on a saddle, but we can put the head on a pack so that it will ride well."

"Well," said Jack, "we may as well do that, I think," and they rose to go.

"I'll stick a knife in this carcass," said Joe, "and if I do that it will be pleasanter to work about when we get back."

He plunged his knife into the animal's side and there was an outburst of gas; then the two boys went back to the camp.




Chapter XIX

Watching A Bear Bait


"Hello, Hugh," said Jack, as they walked up to the lodge; "we found the moose."

"Well, you've done pretty well," said Hugh. "I thought maybe he'd go so far, even if you'd hurt him bad, that you wouldn't find him at all."

"No," said Jack, "we found him easily enough. He didn't go very far beyond where I had to leave the trail last night. But it is just as you said; the meat is spoiled; he's no good to eat.

"His horns are not very big, but Joe suggested that we should come back here and get our horses and a pack horse, and go up and bring in the head and horns."

"Why, sure," said Hugh; "why not do that? I expect you'd like to take it home, seeing it's the first moose you ever killed."

"Yes," said Jack, "I should like it."

"Now, I'll tell you what you do," said Hugh. "Do you remember how I cut off that sheep's head?"

"Why, yes," said Jack, "I remember that you cut it off close down to the shoulders, but I don't remember just how you cut the skin."

"Well," said Hugh, "look here now; I'll show you," and sitting down on the ground he drew a little diagram with the stick, explaining to Jack that he should stick the knife into the moose's head immediately behind the horns, split the skin down on the nape of the neck to the shoulders, then make a cut at right angles to the first one, running down outside of one shoulder, across under the chest, and up outside of the other shoulder. Then, by skinning away from the top of the neck, the hide of the whole neck could be drawn forward; the head cut from the neck where the first vertebrae joins the skull; and afterward, by cutting the skin from where the neck-cut began between the horns, out on each side to each horn and around its base, the whole skin of head and neck could be taken off, and the skull cleaned, with the horns attached to it. Afterwards in mounting, the skin could again be stretched over the skull, so that the head could be hung on the wall.

It did not take the boys long to saddle up their riding horses and a pack animal, and when they were on horseback the distance to the moose was not great. When they reached it they tied their horses, and walked up to the carcass to begin the skinning. But before they did anything, Joe said, "Hold on, Jack! look a-here! There's been a bear here since we've been gone;" and sure enough, the tracks of a middle-sized bear were seen about the carcass, and the hole made by Joe's knife was wet around the edges, as if some animal had been licking it. Jack looked all around, but of course nothing living was to be seen now.

"Now, I tell you what," said Joe; "let's get this head off, and go away, and I wouldn't be surprised if we could come back here to-morrow and get a shot at a bear. You know, Hugh said we weren't going to move for two or three days, and if that's so, why shouldn't we come back here and watch."

"It isn't a very good place for that, is it?" said Jack, "right in here among the timber; we'd have to be close to the moose, and likely enough a bear would see us or smell us, before we could see it."

"That's so," said Joe; "it's a pretty poor place, but before we go we'll look around and see if we can find any way to hide." The boys were somewhat excited at this prospect, and at once set to work to skin the moose head. A long slit was made down through the thick hair on the nape of the neck, back to the shoulders, and then a cross cut down to the moose's chest; then both the boys, getting hold of the head, tried to turn it over, but they were not strong enough to do that. Then they tried to lift the moose's head up in the air, in order to get under it, and to make the cross cut on the other side close to the ground. They did not succeed very well in this either; but finally, after raising the head as high as they could, Joe got a stick and propped it in this position. Then, getting a longer stick they tugged, strained, and kept raising the head higher and higher, until finally the fore part of the shoulder was pretty well exposed. They made the cross cut, but for six or eight inches it was quite ragged. However, they succeeded in completing the cut, and then worked more rapidly, and before very long had the skin off the whole neck and turned so far toward the head that the back of the skull could be seen. Then, Joe cutting down close to the skull so as to sever the ligament of the neck, they twisted the skull, disjointed the neck, and after that it was a mere matter of cutting through the flesh. After the head had been cut off it was pretty heavy, much more than one boy could lift, besides being unwieldy and hard to handle.

They dragged the head a little way from the moose, and then stood looking at it, for both were a little tired.

"Now, look here, Jack," said Joe, "what's the use of packing all this stuff back to camp; why not finish the job here, and take the skull back pretty clean?"

"Yes," said Jack, "it's a pretty long job, but we've got to do it either here or at the camp, and we might as well do it here. I guess we'd better use our jackknives to cut around these horns." Sitting down on the ground they did the work of making the crosscut to the horns, and then they cut round the horns, close up against the burr. The hide was thick and tough, and the blades of the knives were small; but, on the other hand, the knives were sharp, and before very long they had completed this. Then they both worked at skinning the hide down over the head, cutting through the gristle of the ears, and going very carefully about the eyes; and at last, after midday, the skin of the head was free from the skull and was dragged off to one side.

"There," said Joe, "that's a good job, and now we'll cut off all the meat we can from the skull, and pack the horse, and go back to camp. I'm getting hungry. I don't believe this tongue is spoiled; we may as well take that with us." The remaining work was not long, and lashing the skull on the pack saddle, they set out for camp.

Hugh hailed them, when they got in, with an expression of surprise, saying, "Why, you done the whole job, didn't you? I supposed I'd have an afternoon's work over that head, skinning it out, and cleaning the skull."

"Well," said Jack, "Joe suggested that we should not make two bites of the cherry, so we did the work right there. But, say Hugh, a bear had been 'round that moose, between the time we left it and the time we got back, and Joe says maybe we can get a shot at him. What do you think?"

"Why, I don't know," said Hugh; "maybe you could. What sort of a place is it to wait?"

"Not very good," said Jack; "it's right in the thick timber, and there's no hill, and no hiding-place anywhere nearby. We looked when we were coming away. But I tell you what I think, Hugh; I believe we could go back there, and get up into a tree, and watch from there; then the bear won't be likely to smell us, and maybe we'll be able to get a good shot."

"Yes, that's so," said Hugh; "but there's one bad thing about getting up into a tree: it's awful noisy, and if you move much, the bear's pretty sure to hear you. When did you calculate to watch?"

"Why, I don't know," said Jack; "we were going to ask you. It ought to be either early in the morning or late in the evening, I suppose. That's the time bears come out, isn't it?"

"Yes," said Hugh, "that's the time; but in here where they're not much hunted, I suppose maybe they'd feed any time of day.

"I tell you what I believe I'd do," he continued, "we're going to stop here for a day or two more and see if that horse's foot will get better, and suppose you don't do anything now until along about the middle of the day to-morrow; then you can ride up there and see if the bears have been working at the carcass, and if they have, why you can wait there until about dark, and if you don't get a shot you can go back again the next day, right early in the morning."

"Well, let's do that then," said Jack.

"Now," said Hugh, "take your moose-head down to the creek and put it in there to soak and drain, and then this afternoon you can take the brains out and sort of scrape the skull, and after it soaks there for a couple of days it'll be in good shape to dry right up." The next day, a little before noon, they set out to inspect the bait. As they started out to catch their horses, Hugh told them to drive in old Baldy as well, and that he would ride up there with them and see how the prospect looked.

When they reached the moose they found a great hole torn in its side, and from the tracks around about, it seemed that several bears had been feeding there. The day, though bright at sunrise, had now become overcast and dull, and the air felt like rain or snow. Hugh surveyed the ground about the moose with some care, and finally said to the boys:

"I don't see anything for you to do except to climb up into a couple of these trees; and if I were you I'd watch this afternoon, and if you don't get a shot, quit pretty early, at least before it gets plumb dark, come back to camp, and then try it again early in the morning. I'll take your horses down here a half a mile, and tie them in that little open park that we passed, where they can feed, but where they'll be far enough away so as not to scare the game. If you don't get a shot, try to get to your horses before it's right dark, and then you can get back to camp all right."

Hugh waited until the boys had climbed the two trees, one a little distance to the north of the moose, the other about as far to the south of the carcass. He told them to cut away all the twigs that were close to them and would rustle if they moved, and advised them that they must keep absolutely still, "for" he said, "there is no animal so shy as a bear, and none that's more careful in coming up to a bait. If a bear comes, don't try to shoot at it too soon, let it come on until it gets right close to you; then shoot as carefully as you know how, and try to kill it dead, for I don't want you to wound a bear, and then go following it through the thick timber and the brush; that's dangerous, and I think foolish."

The hours, after Hugh departed, seemed pretty long to the boys as they sat on their perches. They could not see each other, and of course could not talk. Both were occupied in looking over the ground that they could cover with their eyes, and in listening for any noise. The weather grew colder, and toward the middle of the afternoon flakes of snow began to sift down through the tree-tops. Then they stopped; then began again. There was snow enough to see as it fell, but not enough to show upon the ground.

Joe was glad when he saw the snow, for he believed it would bring the bears out soon; but Jack did not know this, and thought only of the discomfort of the cold. A little breeze was blowing from the south, and that gave Joe the unpleasant benefit of the odor of the decaying moose meat; but he thought little of that, and sat there and watched. For a long time nothing was seen. Then suddenly, from behind a dead log, fifty or sixty yards from Joe, he saw the head of a black bear rise, and the animal stood there screwing its nose in all directions and snuffing the wind. It remained there for a long time, and then the head drew back and disappeared. Joe's rifle was loaded and cocked. He had fixed himself in as good a position as possible for shooting, and he waited. For a long time nothing happened, and then suddenly the bear appeared, stepping out from behind a tree quite close to him, -- not more than thirty or forty yards away -- and stood there, looking at first toward the moose, and then slowly turning its head and looking in all directions. It was a black bear, not very large, and yet not by any means a cub. Joe thought the best thing he could do was to shoot it. It stood nearly facing him, and when it turned its head away to the right, he aimed for its chest, just to the right of the bear's left shoulder, and pulled the trigger. The animal gave half a dozen bounds, and then commenced to jump into the air and come down again, and to roll over, and turn somersaults; while Joe kept his eyes rolling in all directions, to see whether there were any others.

The bear's position had been such that Jack had not seen it at all. He was cramped and stiff, cold, tired and hungry by this time; but at the shot he forgot all his discomforts, and sat watching to see what should happen. For a moment he saw and heard nothing, and then, off to his left, he heard a stick break, once or twice, as if some heavy animal were stepping on it, and then all became silent again. Presently Joe appeared, walking by the moose, and came and stood under the tree in which Jack sat. "Well, Jack," he said, "I've got a bear, and I don't suppose any more will come now. We may as well go over and skin it, and go back to camp."

"How big is it, Joe?" said Jack.

"Well," said Joe, "it's small. It looked pretty big to me when I first saw it looking out through the trees; but when I shot it, and saw it lying on the ground, it didn't seem very big."

Jack scrambled down from the tree, and the two boys went over to the bear. It was not large, but, on the other hand, it was better than no bear at all, and its coat was quite good: not long, but full, and black and glossy, and quite worth having. Jack congratulated Joe, and they set to work to skin the bear.

Joe's shot had been a good one; he had hit exactly in the right place, and the ball had cut the great artery of the heart, and the lungs, so that the bear died almost at once.

The work of skinning the animal took some little time, but it was not nearly dark when Joe, with the skin on his back, and Jack, with one of the hams in his hand, started to go to the horses. The other ham they hung up in a tree. The horses took them speedily to the camp, and they greatly enjoyed their dinner that night. Both boys were tired and were glad to turn in at an early hour.

The next day the whole camp arose late. Hugh reported that the horse's leg was better, and that he thought they might as well move on the next day. "Now," he said, "do you boys want to go up and watch for bear again to-night?"

"I don't know, Hugh," said Jack; "what do you think the chances are? Will any of them come back after one being killed last night?"

"Yes," said Hugh, "I think maybe they might. Of course you can't tell. Maybe they might come back now, or perhaps they'll leave the bait alone for three or four nights, and then come back."

"Well," said Jack, "I'd like to get a shot; but it's paying pretty dear for it to have to sit up in a tree for five or six hours, and pretty nearly freeze to death. I like to be doing something. I wouldn't mind trailing a bear or a deer or a sheep for half a day, but this sitting on a thin branch in the cold, and waiting for a bear to come to you, isn't what it's cracked up to be."

"No," said Hugh, "you're right there. I don't think much of it. However, we might get on our horses about midday, and go up and see whether any bears came last night after you left. The carcass'll show that plain enough."

When they looked at the carcass they found that a number of bears had evidently been there; and not only had they eaten a considerable part of the moose, but they had also partly eaten the bear that Joe had killed the night before.

"Well," said Hugh, "this seems to be a regular bear playground! I've a good mind to come up here myself to-night, and sit in one of these trees, and see if I can't get a shot. It's quite a while since I've killed a bear, and I sort of need a bear-skin to spread on my bed. What do you say boys, shall we all watch here to-night?"

"Yes, Hugh, let's do that; that'll be great fun, -- to see who gets the shot, or whether any bears come."

"Well," said Hugh, "I'm no way certain they'll come; they're awful keen-nosed, and if they should smell that we've been around here during the day, they won't show themselves. Now, I'll tell you what we might do: suppose we go off down to where we're going to leave the horses, and stop there for two or three hours, -- nothing will come here very much before sundown, -- and then about three o'clock we'll come up here, and you two boys can ride your horses right under the trees you're going to get into, and just climb into them without touching the ground at all; and I'll take the horses back and come up afoot, and get up into my tree. In that way there'll be only one set of tracks for the bears to smell."

Accordingly, about three o'clock they rode back; the boys climbed from their horses directly into the tree; and then Hugh, taking the bridle reins, led the horses back and picketed them in the park. Then he returned, and choosing a tree about half way between the boys, clambered up into it, and they all sat there, patient and still.

The boys watched and waited as carefully as the day before; but nothing happened until, just before sundown, the heavy report of Hugh's gun rang out on the silent air, and a moment later they heard the branches crackle as he clambered down from the tree. "All right, boys," he called out: "come along."

The boys descended from their branches, and joining Hugh, they all went forward a little way, to a small open spot where a brown bear lay stretched on the ground, with the blood flowing from its nostrils.

"This fellow," said Hugh, "has been fussing 'round in sight for about twenty minutes. He wanted to come awful bad, and yet he was awful scared to. I thought one time that maybe he was going around Jack's way, and so I didn't bother with him; but presently he came back and commenced to go right toward the bait, making little runs forward and then little runs backward, but always getting closer, until finally I made up my mind that I'd have to kill him. Now, Joe," Hugh continued, "you help me skin him, and, Jack, you go and fetch the horses."

Not long after Jack had returned, the skin was off the bear, rolled up and tied behind Hugh's saddle, and they returned to camp.




Chapter XX

A Puzzling Trail


The next morning Hugh put a light load on the lame horse, and they started down the stream. The going was fairly good, through open timber, and at last they came to what Hugh said was the main river, and followed that down. There was a good game trail all the way, and they went pretty fast, but Hugh stopped early because he did not want to tire his cripple. The horse, however, was in good heart and fed eagerly, and Hugh said that it was all right.

For several days their journey down the Sweetwater was without incident. They reached the open country, where there were many antelope, and saw two or three bunches of elk. Several times Jack tried fishing in the river, but without success, as Hugh had prophesied, saying: "You won't find any trout in this stream, nor in any other stream that runs into the North Platte, without they've been put there. There's lot's of trout in the South Platte, and just as soon as you strike the tiny little creeks that run from springs on the other side of the Divide you can catch from them all the small trout you want; but there are none in the North Platte."

"But why is that?" said Jack.

"You can't prove it by me," said Hugh. "I don't know. I've heard tell that the trout in all the streams on this side of the mountains come from the other side; -- that is, that they really belong on the west slope, but that somehow they got over on this side. Now, you take a place like Two Ocean Pass, that we heard about up in the Park, and other places that I have seen like that, where there's a low place on the Divide, -- a place that often holds water, and from each end of which a little creek runs down, one going east, the other west. If the trout ran up the creek that goes west into this little pond on the Divide, why it might easy enough be that some of them would run down the creek that runs east. Anyhow, it's a sure thing that there are no trout in any of the North Platte waters that I ever saw, while in the South Platte, and in the Wind River, and the Bighorn, and the Yellowstone, and pretty much all the streams to the north, there are lots of trout. It always seemed queer to me that the North Platte don't have any."

One night in camp, as they were sitting around the fire after supper, Jack said, "Hugh, tell me a bear story. We've seen a lot of bears this trip and killed quite a lot. Were you ever badly scared by a bear? Of course that old bear charged us the other day, but I don't suppose you were scared by it, and I wasn't; but I'd like to know if you were ever really scared by a bear."

"Well," said Hugh, "I reckon I have been. I remember one time that a bear made me run pretty lively for a ways."

"How was it?" said Jack.

"Well," said Hugh, "it wasn't so very long ago, and I was up on the mountains back of the ranch trying to kill some meat. I had left my horse and gone quite a way without seeing anything, when I came over a ridge and looked down into a piece of timber. About a hundred yards off, lying at the foot of two or three trees, just in the edge of the timber, I saw a kind of a black pile, and for a little while I could not make out what it was. I stopped and looked, and presently a part of the pile got up, and a bear began to walk around, and then another, and then a third got up, and they all walked around the others that were lying there, and looked as if they were snarling and wanted to fight. I saw in a minute that there were too many bears for me to tackle and was just about to back off over the hill and clear out, when one of them saw me and started running toward me as hard as he could. I knew then it was no use to run, and I sort of braced myself, and got a half a dozen cartridges in my hand, and waited until the bear got up within fifteen or twenty steps of me, and then fired at it, and turned and ran as hard as I could. I didn't hear anything following me, and presently looked over my shoulder, and saw that there was nothing in sight; but I kept on running until I got out of wind, and then I went to my horse as quickly as I could. When I had mounted I went back, went round a little way, and rode up over the hill in another place and looked down, and there was nothing alive in sight. I went pretty carefully along the ridge until I got to the place where I had stood, and then I went down to where the bear had been when I shot. There was plenty of blood there, but that was all. Then I went down to the tree and found that these bears -- and there must have been a half-dozen of them -- had dug down into the ground under the trees and had been lying there, as a dog sometimes digs in the dirt and lies there to get cool.

"The bears had started off together, but it was hard to tell just what they had done. I followed them for quite a way, and some of them must have left the bunch, for when I got to a big snow-drift -- it was toward the end of June, and there were plenty of big drifts that hadn't melted yet -- there were only three of the bears together. The snow-drift was hard, and I walked along over it, leading my horse and following the tracks. The horse hardly sank in at all, and my feet made no impression on the snow; but the big bear, -- the one that was bleeding, -- sank in about six or eight inches every step, while the two others only sank in a half an inch. That must have been a big one. I followed them into the timber, and finally they went into a place where the spruces grew low and so thick that you could not see through them, and there I gave up the trail. I didn't want that bear bad enough to follow him into that place."

"Well, of course you never knew anything more about it than you do now," said Jack.

"No," said Hugh, "I never knew anything about it except what I learned from following the trail. The bear was hit somewhere in the breast or neck or head; he was bleeding from the front part of the body; and I expect the bullet must have knocked him down, or else he would have followed me and likely caught me. But it was about the longest and fastest run that I've made in many a year."

For some days they travelled down the Sweetwater, having an open easy road and making good progress. They passed the canon at the mouth of the river where it enters into the Platte, and now felt that they were getting near home.

One morning as they were riding along, Jack noticed the trail of a big bunch of horses, driven fast, going the opposite way from themselves and turning off into the hills to the north. He asked Hugh who would be driving a bunch of horses through that country, and where they were going; but Hugh could not tell him.

"I don't know anybody, son," he said, "who would be taking horses through here, and I don't know where they'd be taking them to, without it's up to some small town north, or up to the new railroad, and then I don't see why they should be coming this way, unless perhaps they wanted to get over on Powder River and follow that down. The railroad, I hear, is pushing west from the Missouri, and it may be that some contractor came down here to get horses. And yet that don't seem right either. These are not work horses, -- you can see that from their tracks, -- and besides that there are lots of colts with them. If it was a few years back, I should think that a bunch of Indians had gone through; but then there are no travois trails, and I don't know what it is. Might be horse thieves; it's been so the last few years that people are stealing stock some."

The trail came from down the river, and they had followed it for some miles when a dark spot seen on the bottom showed a large animal lying down. Hugh rode over and found it to be a dead horse. He waved to the boys, who followed him, and they sat there on their horses, looking down at it. The animal had been dead perhaps a day; it lay on its side, and the brand was plainly visible. As Jack looked at the brand he recognized it as his uncle's, and he looked at Hugh in perplexity to see what this could mean. For a time Hugh said nothing, and then getting down from his horse, he looked more closely at the brand, and then, re-mounting, said to the boys, "We'll camp right here; over in that bunch of timber."

It was but little after midday, and Jack knew that something important must have happened, but he asked no questions, waiting for Hugh to speak. After they had unsaddled, and put up the lodge, Hugh told the boys to picket the three riding horses while he got dinner. Jack had told Joe about the brand, and both boys were a good deal excited, wondering what was coming next.

After they had eaten, Hugh filled his pipe and said: "Now boys, I don't know what all this means, but to me it looks as if a gang of horse thieves had been riding our range and had driven off a bunch of horses, and among them some of ours.

"I know that three-year-old filly lying over there perfectly well. She had her first colt this spring. It looks to me as if she had been run so hard that it killed her. Maybe she got a chance to fill herself up with water, somewhere back. But anyhow, there she is, and she came from the ranch, and what is more, she never was sold to anybody. She's been driven here, and driven so hard that it killed her. Now I am going to find out, if I can, what this means. I am going to see if I can find this bunch of horses, and see whose they are and who has got them. If they, or any part of them, belong to us, or came from our country, why we'll get them back if we can. Of course if we can't get them back, why they've got to go on. I don't think there are enough horses in Wyoming to pay for the life of either of you two boys; but if these horses have been stolen I reckon we can get them back, and I am mighty sure we'll try.

"Now, presently, as soon as the horses have eaten, I am going off on the trail of this bunch. I want you boys to stop right here until I come back, and if I should not come back in the course of three days, I want you to go to the ranch and tell them what you've seen. It will be no trouble to get back home. You'll know when you get to Casper or to Fetterman, and you can cross the river most anywhere there, and then it's pretty nearly a straight shoot south. You and me have ridden enough around the country, Jack, so that you know the principal hills, and I'm sure you'll know Rattlesnake Mountain when you see it. You know where the ranch lies from there. You've got plenty of grub, and it's only a little more than two days hard ride to get home.

"But I expect that you'll see me back here about day after to-morrow, in the morning, and then I'll have something to tell you: -- either that I haven't found the stock, or else that I have: and what it is; and who it belongs to.

"Now, I want some grub -- just some of that dried meat. I won't have a chance to kindle a fire while I'm gone, and I've got to ride pretty fast and can't carry much. One thing I must have though, and that is your glasses, son."

Jack rose and went into the lodge and brought out his glasses and gave them to Hugh, who opened them, looked at the clasp of the case, and then, shutting it and seeing that the spring was in good order, tied a buckskin string around it. As the sun fell toward the west he sent one of the boys to bring in a horse and said to him, "Let old Baldy stay out there, and fetch the dun; he's stronger, and fatter, and tougher than any of the rest.

"Now, boys," he said, after he had mounted, "this next two or three days will be business; you want to forget you're boys, and think that we may have to do something pretty hard and pretty active before long. Don't go off hunting; don't neglect your horses; stay 'round camp, and keep a good lookout during the daytime. If you see anybody coming, get your horses in close and tie them among the trees. Keep your riding horses on picket all the time, and at night keep them pretty close to the lodge." Then he rode off.

"Well," said Jack, as Hugh's form grew smaller and smaller in the distance, "what do you suppose this means, Joe?"

"I don't know," said Joe, "except what Hugh said. If he finds these horses belong to your uncle, why I expect maybe he'll come back, and we'll have to go up there and kill the man that stole them, and take them back."

"Oh, nonsense, Joe, Hugh didn't mean anything like that. Don't you know, he said there weren't horses enough in Wyoming to pay for our lives? That means that there isn't going to be any fighting."

"Well," said Joe, "maybe then if he finds they're your horses, we'll have to go up there and steal them, and take them back that way."

Jack slapped his thigh with his hand, as he said, "That would be bully, wouldn't it? It would be real fun to steal horses, and have all the excitement of it, and yet know that you were not doing any harm, only getting back your own.

"Well, anyway," he continued, "we've got to look out mighty sharp for things, for whatever Hugh said has got to be done. I remember one time when I failed to do as he told me, and I got the worst scare that I ever had in all my life. That was the time when Hezekiah and young Bear Chief caught me in swimming." Joe grinned appreciatively, as he said, "I heard about that a good many times."

"I suppose you have," said Jack; "that's always been a good joke on me."




Chapter XXI

Hugh Goes "On Discovery"


Meantime, Hugh was loping fast up the bottom of the Platte, on the trail of the horses. It seemed to him to have been made the day before; and this would agree very well with the length of time that the mare bearing Mr. Sturgis' brand seemed to have been dead. It was not easy to tell, out here in the open under the hot sun and in the dry wind, just when the tracks had been made.

An hour or two of hard, fast riding brought him to the point where he had come upon the trail that morning, and he could see, looking ahead, that here it turned off and struck in toward the hills, apparently to go up one of two valleys. There was water in both, -- not much down here on the dry bottom, but further back in the hills and among the timber he knew that these streams were running brooks, and that on both there were wide grassy meadows and places very likely to be chosen by people driving a bunch of horses, in which to stop and let them feed and rest. If he had been following Indians who had driven off a band of horses that they had stolen from an Indian camp, he would have gone carefully, for Indians would have left behind scouts who, from the top of some high hill, would have watched the back trail for at least a few hours; but he did not think that white men would do this. He had reason to think that if these were rustlers -- horse thieves -- they had gone over the range after the horse round-up was over, and gathering these horses, had driven them slowly, perhaps by night, until they had got beyond the last ranch, and then had hurried them along, hoping to get them out of the country without observation.

On the other hand, these might not be horse thieves, but might be people who were driving their own stock in a legitimate way, for some purpose of their own; but he could not understand how this should be, and the presence in the bunch of an animal with Mr. Sturgis' brand made him feel that he must investigate.

The trail led toward the westernmost of the two valleys, and Hugh followed it. The sun was almost down when he got well into the valley, but he could see that the horses were still going fast, and he hurried the dun along, for he was anxious if possible to find the herd that night. It grew dark rapidly, but still he rode on, galloping fast over the grassy bottom, and going more slowly only when he came to the crossings of streams, or to rocky ground, where his horse's hoofs made some noise. Of course the dun, like all the other horses, was unshod, so that there was no clink of iron against stone, to be heard at a distance.

After he had ridden for three or four hours in the dark, he stopped, took off his saddle and bridle, and holding the rope which was about the dun's neck in his hand, let the animal walk about. It took a few bites of grass, and then lay down and rolled three or four times, and then getting up, shook itself. Then Hugh put the saddle on, re-mounted, and went forward. All the time he was looking and listening as hard as he could. He had gone but a little distance beyond this place, when suddenly he heard the whinney of a little colt, and stopped.

Taking his horse by the bridle he walked forward, and before he had gone very far saw a horse standing near him, and then another, and presently a number of horses, and knew that he was in the midst of the bunch. He took a long look on every side. The valley here was wide, but on either side he could see the black mountains rising, and he did not know just how far the timber came down into the valley. Now he wanted to find where the camp was, and mounting his horse he took a long look up and down the stream on both sides, and there on his right, and not far off, he detected what he thought was the glow of a fire.

Passing on north, until he had gone well above the place where he supposed the camp must be, he tied his horse to a little bush, and then walking over to the edge of the valley, close to the stream, he silently drew nearer to the camp. Before long he was close enough to see the dim light of the fire, and knew that some where near it must be lying the men who had the horses in charge. This was enough for him. He went back, got his horse, and going further up the stream, crossed it, and finding an open place sat down, holding his horse's rope in his hand until the animal had eaten its fill. Then, still on foot, he climbed the mountain, tied up his horse in a thick bunch of brush where it could not be seen, took off the saddle, and after eating some dried meat, went along the mountain side back to a point opposite the camp, and finding a smooth place, lay down, wrapped himself in his saddle blanket, and went to sleep.

It was still dark when he awoke, but he sat up, stretched himself, and involuntarily felt in his pocket for his pipe, and then smiled a little as he recollected that now he could not smoke. He folded his blanket, and laid it behind the trunk of a tree, and then very slowly began to make his way down the mountain side toward the camp. Before he had gone far, he began to hear the calls of early waking birds, and to be conscious that in the little patches of sky that he saw from time to time the stars were growing paler. He went very slowly and carefully, feeling his way with hands and feet, never brushing against the branch of a tree, or stepping on a stick which might crack. The men in the camp below were probably fast asleep and would not notice the sounds that he might make, but the matter was too important for him to run any risks. After a time it grew lighter, and presently he could hear below him the rattle of the water as it flowed over the stones; and as it grew more and more light, the dim shadows of the horses in the open, and the dark outlines of the bushes on the stream were seen. The mountain side just over the camp was steep and thickly clothed with spruces, most of them of large size, but with many small ones growing among them. If he had himself chosen a place for these men to camp, he could not have selected one that would have been better suited to his purpose. As the light grew stronger, he worked down closer and closer to the camp, until he was as near it as he dared go. Then he began to look about for a place from which he could see it, for first of all he wished to discover who the men were who had the horses. It might be that this would at once explain the whole matter.

After a little manoeuvering he found a place where, through the thin branches of a young spruce, he could look directly down into the camp. There were the ashes of a fire, and not far from it, on the smooth dry grass, were three piles, two of them covered with canvas such as cow punchers commonly use to wrap their beds in, and the other with a gray blanket. He knew that he might now have to wait a long time, and was prepared to exercise patience. He had set his gun on the hillside, against a tree, where it would not fall down, and at the same time would be in easy reach of his hand if he should need it.

He sat there for an hour, occasionally looking at the sleeping men, but for the most part studying through the glasses the horses that fed not far from him.

After the light grew strong but a glance was needed to see that this was not a bunch of work horses, but was range stock, picked up anywhere. He could see the fresh brands on colts and yearlings, and could recognize some of them without his glasses. Through the glasses these fresh brands, many of which had as yet scarcely begun to peel, stood out very plainly, and in many cases the old brand could readily be distinguished. Besides this, there were many horses which he perfectly well knew, without seeing the brands, -- animals that he recognized as occupying the range which he was accustomed to ride over. He chuckled to himself as he saw these, and thought, "My, my, wouldn't Mr. Sturgis and Powell and Joe be hot if they were here;" and then he thought, "I wish they were here, for if they were we could take in these three fellows mighty easy."

From what he had already seen Hugh had made up his mind that this was a bunch of horses stolen from the range about the Swiftwater ranch, but he wished to wait a little longer in order to be sure who the men were who had them.

After a while, one of the heaps that he was looking down upon stirred, and a few moments later the covering was thrown off, and a man sat up.

He rubbed his eyes sleepily, and stretched and yawned, and finally put his hand under the edge of his blanket, pulled out his shoes, and then put them on and stood up. Hugh chuckled as he recognized Red McClusky, a man whom he well knew as living along the railroad. He was a cowboy who had come up from Texas and had worked at odd times on the range, but who spent most of his time in the town, consuming bad whiskey and occasionally disappeared for a few weeks, and then turned up again.

McClusky filled his pipe and lighted it, and then going over to the fireplace, began to kindle a fire, at the same time calling out, "Here, get up, you lazy cusses; the sun's high, and we want to get breakfast." Soon after this the other two men sat up. One of them was Black Jack Dowling, another bad character along the railroad, well known to Hugh; but the third was a boy or young man, whom Hugh did not know, with a pleasant but rather weak face, who seemed a little bit afraid of both his companions.

Dowling seemed in rather bad temper, and as he walked toward the creek growled at McClusky, asking him why he hadn't let them sleep longer. "We've had an awful hard ride," he said, "and I feel as if I could sleep all day, and all to-morrow too."

"Pshaw," said McClusky, "that's no ride; if you're goin' to let a little pleasure gallop like that tire you out, you'd better stick to holding up trains. I feel as fresh to-day as if I hadn't been in the saddle for a week; don't you, Pete?" he laughed, speaking to the young man.

"Yes," said Pete, "that wasn't no ride. I guess Jack here aint much used to the saddle."

Dowling snarled out "Used to the saddle or not, you don't stir me out of this for two days more."

"Well," said McClusky, "it don't make much difference when we go on, but I want to get these horses up north before snow comes, and we've got quite a ways to go. We ought to leave here to-morrow, sure; anyhow, the day after to-morrow."

The fire was now burning, and operations for breakfast went on. The coffee-pot and frying pan were brought out from beneath the willows; Pete brought some water, and McClusky cooked, while the other two sat by the fire and smoked. Hugh had now seen enough, and began very slowly to work his way up the mountain. It was not long before he was out of sight and hearing of the camp, and taking up his blanket on the way, he went on up the stream. Gradually descending the hill, he at length reached the valley's level, and spent some time in the willow and alder bushes, studying the horses that were within sight. As nearly as he could figure, there were about a hundred head of horses, and most of them seemed pretty tired. After feeding for some time, they lay down and were seen resting all over the meadow.

Returning to his horse, he led him for a long distance up the stream, to a point where the timber on both sides reached out well into the valley, and here crossing a little open spot, which was almost out of sight of the horses below, he turned down the stream, and keeping himself always well back from the valley in the timber, again stopped opposite the camp. From here, for a time he watched. The men loafed about the camp; but toward the middle of the morning the boy walked out among the horses, and catching one that was evidently picketed, took it back to camp, saddled it, and rode up the stream. He was not gone long, and indeed did not pass out of Hugh's sight. His only purpose was to round up the horses, driving those up stream down opposite the camp, and when he had done that he rode down stream and started the animals that were feeding there up to the others.

Hugh could now make a close estimate of the number of the animals, and after having counted them a number of times, he made up his mind that there were between ninety and a hundred. Of these three seemed to be picketed, and he took careful note of their location, for he had already made up his mind what he intended to do.

After the boy had rounded up the horses he caught A fresh horse, put it on picket and then riding back to the camp, unsaddled and turned loose the horse he had been riding.




Chapter XXII

Stealing From Horse Thieves


Hugh now knew all that he was likely to learn, and starting down stream, still well out of sight in the timber, he kept along the mountain side until the camp had been left two or three miles behind. Then mounting, he passed out into the open valley, and keeping close to its border, rode hard to the Platte River. It was but little after noon when he rode into the Platte bottom, and two hours more brought him in sight of his camp. The boys saw him while he was yet a long way off, and he could see them standing and watching him, and talking together as he approached.

As he rode up to the lodge he said, "Well, boys, here I am. Now, I wish you two would go out and catch up old Baldy and your two riding horses, and bring them in and put them on picket. We've got to pack up, too, before very long, and get ready for a quick move and a long ride. When you get your horses we'll have something to eat, and I'll tell you what's happened."

Hugh unsaddled, filled his pipe, started the fire, and began to cook some food, for by this time he was pretty hungry. While he was cooking, the boys came in and picketed the horses, and then Hugh said to them, "We'd better get our packs together, and pull down the lodge, and get everything ready for a move. I went up there and found the camp of these fellows. They're horse thieves, all right enough, and they've about a hundred head of horses, most of them Mr. Sturgis', but some are Powell's, and some belong to other neighbors of ours. Of course I could not see the brands on all the horses, but I saw the men that were driving them, and that's enough for me. I don't know, son, if you ever saw Red McClusky or Jack Dowling; but they're the men up there with the horses, with a boy not much older than you two, and I expect they've run 'em off and are going to take 'em up north.

"Now, I figure that we can do one of two things. We can go up there and kill those fellows, and drive the horses back, or we can go up there and steal the horses from them, and leave them afoot, and just take the horses back on the range.

"I feel some like killing the thieves, but I don't want you boys to be mixed up in anything of that kind; it might be bad for you. I reckon the best thing we can do will be to go up and steal the horses; steal 'em all if we can, so as to leave them fellows afoot. But if they've got sand to follow us, why then we've got to fight; because I know mighty well that they've no right to this property."

The boys said nothing for a time, but when Hugh spoke of stealing the horses they looked at each other and grinned, with a delight that they could not conceal.

"What are you fellows laughing at?" said Hugh, when he saw them. "This ain't no joke; this is serious business."

"That's so, Hugh," said Jack, "but I guess we were both laughing because Joe suggested that if these were horse thieves, the best thing we could do would be to go and steal the horses."

"Well," said Hugh, "I reckon that's what we've got to do; but I do hope that we can get 'em all. Now, to do that, we've each one of us got to do his part, and to do it the best way we know how. I'd rather have done it last night than do it to-night, because last night those fellows were tired, and to-night they'll sleep lighter; they may hear the horses walking off; but all the same, I don't believe they will. Now, you boys better saddle your horses, and we'll make up the packs and put 'em all together here, and put hobbles on the pack animals, so that there'll be no time lost in catching them, when we come back. You see, if we have to stop here it'll take quite a time to pack, and if we leave any horses up there for those fellows to ride, they may follow us for a way, and there's no saying what may happen. I don't want either of you boys to get shot, and I'm sure I don't want to get shot myself."

After the meal was eaten, the packs were quickly made up, the pack horses were driven in, caught and hobbled, and the afternoon was not half gone when the three were riding back up the valley.

Jack and Joe were somewhat impatient, but Hugh checked them. "There's no hurry," he said, "we can't do anything till the middle of the night. Those fellows may sit up round the fire for quite a while, and they might notice if the horses were moving much. I am in hopes that Joe and I can go up there afoot, and cut loose their riding horses, and then just slowly and quietly shove the whole bunch down until we get them well below the camp, and then we can start them at a good gait. There'll be no trouble about keeping them going fast, for we've got plenty of riding horses in the bunch there, and we can change often."

The sun had not set when they entered the valley. They followed it up for what seemed to the boys a long distance, but at length Hugh stopped and dismounted, saying, "The camp is only about a mile above here."

It was now dark night. Hugh sat down on the ground, holding his horse's bridle, and began to fill his pipe, and the boys sat close to him.

"Now," he said, "I am going to take you boys up just where I came down this morning, and we'll get around these horses at the upper end of the valley, and work them down slowly on the other side from the camp. I'll go over and cut loose the horses that are picketed, and then we'll work on slowly until we get down well below this. Then we can go. I don't want either of you boys to shoot unless you have to; and if you have to, I'd rather have you shoot not to kill, but to cripple. If you get a chance, shoot at the man's shoulder, so he can't use his gun. On the other hand, I've heard that Dowling is handy with a gun in either hand. We've got to take some chances, of course. I don't expect we'll see anything of those fellows without we leave them a horse or two. If we do that, why then to-morrow morning they'll come on. You boys keep right close after me, and try to make as little noise as you can. Don't let your horses call. They may want to when they smell the others, but keep them from doing it if you can."

Keeping well to the left, and close in under the timber, Hugh rode slowly along, and after a time they saw the light of the fire flickering on the other side of the valley, and occasionally could see shadows passing in front of it. As they moved along, they saw, from time to time, horses feeding, and once rode close to an old mare, whose little colt, not seeing them until they were near, gave a great bound into the air and rushed away for a few yards.

Hugh kept on up the valley until it narrowed, going almost to the point where he had crossed in the morning. Then he stopped and said to the boys:

"Now get off your horses and lead them. I reckon we're above all the horses, and now we'll go back down stream. Keep on the side away from the camp; keep spread out some; and when you come to any horses just walk toward them and get them to move along slowly. I'll keep out toward the middle until we get down near the camp; then, if the fire's gone down, I'll try to cut loose the horses, and I'll try to push them and all the others down the stream. It may take longer than we think, and you boys when you get down where we went into the timber, on the way up, get off your horses and lie down on the ground together and wait. See that you don't make any noise; see that you don't shoot me; keep your wits about you; and don't get excited or scared." The boys listened without a word.

"Now," Hugh continued, "we'll start. Jack, you go over next to the timber, but keep fairly well out from the edge, and try to see all the time that you don't miss any of the horses. Joe, you keep out nearer the middle, and get all the horses you can, and both of you work as slow and careful as you know how."

The three separated and set about their task. To Jack it seemed sort of shivery work, being off there alone. He wondered if anything would happen to Hugh or Joe; whether the thieves would find out what was being done, and would attack them; whether Hugh and Joe would meet him down at the end of the valley, and what in the world he would do if they did not. He had not much time for thoughts like these, however, for he had to watch the sky-line of the timber, and to figure how far he was from it; to look out for horses in front of him, and to travel along without stumbling, or running into little low bushes, or doing anything that would make a noise.

Before long he saw his first horse, an old mare with a colt. He walked toward her, and as he approached, she began slowly to walk away. Then there were other horses off to his right and to his left, and he walked back and forward across the valley, sometimes seeing that the horses to his left were moving slowly along down the valley, which told him that Joe was doing his work, sometimes coming to a large bunch of brush, around which he had to pass in order to be sure that no horses were hidden there. All the time he kept a good lookout across the valley, to see if he could see the fire of the camp, and at length, after he had gone, as it seemed, a very long way, he recognized, under the opposite hills, a dim glow on the bushes, which told him of a fire burned down. This he was glad to see, because it made him feel sure that the thieves had gone to bed and were asleep.

By this time he had in front of him a good many horses, all going quietly and feeding as they went. Now and then two or three would lag behind, and he was obliged to cross over and walk behind them, but they at once started on, and Jack felt pretty sure that, so far as his side of the valley was concerned, the horses had all been gathered. As he approached the place where they had entered the timber he began to hope that before long he would see Joe; and it was not very long after that that he saw one horse lagging behind all the rest, and as he went over to drive it along, he saw that someone was walking by it, and knew that this must be Joe. He wanted to go over and speak to him, but remembering that he had his own horses to look after, he restrained himself and kept on down the valley. At the same time he was glad to be sure that Joe was close by. Now, if only Hugh would appear, he should feel that they were all right. Now the valley grew more and more narrow, and the boys were closer together, and presently, as the horses bunched up to pass through a narrow place between two points of timber, Jack and Joe were almost side by side.

"Everything all right, Joe?" said Jack.

"All right," said Joe. "We've got a good bunch of horses."

"Have you seen anything of Hugh?" said Jack.

"No," said Joe, "I ain't seen Hugh, but the horses off to my left are moving along; I reckon he's there somewhere." The words were hardly spoken when suddenly, apparently from a horse that was walking just in front of them, Hugh's voice said:

"All right, boys; I believe we've done the trick. I think we can mount now and go ahead. Don't start 'em up yet, we'll go two or three miles further, and then we'll let 'em sail." Both boys were delighted to hear Hugh, and they mounted and crowded close to him.

"O Hugh," said Jack, "do you think we got 'em all?"

"Well," said Hugh, "I don't know about that, we've got the most of 'em. They may have riding horses cached in the brush somewhere. I was afraid to go right close to the camp, for fear some of 'em might be awake; but I got two picketed horses; there may be one hidden somewhere else; but I don't believe they've got horses enough to ride to-morrow, and I'm almighty sure they haven't got horses enough to catch us."

"What time is it, Hugh, do you think?" said Jack.

"Well, I don't know," said Hugh, "but it's considerable after the middle of the night. We've got plenty of time to get these horses down to camp, and pack, and start the whole outfit on before it gets day; and pretty soon I'm going to begin to hurry 'em. I want you two boys to drive the horses, and when we get out of the valley, I'm going to ride round them, and go ahead of them and lead them. Keep them going well until you hear me whoop; or if you can't hear me, until you see me. I shall ride pretty hard until we get near the camp, but we must stop the horses before we get there; otherwise they'll frighten our pack animals, and we won't be able to catch them. Now," said Hugh, as they came to a little enlargement of the valley, "I'll go ahead, and you give me a few minutes to get around them, and then start them up. When I hear them beginning to gallop, I'll go just ahead of them, and they'll all follow me."

The cavalcade proceeded at a walk for ten minutes more, and then Joe and Jack began to hurry the animals, and before long they were galloping at a good rate of speed down the valley. When they reached the Platte bottom the horses turned off, following the trail by which they had come up, and swung steadily along at a good gait. Now and then Jack recognized, even in the darkness, a place that they had passed before, but for the most part the country all looked strange to him. It seemed as if they had been going for a long time when he thought he heard a faint whoop from in front, and at the same moment Joe called out to him:

"Hold on, Jack; drop back. Hugh called, and we must let the horses stop."

They drew their horses into a walk, and before long the animals they were driving also slowed down. Then, after a little while they heard Hugh, not far in front of them, calling out:

"Come round here, boys, and help catch the pack animals, and put the packs on."

They rode through the horses, which had now stopped and begun to feed, and it took but a short time to catch their pack horses, and saddle and pack up. Then turning loose the packs, they all three rode round behind the herd, and started it on again.




Chapter XXIII

"Died With His Boots On"


It was now growing light, and they drove the horses hard. Hugh rode steadily behind the bunch, while the boys were out on either flank, keeping them straight, and not permitting any lagging. Once they stopped for a little while and caught three fresh horses which Hugh pointed out, put their saddles on them and turned loose their own horses.

The morning passed, and it was now the middle of the afternoon. The boys had noticed that Hugh often turned about and looked back up the level valley, and they themselves were also watching the back trail to see whether there was any pursuit. The sun was getting low, when far back up the valley was seen a speck of dust, which gradually grew larger, and underneath it they could see a black spot that was constantly growing nearer and nearer. It was evidently a man on horseback. After they had watched it for some time, Hugh motioned both boys to come over toward him, and riding there side by side in the thick dust kicked up by the hurrying herd, Hugh said to them:

"Boys, there's one man coming, and he's on a good horse, and we've got to kill him, I expect. Let these horses stop now, and catch up three other animals and change the packs onto them, and by that time this fellow will be close up to us, and we can see what he wants."

They slowed down their horses, the willing herd stopped and began to feed.

Jack and Joe rode through it, and one by one caught the pack horses, which they brought back to Hugh. Then Hugh, sitting on his horse, pointed out to them other animals to catch, and they roped them, brought them up, and one by one the packs were transferred to the new horses. The horses did not like it very much, and one or two of them bucked, and to Jack it seemed rather nervous work to be doing this when the approaching horseman kept growing larger and larger, and when, for all he knew, before long bullets would be flying. The work was finished before the horseman was near them, and then Hugh told the boys to start the herd on again. But Jack demurred, and said:

"Hold on, Hugh; are you going to stay here and meet this man? I think we all ought to stay, because something may happen."

"Well," said Hugh, "I don't like the idea of your stopping. I'd rather have you go on and start these horses. Nothing's going to happen to me; I feel pretty sure of that. I shall be on the ground, and have every advantage over this fellow, if he wants trouble."

"Hugh," said Joe, "how will this do: suppose Jack gets off twenty steps one side of you and I get off twenty steps on the other, and we won't do anything unless it looks like you were going to get hurt; then we can shoot."

"All right," said Hugh, "if it will make you boys feel any easier; but I tell you nothing is going to happen. If that fellow don't stop when he gets within good rifle shot I'll stop him, and I won't hurt him either. If he's got so much sand that he won't know when a man's got the drop on him, I may have to hurt him, but I don't look to."

The man came on; his horse was a great powerful beast and had been ridden hard, for it was covered with dust and foam. When he got within a hundred yards, Hugh dismounted, and stepping out in front of his horse, raised his rifle to his shoulder, and pointed it at the man. The man paid no attention to the motion, save to put his hand behind him and jerk from his holster a six-shooter. He called out something as he came on, but they could not distinguish what he said.

"Hands up!" Hugh called; but the man paid no attention, and the distance between the party and the rider grew smaller.

"Hands up!" Hugh shouted again, and then a third time; and still the man came on. Hugh fired, and the horse plunged forward on his knees throwing the rider far before him. It was Dowling.

He struck on his head and hands and slid a little way along the earth, and then springing to his feet, with his left hand he pulled another six-shooter from his belt; but as he raised it, Hugh's rifle sounded again, and the man fell.

"Look out for him, boys! Don't go near him; he's like a grizzly bear; likely to be playing possum." Hugh watched the man with a wary eye, and was not surprised to see him after a moment raise himself on one elbow and feel about over the ground, in the effort to recover the pistol which he had dropped. Hugh had seen it fall, and knowing the man's quickness with the pistol, watched him carefully. In a moment, however, the man sank back and seemed to be breathing hard, and Hugh called to the boys:

"Watch him, now, and I'll step up to him and get that gun; I'll be ready for him if he moves."

Hugh stepped carefully but quickly forward, with his gun ready, and had almost reached the man, when he moved slightly, and Hugh sprang swiftly to one side, as the pistol was discharged without being raised. In a moment Hugh was on the man, and had taken the arm from him and thrown it to one side.

Dowling was badly wounded, and it was evident he could not live long. When his pistols had been secured they did what they could to make him comfortable. Joe went to the river and brought water in his hat, and after a little, Dowling opened his eyes and spoke.

"Well, you've got me," he said; "I was in hopes I'd get you. I couldn't stand it to have those horses taken, but I wish you'd taken this one, instead of leaving it for me to ride. However, we made a good try to get the stock, and we would have got it if it hadn't been for you. Where did you come from? We never saw anything of you."

"We were just travelling down the river," said Hugh, "and saw the tracks, and I knew there wasn't any reason for a bunch of horses to be driven through this country; so I went back to look up and see what it meant, and I found that you'd got our horses."

"Well," said Dowling, "a fool for luck! Anybody else coming through the country wouldn't have paid any attention to that horse trail, but you just had to do it.

"I reckon I've got it," he went on; "and I expect it's about time too, but I hate almightily to be downed by an old man. I'd a heap sight rather have had one of them young fellows kill me."

"Well," said Hugh, "I expect when a man's time comes, it don't make much difference how he gets killed."

"No," said Dowling, "I expect maybe it don't. I always allowed I die with my boots on, anyhow, and here I am."

During the few moments that had elapsed since he had received his wound his voice had grown much weaker. He was not bleeding much, but Hugh shook his head as he looked at the wound.

"Have some more water, Dowling?" he said.

"Yes, a little," said Dowling; but as Hugh raised him up to drink, he began to choke, and in a moment, after a shudder or two, lay dead.

"Well, boys," said Hugh, "we've got to bury him, and then move along. Suppose you two go over onto the edge of that bluff and scrape away the clay, as much as you can with your knives, and I'll bring the body over, and put his saddle-blanket over him, and we'll cover him up."

It had all happened so quickly, and there had been so much excitement about it, that Jack hardly understood or realized what had happened. He and Joe walked over to the bluff, and scraping away the soft yellow clay, soon made a place six or eight feet long, and presently Hugh came over, carrying the man on his shoulder, and they laid him in his shallow grave. Hugh took off his belt, and looked through his pockets to see if he had any papers by which he might be identified, but found none. They covered him with the earth, and brought flat stones that had fallen down from the top of the bluff, and piled them upon the grave, to protect it from the wolves.

Then Hugh went back, and picking up the two pistols that Dowling had dropped, shoved them in the holsters, and holding out the belt to Jack, he said, "You want to wear this, son?"

"Why, yes, Hugh, I'd like to have it to remember this day by, though there are some things that I don't much care to remember."

"Well," said Hugh, "this is the way things used to be in the far west, but I thought we'd about got through with it by this time. However, some of the old spirit seems to crop out now and then."

They mounted, and started the herd along again. They had not gone far before Hugh said, "I want you boys to drive these animals on three or four miles down the creek, and leave them there; but cut out the pack horses, and we'll camp right here."

Camp was made in a bunch of cottonwood brush, but the lodge was not put up. The pack horses were hobbled, and then the boys drove the loose horses some distance further down the stream, and returning found the camp dark, but supper ready.

"I thought," said Hugh, "that there was just a chance that those two other fellows might follow us down and try to take some of the horses back again; so we had better stop here, without any fire, and with the horses kept close, and make an early start in the morning."

Hugh had them up long before day. They built no fire, but ate some dried meat, and started on. The tired horses were found just where they had been left, were pushed along at a good gait all day and crossed the Platte; and the next night they drove them into Mr. Sturgis' ranch to the great astonishment of all there, and later of Powell, and the other men from whom horses had been stolen.

Great was the credit received by all three of those who had brought back the stolen horses. Mr. Sturgis gave to Jack and Joe each three good riding animals; and to this day Jack talks of the only horse stealing expedition he was ever on.

Transcriber's note: In Chapter I there is the word "Hi d[)a]t sa" which contains an "a" with a breve accent mark above it which is rendered as [)a]. In Chapter II  is the word " Ass[)i]ne" which contains an "i" with breve accent mark above, [)i].

<eob>

Notable Voyagers: From Columbus To Nordenskiold

By

W.H.G. Kingston, Henry Frith



Chapter One.

Introduction -- A.D. 1486.

Columbus before the conclave of Professors at Seville -- His parentage and early history -- Battle with Venetian galleys -- Residence in Portugal --  Marries widow of a navigator -- Grounds on which he founded his theory --  Offers his services to the King of Portugal -- His offer declined -- Sends his brother Bartholomew to Henry the Seventh of England -- Don John sends out a squadron to forestall him -- Sets off for Spain -- Introduced by the Duke of Medina Celi to Queen Isabella -- She encourages him -- Plan for the recovery of the Holy Sepulchre -- His long detention at Court while Ferdinand and Isabella are engaged in the war against the Moors of Granada -- A hearing at length afforded him -- His demands refused -- Leaves the Court in poverty and visits Palos on his way to France -- Met by Juan Perez, Prior of the Rabida convent -- The Prior listens to his plans --  Introduces him to the Pinzons, and informs the Queen of his intended departure -- Sent for back at Court -- All his demands agreed to -- Authority given him to fit out a squadron.

In the year 1486 a council of learned professors of geography, mathematics, and all branches of science, erudite friars, accomplished bishops, and other dignitaries of the Church, were seated in the vast arched hall of the old Dominican convent of Saint Stephen in Salamanca, then the great seat of learning in Spain. They had met to hear a simple mariner, then standing in their midst, propound and defend certain conclusions at which he had arrived regarding the form and geography of the earth, and the possibility, nay, the certainty, that by sailing west, the unknown shores of Eastern India could be reached. Some of his hearers declared it to be grossly presumptuous in an ordinary man to suppose, after so many profound philosophers and mathematicians had been studying the world, and so many able navigators had been sailing about it for years past, that there remained so vast a discovery for him to make. Some cited the books of the Old Testament to prove that he was wrong, others the explanations of various reverend commentators. Doctrinal points were mixed up with philosophical discussions, and a mathematical demonstration was allowed no weight if it appeared to clash with a text of Scripture or comment of one of the fathers.

Although Pliny and the wisest of the ancients had maintained the possibility of an antipodes in the southern hemisphere, these learned gentlemen made out that it was altogether a novel theory.

Others declared that to assert there were inhabited lands on the opposite side of the globe would be to maintain that there were nations not descended from Adam, as it would have been impossible for them to have passed the intervening ocean, and therefore discredit would be thrown on the Bible.

Again, some of the council more versed in science, though admitting the globular form of the earth, and the possibility of an opposite habitable hemisphere, maintained that it would be impossible to arrive there on account of the insupportable heat of the torrid zone; besides which, if the circumference of the earth was as great as they supposed, it would require three years to make the voyage.

Several, with still greater absurdity, advanced as an objection that should a ship succeed in reaching the extremity of India, she could never get back again, as the rotundity of the globe would present a kind of mountain up which it would be impossible for her to sail even with the most favourable wind.

The mariner replied in answer to the scriptural objection that the inspired writers were not speaking technically as cosmographers, but figuratively, in language addressed to all comprehensions, and that the commentaries of the fathers were not to be considered as philosophical propoundings, which it was necessary either to admit or refute.

In regard to the impossibility of passing the torrid zone, he himself stated that he had voyaged as far as Guinea under the equinoxial line, and had found that region not only traversable, but abounding in population, fruits, and pasturage.

Who was this simple mariner who could thus dare to differ from so many learned sages? His person was commanding; his demeanour elevated; his eye kindling; his manner that of one who had a right to be heard, while a rich flow of eloquence carried his hearers with him. His countenance was handsome; his hair already blanched by thought, toil, and privation.

He was no other than Columbus, who, after his proposals had been rejected by the Court of Portugal, had addressed himself to that of Spain, and had, year after year, waited patiently to obtain a hearing from Ferdinand and Isabella, then occupied in their wars against the Moors.

He had been a seaman from the age of fourteen. He was born in the city of Genoa about the year 1435, where his father, Dominico Colombo, carried on the business of a wool comber, which his ancestors had followed for several generations. He was the eldest of three brothers, the others being Bartholomew and Diego. He had at an early age evinced a desire for the sea, and accordingly his education had been mainly directed to fit him for maritime life.

His first voyages were made with a distant relative named Colombo, a hardy veteran of the seas, who had risen to some distinction by his bravery.

Under this relative young Christopher saw much service, both warlike and in trading voyages, until he gained command of a war ship of good size. When serving in the squadron of his cousin information was brought that four richly-laden Venetian galleys were on their return voyage from Flanders. The squadron lay in wait for them off the Portuguese coast, between Lisbon and Cape Saint Vincent. A desperate engagement ensued; the vessels grappled each other. That commanded by Columbus was engaged with a huge Venetian galley. Hand-grenades and other fiery missiles were thrown on board her, and the galley was wrapped in flames. So closely were the vessels fastened together, that both were involved in one conflagration. The crews threw themselves into the sea. Columbus seized an oar, and being an expert swimmer, reached the shore, though fully two leagues distant. On recovering he made his way to Lisbon. Possibly he may have resided there previously; certain it is that he there married a lady, the daughter of a distinguished navigator, from whose widow he obtained much information regarding the voyages and expeditions of her late husband, as well as from his papers, charts, journals, and memoranda.

Having become naturalised in Portugal, he sailed occasionally on voyages to the coast of Guinea, and when on shore supported his family by making maps and charts, which in those days required a degree of knowledge and experience sufficient to entitle the possessor to distinction.

He associated with various navigators, and he noted down all he heard. It was said by some that islands had been seen far away to the west when they had been driven in that direction. Whatever credit might have been given to these reports by Columbus, he had far stronger reasons for believing that, by sailing across the ocean to the west, he should reach land. He was of opinion that about one-third of the circumference of the earth was unknown and unexplored. A great portion of this might be filled up by the eastern regions of Asia, while the tract of water intervening between these countries might be less than at first supposed.

In the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, two great travellers, Marco Polo and Sir John Mandeville, journeyed eastward over a large portion of Asia, and had given vivid descriptions of the magnificence of its cities and scenery. Marco Polo especially had described two large islands, Ontilla and Cipango, the latter undoubtedly Japan, which it was expected would be the first reached by a navigator sailing westward.

A Portuguese pilot, Martin Vicenti, after sailing four hundred and fifty-two leagues to the west of Cape Saint Vincent, had found a piece of carved wood evidently laboured with an iron instrument, and as probably the wind had drifted it from the west, it might have come from some unknown land in that direction. A brother-in-law of Columbus had likewise found a similar piece of wood drifted from the same quarter. Reeds of enormous size, such as were described by Ptolemy to grow in India, had been picked up, and trunks of huge pine-trees had been driven on the shores of the Azores, such as did not grow on any of those islands. The bodies of two dead men, whose features differed from those of any known race of people, had been cast on the island of Flores. There were islands, it was rumoured, still farther west than those visited, and a mariner sailing from Port Saint Mary to Ireland asserted that he had seen land to the west, which the ship's company took to be some extreme point of Tartary.

These facts being made known to Columbus, served to strengthen his opinion. The success indeed of his undertaking depended greatly on two happy errors: the imaginary extent of Asia to the east, and the supposed smallness of the earth. A deep religious sentiment mingled with his meditations. He looked upon himself as chosen by Heaven for the accomplishment of its purposes, that the ends of the earth might be brought together, and all nations and tongues united under the banner of the Redeemer.

The enthusiastic nature of his conceptions gave an elevation to his spirit, and dignity and eloquence to his whole demeanour. He never spoke in doubt or hesitation, but with as much certainty as if his eyes had beheld the promised land.

No trial or disappointment could divert him from the steady pursuit of his object. That object, it is supposed, he meditated as early as the year 1474, though as yet it lay crude and immatured in his mind. Shortly afterwards, in the year 1477, he made a voyage to the north of Europe, navigating one hundred leagues beyond Thule, when he reached an island as large as England, generally supposed to have been Iceland.

In vain he had applied to Don John the Second, who ascended the throne of Portugal in 1481. That king was so deeply engaged in sending out expeditions to explore the African coast that his counsellors advised him to confine his efforts in that direction. He would, however, have given his consent had not Columbus demanded such high and honourable rewards as were considered inadmissible.

To his eternal disgrace the Bishop of Ceuta advised that Columbus should be kept in suspense while a vessel was secretly dispatched in the direction he pointed out, to ascertain if there was any truth in his story. This was actually done, until the caravel meeting with stormy weather, and an interminable waste of wild tumbling waves, the pilots lost courage and returned.

Columbus, indignant at this attempt to defraud him, his wife having died some time previously, resolved to abandon the country which had acted so treacherously. He first sent his brother Bartholomew to make proposals to Henry the Seventh, King of England; but that sovereign rejected his offers, and having again made a proposal to Genoa, which, from the reverses she had lately received, she was unable to accept, he turned his eyes to Spain.

The great Spanish Dukes of Medina Sidonia and Medina Coeli, were at first inclined to support him, and the latter spoke of him to Queen Isabella, who giving a favourable reply, Columbus set off for the Spanish Court, then at Cordova.

The sovereigns of Castile and Arragon were, however, so actively engaged in carrying on the fierce war with the Moors of Grenada, that they were unable to give due attention to the scheme of the navigator, while their counsellors generally derided his proposals.

The beautiful and enlightened Isabella treated him from the first with respect, and other friends rose up who were ready to give him support.

Wearied and discouraged by long delays, however, he had again opened up negotiations with the King of Portugal, and had been requested by that monarch to return there. He had also received a letter from Henry the Seventh of England, inviting him to his Court, and holding out promises of encouragement, when he was again summoned to attend the Castilian Court, and a sum of money was sent him to defray his expenses, King Ferdinand probably fearing that he would carry his proposals to a rival monarch, and wishing to keep the matter in suspense until he had leisure to examine it.

He accordingly repaired to the Court of Seville. While he was there two monks arrived with a message from the Grand Soldan of Egypt, threatening to put to death all the Christians and to destroy the Holy Sepulchre if the Spanish sovereigns did not desist from war against Grenada.

The menace had no effect in altering their purpose, but it aroused the indignation of the Spanish cavaliers, and still more so that of Columbus, and made them burn with ardent zeal once more to revive the contest of faith on the sacred plains of Palestine. Columbus had indeed resolved, should his projected enterprise prove successful, to devote the profits from his anticipated discoveries to a crusade for the rescue of the Holy Sepulchre from the power of the infidels.

During the latter part of the year 1490 Ferdinand and Isabella were engaged in celebrating the marriage of their eldest daughter, the Princess Isabella, with Prince Don Alonzo, heir apparent of Portugal. Bearing these long and vexatious delays as he had before done, Columbus supported himself chiefly by making maps and charts, occasionally assisted from the purse of his friend Diego de Deza.

The year was passing on. Columbus was kept in a state of irritating anxiety at Cordova, when he heard that the sovereigns were about to commence that campaign which ended in the expulsion of the Moors from Spain. Aware that many months must pass before they would give their minds to the subject if he allowed the present moment to slip by, he pressed for a decisive reply to his proposals with an earnestness that would admit of no evasion.

The learned men of the council were directed to express their opinion of the enterprise. The report of each was unfavourable, although the worthy friar Diego de Deza, tutor to Prince John, and several others, urged the sovereigns not to lose the opportunity of extending their dominions and adding so greatly to their glory.

Again, however, Columbus was put off. Having no longer confidence in the vague promises which had hitherto been made, he turned his back on Seville, resolved to offer to the King of France the honour of carrying out his magnificent undertaking.

Leaving Seville, his means exhausted, he travelled on foot, leading his young son Diego by the hand, to the sea-port of Palos de Moguer in Andalusia. Weary and exhausted, he stopped to ask for bread and water at the gate of the ancient Franciscan convent of Santa Maria de Rabida.

The Prior, Juan Perez de Marchena, happening to come up, and remarking the appearance of the stranger, entered into conversation with him. The Prior, a man of superior information, was struck with the grandeur of his views, and when he found that the navigator was on the point of abandoning Spain to seek patronage in the Court of France, and that so important an enterprise was about to be lost for ever to the country, his patriotism took the alarm. He entertained Columbus as his guest, and invited a scientific friend -- a physician -- Garcia Fernandez, to converse with him.

Fernandez was soon captivated by his conversation. Frequent conferences took place, at which several of the veteran mariners of Palos were present. Among these was Martin Alonzo Pinzon, the head of a family of wealthy and experienced navigators. Facts were related by some of the mariners in support of the theory of Columbus, and so convinced was Pinzon of the feasibility of his project, that he offered to engage in it with purse and person. The Prior, who had once been confessor to the Queen, was confirmed in his faith by the opinions expressed, and he proposed writing to her immediately, and entreated Columbus to delay his journey until an answer could be received.

It was decided to send Sebastian Rodriguez, a shrewd and clever pilot, to Santa Fe, where the Queen then was. Isabella had always been favourable to Columbus, and the Prior received a reply desiring that he himself should repair to Court. He went, and, seconded by the Marchioness of Moya and other old friends, so impressed the Queen with the importance of the undertaking, that she desired Columbus might be sent for, and ordered that seventy-two dollars, equal to two hundred and sixteen of the present day, might be forwarded to him, to bear his travelling expenses.

With his hopes raised to the highest pitch, Columbus again repaired to Court; but so fully occupied was he with the grandeur of his enterprise, that he stipulated that he should be invested with the title and privilege of admiral, and viceroy over the countries he should discover, with one-tenth of all gains, either by trade or conquest. It must be remembered the pious and patriotic way -- according to his notions -- in which he intended to expend the wealth he hoped to acquire.

The courtiers were indignant, and sneeringly observed that his arrangement was a secure one, that he was sure of a command, and had nothing to lose.

On this he offered to furnish one-eighth of the cost, on condition of enjoying one-eighth of the profit. The King looked coldly on the affair, and once more the sovereigns of Spain declined the offer. Columbus was at length again about to set off on his journey to Palos, when the generous spirit of Isabella was kindled by the remarks of the Marchioness of Moya, supported by Louis de Saint Angel, Receiver of the Ecclesiastical Revenues in Arragon. She exclaimed, "I undertake the enterprise for my own crown of Castile, and will pledge my jewels to raise the necessary funds!"

This was the proudest moment in the life of Isabella, as it stamped her as the patroness of the great discovery.

Saint Angel assured her there was no necessity for pledging her jewels, and expressed his readiness to advance seventeen thousand florins. A messenger was dispatched to bring back the navigator, with the assurance that all he desired would be granted; and so, turning the reins of his mule, he hastened back with joyful alacrity to Santa Fe, confiding in the noble probity of the Queen.

Articles of agreement were drawn up by the royal secretary at once. Columbus was to have for himself during his life, and his heirs and successors for ever, the office of admiral of all lands and continents which he might discover.

Secondly: He was to be viceroy and governor-general over them.

Thirdly: He was to be entitled to receive for himself one-tenth of all pearls, precious stones, gold, silver, spices, and all other articles and merchandise obtained within this admiralty.

Fourthly: He or his lieutenant was to be the sole judge in all cases and disputes arising out of traffic between those countries and Spain.

Fifthly: He might then, and at all after times, contribute an eighth part of the expense in fitting out vessels to sail on this enterprise, and receive one-eighth part of the profit.

The latter engagement he fulfilled through the assistance of the Pinzons of Palos, and added a third vessel to the armament.

Thus, one-eighth of the expense attendant on this grand expedition, undertaken by a powerful nation, was actually borne by the individual who conceived it, and who likewise risked his life on its success.

The capitulations were afterwards signed by Ferdinand and Isabella on the 17th of April, 1492, when, in addition to the above articles, Columbus and his heirs were authorised to prefix the title of Don to their names.

It was arranged that the armament should be fitted out at the port of Palos, Columbus calculating on the co-operation of his friends Martin Alonzo Pinzon and the Prior of the convent.

Both Isabella and Columbus were influenced by a pious zeal for effecting the great work of salvation among the potentates and peoples of the lands to be discovered. He expected to arrive at the extremity of the ocean, and to open up direct communication with the vast and magnificent empire of the Grand Khan of Tartary. His deep and cherished design was the recovery of the Holy Sepulchre, which he meditated during the remainder of his life, and solemnly provided for in his will.

Let those who are disposed to faint under difficulties in the prosecution of any great and worthy undertaking, remember that eighteen years elapsed after the time that Columbus conceived his enterprise, before he was able to carry it into effect; that the greater part of that time was passed in almost hopeless solicitation, amidst poverty, neglect, and taunting ridicule; that the prime of his life had wasted away in the struggle; and that when his perseverance was finally crowned with success, he had reached his fifty-sixth year.



Chapter Two.

First Voyage Of Columbus -- A.D. 1492.

Columbus returns to Palos -- Assisted by the Prior of La Rabida -- The Pinzons agree to join him -- Difficulty of obtaining ships and men -- At length three vessels fitted out -- Sails in the Santa Maria, with the Pinta and Nina, on 3rd August, 1492 -- Terrors and mutinous disposition of the crews -- Reaches the Canary Islands -- Narrowly escapes from a Portuguese squadron seat to capture him -- Alarm of the crews increases -- The squadron sails smoothly on -- Columbus keeps two logs to deceive the seamen -- Signs of land -- Seaweed -- Flights of birds -- Birds pitch on the ship -- Frequent changes in the tempers of the crews --  Westerly course long held -- Course altered to south-west -- Pinzon fancies he sees land -- Disappointment -- Columbus sees lights at night -- Morning dawns -- San Salvador discovered -- Natives seen -- Columbus lands -- Wonder of the natives -- Proceeds in search of Cipango -- Other islands visited, and gold looked for in vain -- Friendly reception by the natives -- Supplies brought off -- Search for Saometo -- Cuba discovered 20th October, 1492 --  Calls it Juana -- Believes it to be the mainland of India -- Sends envoys into the interior -- Their favourable report of the fertility of the country -- A storm -- Deserted by Martin Pinzon in the Pinta -- First view of Hispaniola -- A native girl captured -- Set free -- Returns with large numbers of her countrymen -- Arcadian simplicity of the natives.

Columbus hastened to Palos, where he was received as the guest of Fray Juan Perez, the worthy Prior of the convent of Rabida. The whole squadron with which the two sovereigns proposed to carry out their grand undertaking was to consist only of three small vessels. Two of these, by a royal decree, were to be furnished by Palos, the other by Columbus himself or his friends.

The morning after his arrival, Columbus, accompanied by the Prior, proceeded to the church of Saint George in Palos, where the authorities and principal inhabitants had been ordered to attend. Here the royal order was read by a notary public, commanding them to have two caravels ready for sea in ten days, they and their crews to be placed at the disposal of Columbus. He himself was empowered to procure and fit out a third vessel.

Orders were likewise read, addressed to the public authorities, and the people of all ranks and conditions in the maritime borders of Andalusia, commanding them to furnish supplies and assistance of all kinds for fitting out the caravels.

When, however, the nature of the service was explained, the owners of vessels refused to furnish them, and the seamen shrank from sailing into the wilderness of the ocean.

Several weeks elapsed, and not a vessel had been procured. The sovereigns therefore issued further orders, directing the magistrates to press into the service any caravel they might select, and to compel the masters and crews to sail with Columbus in whatever direction he should be sent.

Notwithstanding this nothing was done, until at length Martin Alonzo Pinzon, with his brother, Vincente Yanez Pinzon -- both navigators of great courage and ability, and owners of vessels -- undertook to sail on the expedition, and furnish one of the caravels required. Two others were pressed by the magistrates under the arbitrary mandate of the sovereigns.

The owners of one of the vessels, the Pinta, threw all possible obstacles in the way of her being fitted out. The caulkers performed their work in an imperfect manner, and even some of the seamen who had at first volunteered repented of their hardihood, and others deserted.

The example of the Pinzons at length overcame all opposition, and the three vessels, two of them known as caravels, not superior to the coasting craft of more modern days, were got ready by the beginning of August.

Columbus hoisted his flag on board the largest, the Santa Maria; the second, the Pinta, was commanded by Martin Alonzo Pinzon, accompanied by his brother Francisco Martin as pilot; and the third, the Nina, was commanded by Vincente Yafiez Pinzon. The other three pilots were Sancho Raiz, Pedro Alonzo Nino, and Bartolomeo Roldan.

Roderigo Sanches was inspector-general of the armament, and Diego de Arana chief alguazil. Roderigo de Escobar went as royal notary. In all, one hundred and twenty persons.

Columbus and his followers, having solemnly taken the communion, went on board their ships. Believing that their friends were going to certain death, the inhabitants of Paios looked on with gloomy apprehensions, which greatly affected the minds of the crew.

The little squadron set sail from Palos half an hour before sunrise on the 3rd of August, 1492, and steered a course for the Canary Islands. Columbus had prepared a chart by which to sail. On this he drew the coasts of Europe and Africa, from the south of Ireland to the end of Guinea, and opposite to them, on the other side of the Atlantic, the extremity of Asia, or rather India, as it was then called. Between them he placed the island of Cipango or Japan, which, according to Marco Polo, lay one thousand five hundred miles from the Atlantic coast. This island Columbus placed where Florida really exists. Though he saw his hopes of commencing the expedition realised, he had good reason to fear that his crews might at any moment insist on returning.

On the third day after sailing, it was discovered that the rudder of the Pinta was broken and unslung, probably a trick of her owners. The wind was blowing so strongly at the time that he could not render assistance, but Martin Alonzo Pinzon, being an able seaman, succeeded in securing it temporarily with ropes.

As the Pinta also leaked, Columbus put into the Canaries on the morning of the 9th of August, and was detained there three weeks, trying to obtain a better vessel. None being found, the lateen sails of the Pinta were altered into square sails. While here the crews were frightened by seeing flames burst out of the lofty peak of Teneriffe. Shortly after a vessel arrived from Ferro, which reported that three Portuguese caravels were watching to capture the squadron of Columbus, who, suspecting that the King of Portugal had formed a hostile plan in revenge for his having embarked in the service of Spain, immediately put to sea and stood away from the coast. He was now striking off from the frontier islands of the Old World into the region of discovery. For three days the squadron was detained by a calm. On the 9th of September he saw Ferro, the most western of the Canary Islands, where the Portuguese were said to be waiting for him, about nine leagues distant. At length, a breeze filling the sails of his ships, he was able to stand on his course, as he hoped, free of all danger. Chaos, mystery, and peril were before them. The hearts of his crew sank as they lost sight of land, and many of the seamen broke into loud lamentations. The Admiral tried to soothe their distress, and to inspire them with his own glorious anticipations by describing to them the magnificence of the countries to which he was about to conduct them, and the wealth and glory which would be theirs.

He now issued orders to the commanders of the other vessels that, in the event of separation, they should continue directly westward; but that, after sailing seven hundred leagues, they should lay by from midnight to daylight, as about that distance he confidently expected to find land.

As he foresaw the farther they sailed the more their vague terrors would increase, to deceive them, he kept two logs; one correct, retained for his own government, and the other open to general inspection, from which a certain number of leagues were daily subtracted from the sailing of the ships.

The crews, though no faint-hearted fellows, had not as yet learned to place confidence in him. The slightest thing alarmed them. When about one hundred and fifty leagues west of Ferro, they picked up part of the mast of a large vessel, and the crews fancied that she must have been wrecked drifting ominously to the entrance of those unknown seas.

About nightfall, on the 13th of September, he for the first time noticed the variation of the needle, which, instead of pointing to the north star, varied about half a point. He remarked that this variation of the needle increased as he advanced. He quieted the alarm of his pilots, when they observed this, by assuring them that the variation was not caused by any fallacy in the compass, but by the movement of the north star itself, which, like the other heavenly bodies, described a circle round the pole.

The explanation appeared so highly plausible and ingenious that it was readily received. On the 14th of September they believed that they were near land, from seeing a heron and a tropical bird, neither of which were supposed to venture far out to sea.

The following night the mariners were awestruck by beholding a meteor of great brilliancy -- a common phenomenon in those latitudes. With a favourable breeze, day after day, the squadron was wafted on, so that it was unnecessary to shift a single sail.

They now began to observe patches of weeds drifting from the west, which increased in size as they advanced. These, together with a white tropical bird which never sleeps on the water, made Columbus hope that he was approaching some island; for, as he had come but three hundred and sixty leagues since leaving the Canary Islands, he supposed the mainland still to be far off.

The breeze was soft and steady, the water smooth. The crews were in high spirits, and every seaman was on the look-out, for a pension of ten thousand maravedis had been promised to him who should first discover land.

Alonzo Pinzon in the Pinta took the lead. On the afternoon of the 13th of September he hailed the Admiral, saying that from the flight of numerous birds and the appearance of the northern horizon, he thought there was land in that direction; but Columbus replied that it was merely a deception of the clouds, and would not alter his course.

The following day there were drizzling showers, and two boobies flew on board the Santa Maria, birds which seldom wander more than twenty leagues from land. Sounding, however, no bottom was found. Unwilling to waste the present fair breeze, he resolved, whatever others thought, to keep one bold course until the coast of India was reached.

Notwithstanding, even the favourable breeze began to frighten the seamen, who imagined that the wind in those regions might always blow from the east, and if so, would prevent their return to Spain.

Not long after the wind shifted to the south-west, and restored their courage, proving to them that the wind did not always prevail from the east. Several small birds also visited the ships, singing as they perched on the rigging, thus showing that they were not exhausted by their flight. Again the squadron passed among numerous patches of seaweed, and the crews, ever ready to take alarm, having heard that ships were sometimes frozen in by ice, fancied that they might be fixed in the same manner, until they were caught by the nipping hand of winter.

Then they took it into their heads that the water was growing shoaler, and expressed their fears that they might run on some sand-banks and be lost. Then a whale was seen, which creature Columbus assured them never went far from land. Notwithstanding, they became uneasy at the calmness of the weather, declaring that as the prevailing winds were from the east, and had not power to disturb the torpid stillness of the ocean, there was the risk of perishing amidst stagnant and shoreless waters, and being prevented by contrary winds from ever returning to Spain.

Next a swell got up, which showed that their terrors caused by the calm were imaginary. Notwithstanding this, and the favourable signs which increased his confidence, he feared that after all, breaking into mutiny, they would compel him to return.

The sailors fancied that their ships were too weak for so long a voyage, and held secret consultations, exciting each other's discontent. They had gone farther than any one before had done. Who could blame them, should they, consulting their safety, turn back?

Columbus, though aware of the mutinous disposition of his crew, maintained a serene and steady countenance, using gentle words with some, stimulating the pride and avarice of others, and threatening the refractory.

On the 25th of September the wind again became favourable, and the squadron resumed its westerly course. Pinzon now, on examining the chart, supposed that they must be approaching Cipango. Columbus desired to have it returned, and it was thrown on board at the end of a line.

While Columbus and his pilot were studying it, they heard a shout, and looking up saw Pinzon standing at the stern of the Pinta, crying, "Land! land! Senor, I claim my reward!"

There was indeed an appearance of land to the south-west. Columbus and the other officers threw themselves on their knees, and returned thanks to God. The seamen, mounting the rigging, strained their eyes in the direction pointed out, but the morning light put an end to their hopes.

Again with dejected hearts they proceeded, the sea, as before, tranquil, the breeze propitious, and the weather mild and delightful. In a day or two more weeds were seen floating from east to west, but no birds were visible. The people again expressed their fears that they had passed between two islands; but after the lapse of another day the ships were visited by numberless birds, and various indications of land became more numerous. Full of hope, the seamen ascended the rigging, and were continually crying out that they saw land.

Columbus put a stop to these false alarms, declaring that should any one assert that they saw land, and it was not discovered within three days, he should forfeit all claim to the reward.

Pinzon now proposed that they should steer south-west, but Columbus persisted in keeping a westerly course. On the 7th of October, at sunrise, several of the Admiral's crew fancied that they saw land; the Nina pressing forward, a flag was run up at her masthead, and a gun was fired, -- the preconcerted signal for land.

The captain and his crew were mistaken notwithstanding. The clouds which had deceived them melted away. The crews again became dejected. But once more flocks of field birds were seen flying through the air to the south-west, and Columbus, having already run the distance at the termination of which he had expected to find the island of Cipango, fancied he might have missed it. He therefore altered his course to the south-west.

As the ships advanced the signs of land increased: a heron, a pelican, and a duck were seen bound in the same direction. Branches of trees, and grass, fresh and green, were observed. The crews, however, believing these to be mere delusions for leading them on to destruction, insisted on abandoning the voyage.

Columbus sternly resisted their importunities, and the following day a branch of thorn, with berries on it, and a staff artificially carved, with other articles, were picked up, showing that land must be close at hand.

All gloom and mutiny now gave way to sanguine expectations, and Columbus promised a doublet of velvet, in addition to the pension to be given by the sovereign, to whosoever should first see the longed-for shore.

As he walked the high poop of his ship at night, his eye continually ranging along the horizon, he thought he saw a light glimmering at a great distance. Fearing that his hopes might deceive him, he successively called up two of his officers. They both saw it, apparently proceeding from a torch in the bark of a fisherman, or held in the hand of some person on shore, borne up as he walked.

So uncertain were these gleams that few attached any importance to them. The ships continued their course until two in the morning, when Rodrigo de Triana, a seaman on board the Pinta, descried land at two leagues ahead. A gun was fired from the Santa Maria, to give the joyful news. When all doubt on the subject was banished the ships lay to.

Who can picture the thoughts and feelings of Columbus, as he walked the deck, impatiently waiting for dawn, which was to show him clearly the long-sought-for land, with, as he hoped, its spicy groves, its glittering temples, its gilded cities, and all the splendour of Oriental civilisation!

As the dawn of the 12th of October, 1492, increased, Columbus first observed one of the outlying islands of the New World. It was several leagues in extent, level, and covered with trees, and populated, for the naked inhabitants were seen running from all parts to the shore, and gazing with astonishment at the ships. The anchors being dropped, the boats manned, he, richly attired in scarlet and holding the royal standard, accompanied by the Pinzons in their own boats, approached the shore.

On landing he threw himself on his knees, and kissing the earth, returned thanks to God, the rest following his example. He then, drawing his sword, took possession of the island, which he named San Salvador, in the names of the sovereigns of Castile. The crews now thronged round the Admiral, some embracing him, others kissing his hands, expressing their joy; the most mutinous becoming the most enthusiastic and devoted.

The natives, who had at first fled, supposing the ships monsters which had risen from the deep, recovering their fears, now timidly advanced, lost in admiration at the shining armour and splendid dresses of the Spaniards, and their complexions and beards, at once recognising the Admiral as the commander of the strangers.

Columbus, pleased with their gentleness, suffered them to scrutinise him, and won them by his benignity. The natives were equally objects of curiosity to the Spaniards. They were naked, painted all over with a variety of colours and designs. Their complexion was tawny, and they were destitute of beards; their hair not crisp, like that of negroes, but straight and coarse; their features were agreeable; their stature moderate and well shaped; their foreheads lofty, and their eyes remarkably fine.

As Columbus supposed that he had landed on an island at the extremity of India, he called the natives Indians, as the inhabitants of the New World have ever since been denominated. Their only arms were lances pointed with the teeth or bones of fishes. There was no iron seen, and so ignorant were the natives of its properties, that one of them took a drawn sword by the edge, not aware that it would cut.

Columbus, to win their confidence, distributed among them coloured caps, hawks' bells, and glass beads, with which they were highly pleased, allowing the Spaniards unmolested to walk about the groves examining the beautiful trees, the shrubs, fruits, and flowers, all so strange to them.

The next morning canoes of all sizes, formed out of single trees, came off, some holding one man, some forty or fifty, who managed them with great dexterity.

They readily accepted toys and trinkets, which, supposing them to be brought from heaven, possessed a supernatural virtue in their eyes. The only things they had to give in return were parrots and balls of cotton-yarn, besides cassava cakes, formed from the flour of a root called yuca, which they cultivated in their fields. The Spaniards, who were eagerly looking out for gold, were delighted to obtain some small ornaments of that metal in exchange for beads and hawks' bells. As it was a royal monopoly, Columbus forbade any traffic in it, as he did also in cotton, reserving to the crown all trade in it.

Misled by the accounts he had read in Marco Polo's works, he was from the first persuaded that he had arrived at the islands lying opposite Cathay in the Chinese seas, and that the country to the south, which he understood from the natives abounded in gold, must be the famous island of Cipango.

San Salvador, where he first landed, still retains its name, though called by the English from its shape Cat Island. It is one of the great cluster of the Lucayos or Bahama Islands. Coasting round it in the boats, the Admiral visited various spots, and had friendly intercourse with the natives, to whom he gave glass beads and other trifles.

He landed at another place, where there were six Indian huts surrounded by groves and gardens as beautiful as those of Castile.

At last the sailors, wearied with their exertions, returned to the ships, carrying seven Indians, that they might, by acquiring the Spanish language, serve as interpreters. Taking in a supply of wood and water, the squadron sailed the same evening to the south, where the Admiral expected to discover Cipango. As the Indians told him there were upwards of a hundred islands in the neighbourhood, he was confirmed in his belief that they must be those described by Marco Polo, abounding with gold, silver, drugs, and spices.

Several other islands were visited, but the explorers looked in vain for bracelets and anklets of gold. One day, just as the ships were about to make sail, one of the San Salvador Indians on board the Nina, plunging overboard, swam to a large canoe which had come near. A boat was sent in chase, but the Indians in their light canoe escaped, and reaching the island fled to the woods. Shortly afterwards a canoe, having on board a single native, coming near, he was captured and brought to Columbus, who, treating him with kindness won his heart; his canoe was also restored to him, and that taken by the Nina was set at liberty.

Soon afterwards, while traversing the channel between two islands, when about midway another Indian in his canoe was overtaken, a string of glass beads round his neck, showing that he had come from San Salvador.

Columbus, admiring his hardihood, had him and his canoe taken on board, when he was treated with great kindness, bread and honey being given him to eat. It was too late to select a spot through the transparent sea for anchoring, and the ship lay to until the morning, while the Indian voyager, with all his effects and loaded with presents, was allowed to depart.

Next day the natives came off, bringing fruits, and roots, and pure water. They were treated in the same way as the former had been. Their huts, which were formed of tall poles and branches neatly interwoven with palm-leaves of a circular form, were visited. They were clean and neat, and generally sheltered under wide-spreading trees. For beds they had nets of cotton extended between two posts, which they called hammocks, a name since generally adopted by seamen.

Columbus, as he sailed round the island, found a magnificent harbour, sufficient to hold a hundred ships. He was delighted with the beauty of the scenery, the shady groves, the fruits, the herbs and flowers, -- all differing so greatly from those of Spain. Everywhere the natives received their visitors as superior beings, and gladly conducted them to the coolest springs, and assisted them in rolling their casks to the boats. To the last island visited by Columbus he gave the name of Fernandina. Sailing thence on the 19th of October, he steered in quest of a large island called Saometo, where, misled by his guides, he expected to find the sovereign of the surrounding islands, habited in rich clothes and jewels and gold, possessed of great treasures, a large city, and a gold-mine. Neither were found; but the voyagers were delighted with the balmy air, the beautiful scenery, the graceful trees, the vast flocks of parrots and other birds of gorgeous plumage, and the fish, which rivalled them in the brilliancy of their colours. No animals were seen, with the exception of a dog which never barked, a species of rabbit, and numerous lizards and iguanas.

Columbus was as much misled by his own fervent imagination as by not comprehending the accounts given him by the natives. He proposed that his stay at those islands should depend upon the quantity of gold, spices, precious stones, and other objects of Oriental trade which he should find there. After this he intended to proceed to the mainland of India, which he calculated was within ten days' sail, and there, after visiting some of its magnificent capitals described by Marco Polo, he would deliver the letters of the sovereigns to the Grand Khan, with whose reply he would return triumphantly to Spain.

Such was his idea when, leaving the Bahamas, he went in quest of the island of Cuba, of which he had been told.

Touching at various islands, having crossed the Bahama bank, he came in sight of Cuba on the morning of the 28th of October. He was struck as he approached by its lofty mountains, its far-stretching headlands, its plains and valleys, and noble rivers.

He anchored in a beautiful stream, the banks overhung with trees. Here landing, he took possession of the island, giving it the name of Juana, in honour of Prince Juan, and the river that of San Salvador. Going on shore in search of the inhabitants, he found only two abandoned huts, containing a few nets, hooks, and harpoons of bone, showing that the owners were mere savages.

Again he was delighted with the scenery, and the vast flights of birds of gorgeous plumage, parrots, woodpeckers, and humming-birds flitting among the trees, and sucking honey from the flowers. He fancied too, from the smell of the woods, that he perceived the fragrance of Oriental spices. He discovered also shells of the kind of oysters which produce pearls.

Having experienced since his arrival soft and genial weather, he concluded that a perpetual serenity reigned over those happy seas. Though the inhabitants had fled, he remarked that their dwellings were better built than those he had hitherto seen, being clean in the extreme; and as he discovered a few rude statues and wooden masks ingeniously carved, he supposed that these signs of civilisation would go on increasing as he advanced towards terra firma. He fancied that the inhabitants had fled, mistaking his armament for one of those scouring expeditions sent by the Grand Khan to make prisoners and slaves. He, however, with the assistance of his Indian friends, succeeded in calming the fears of the natives, who came off in sixteen canoes, bringing cotton-yarn and other simple articles of traffic. He forbade, however, all trading for anything but gold, that the natives might be tempted to produce the real riches of their country.

Again misled by his guides, he was induced to believe that a powerful chief lived in the interior of the country, and two of his officers were therefore dispatched, carrying presents and specimens of spices and drugs, to ascertain whether such productions were to be found there. They were directed also to obtain all the information they could respecting it.

While his envoys were absent he had his ships careened and repaired. During this time reports were brought him of the existence of cinnamon-trees, nutmegs, and rhubarb; and his native friends, when he showed them gold and pearls, declared that there were people in an island called Bohio who wore such things round their necks, arms, and ankles.

The return of the envoys was eagerly looked forward to, but their report when they appeared quickly disabused the Admiral's mind. After travelling about twelve leagues they arrived at a village of about fifty houses, containing a thousand inhabitants, who had received them with every mark of respect, looking upon them as beings of a superior order. The villagers, however, were as little advanced in civilisation as those on the coast, nor was gold, cinnamon, nor pepper to be found among them, although they said such things existed far off to the south-west.

On their return with some of the inhabitants, the Spaniards were surprised to see them roll up the dried leaves of a plant which they called "tobacco," and smoke it with a satisfaction which the voyagers could not comprehend, as it appeared to them an unsavoury nauseous indulgence, little dreaming what determined smokers their descendants would become. The envoys described the country as fertile in the extreme, the fields produced pepper, sweet potatoes, maize, pulse, and yuca, while the trees were laden with tempting fruits of delicious flavour. There was also a vast quantity of cotton, -- some just growing, some in full growth, -- while the houses were stored with it partly wrought into yarn and nets.

Columbus was, by the misapprehension of terms, led into many errors. Bohio, meaning simply "a house," and therefore signifying a populous island, was frequently applied to Hispaniola. His great object, however, was to reach some civilised country of the East with which he might establish commercial relations, and carry home its Oriental merchandise as a rich trophy of his discovery. Besides Bohio, he had heard of another island called Babique, of which he now sailed in search, hoping that it might prove some civilised island on the coast of Asia. Shortly afterwards he altered his course east-south-east, following back the direction of the coast, and thus did not discover his mistake in supposing Cuba to be a part of terra firma, an error in which he continued to the day of his death.

Some time was spent in cruising about an archipelago of small and beautiful islands, which has since afforded a lurking-place for piratical craft.

In attempting to reach the supposed land of Babique, he met with a contrary gale, which compelled him to put about, when he made signals to the other vessels to do likewise.

The Pinta did not obey him, and when morning dawned was nowhere to be seen. This circumstance disturbed Columbus, who had reason to fear that Pinzon, jealous of his success, intended to prosecute the discovery by himself, or to return to Spain with an account of the success of the enterprise.

Finding that Pinzon did not rejoin him, he returned to Cuba, and continued for several days sailing along the coast. Again and again he was struck with the magnificence of the scenery and size of the trees, out of a single trunk of which canoes were formed, capable of holding one hundred and fifty people. On the 5th of December he reached the eastern end of Cuba, and then steering large, away from it, he discovered land to the south-east. On approaching, he saw high mountains towering above the horizon, and found that it was an island of great extent, being Hagi or Hispaniola.

Again his native friends exclaimed, "Bohio!" -- by which they meant to say that it was thickly populated, though, as he understood the expression, that it abounded with gold. He was struck with the unrivalled beauty of its scenery. On the following day he entered a harbour at the western end, which he called Saint Nicholas. It was deep and spacious, surrounded by trees, many of them loaded with fruit.

Sailing again, he entered another harbour, called Port Concepcion, now known as the Bay of Moustique. Wishing to open an intercourse with the natives, he sent six well-armed men into the interior. The people fled, but the sailors captured a young female who was perfectly unclothed, -- a bad omen as to the civilisation of the island, -- but an ornament of gold in her nose gave hope that the precious metal might be found there.

The Admiral soothed her terror by presenting her with beads, brass rings, -- hawks' bells, and other trinkets, and sent her on shore clothed, accompanied by several of the crew and three Indian interpreters. She would, however, willingly have remained with the native women she found on board. The party were afraid of venturing to the village, and, having set her at liberty, returned to the ship.

The following morning nine well-armed men, with an interpreter from Cuba, again landed and approached a village containing a thousand houses, but the inhabitants had fled. The interpreter, however, overtook them, and telling them that the strangers had descended from the skies, and went about the world making beautiful presents, they turned back to the number of a thousand, approaching the Spaniards with slow and trembling steps, making signs of profound reverence.

While they were conversing another large party of Indians approached, headed by the husband of the female captive, whom they brought in triumph on their shoulders. The husband expressed his gratitude for the magnificent presents bestowed on his wife.

The Indians, now conducting the Spaniards to their houses, set before them a banquet of cassava bread, fish, roots, and fruits of various kinds. They presented also numbers of tame parrots, freely offering, indeed, whatever they possessed.

Delighted as they were with all they saw, the Spaniards still bitterly complained that they found no signs of riches among the natives. Nature abundantly supplying all they required, they were without even a knowledge of artificial wants, and so unbounded was their hospitality, that they were ready to bestow everything they possessed on their guests. The fertile earth producing all they required, they preferred to live in that Arcadian state of simplicity which poets have delighted to picture. Their fields and gardens were without hedges or divisions of any sort. They were kind to each other, and required no magistrates nor laws to keep them in order. Alas! how soon was this happy state of existence to be destroyed by the cruel, avaricious, and profligate Spaniards. Unlike their pious, high-minded, and sagacious chief, they resembled the bloodhounds they were wont to let loose in chase of their victims.

How different might have been the fate of the islands had such men as the pilgrim fathers or the enlightened Penn been the first to settle among them! The bright light of true Christianity might have beamed on their hearts, with all the advantages of civilisation, and far greater happiness than they had hitherto enjoyed might have been their lot. No blame can be attached to Columbus, no slur can be cast on his fair fame. He had achieved a glorious undertaking in discovering a new world, but on its inhabitants he had been thus the instrument of bringing the direst of curses, and, instead of promulgating the faith he professed, the blackest disgrace on the Christian name.



Chapter Three.

First Voyage Of Columbus Continued -- A.D. 1492.

The Tortugas -- Returns to Hispaniola -- Picks up an Indian in a canoe on the way -- The Indian's report induces a cacique to visit the ships --  Friendly intercourse with other caciques -- Farther along the coast, an envoy from the great cacique Guacanagari visits the ships -- The notary sent to the cacique -- His large, clean village -- The Spaniards treated as superior beings -- Cibao, mistaken for Cipango, heard of -- The ship of Columbus wrecked -- Guacanagari's generous behaviour -- Terror of the Indians at hearing a cannon discharged -- Delighted with hawks' bells --  Stores from the wreck saved -- A fort built with the assistance of the natives, and called La Natividad -- The cacique's friendship for Columbus -- Abundance of gold obtained -- A garrison of thirty men left in the fort, with strict rules for their government -- Guacanagari sheds tears at parting with the Admiral -- The Nina sails eastward -- The Pinta rejoins him -- Pinzon excuses himself -- His treachery discovered --  In consequence of it Columbus resolves to return to Spain -- Pinzon's ill treatment of the natives -- Fierce natives met with -- First native blood shed -- The Indians notwithstanding visit the ship -- Columbus steers for Spain -- Contrary winds -- A fearful storm -- The device of Columbus for preserving the knowledge of his discoveries -- The Azores reached --  Castaneda, Governor of Saint Mary's -- Crew perform a pilgrimage to the Virgin's shrine -- Seized by the Governor -- Caravel driven out to sea --  Matters settled with Castaneda -- Sails -- Another tempest -- Nearly lost --  Enters the Tagus -- Courteously received by the King of Portugal -- Reaches Palos 15th of March, 1493 -- Enthusiastic reception at Palos -- Pinzon in the Pinta arrives -- Dies of shame and grief -- Columbus received with due honour by Ferdinand and Isabella -- Triumphal entrance into Barcelona -- His discovery excites the enterprise of the English.

After a brief stay among the happy and simple-minded natives, the weather becoming favourable, Columbus again attempted to discover the island of Babique. On his way he fell in with an island, to which, on account of the number of turtles seen there, he gave the name of Tortugas. Meeting with contrary winds, he returned to Hispaniola, and on the way fell in with an Indian in a canoe. Having taken the man and his frail barque on board, he treated him kindly and set him on shore at Hispaniola, near a river known as Puerto de Paz.

The Indian gave so favourable a report of the treatment he had received, that a cacique in the neighbourhood, and some of his people, visited the ships. They were handsomer than any yet met with, and of a gentle and peaceable disposition. Several of them wore ornaments of gold, which they readily exchanged for trifles.

Another young cacique shortly afterwards appeared, carried on a litter borne by four men, and attended by two hundred of his subjects. He was received on board, and, Columbus being at dinner, he came down with two of his councillors, who seated themselves at his feet. He merely tasted whatever was given to him, and then sent it to his followers.

Dinner being over, he presented to the Admiral two pieces of gold, and a curiously-worked belt, evidently the wampum still employed by the North American Indians as a token of peace. Columbus, in return, gave him a piece of cloth, several amber beads, coloured shoes, and, showing him a Spanish coin with the heads of the King and Queen, endeavoured to explain to him the power and grandeur of his sovereigns, as well as the standard of the cross; but these apparently failed to have any effect on the mind of the savage chieftain. Columbus also had a large cross erected in the centre of the village, and, from the respect the Indians paid to it, he argued that it would be easy to convert them to Christianity.

Again sailing on the 20th of December, the expedition anchored in the Bay of Acul. Here the inhabitants received them with the greatest frankness. They appeared to have no idea of traffic, but freely gave everything they possessed, though Columbus ordered that articles should be given in exchange for all received.

Several caciques came off, inviting the Spaniards to their villages. Among them came an envoy from an important chief named Guacanagari, ruling over all that part of the island. Having presented a broad belt of wampum and a wooden mask, the eyes, nose, and tongue of which were of gold, he requested that the ships would come off the town where the cacique resided. As this was impossible, owing to a contrary wind, Columbus sent the notary of the squadron, with several attendants. The town was the largest and best built they had yet seen. The cacique received them in a large, clean square, and presented to each a robe of cotton, while the inhabitants brought fruits and provisions of various sorts. The seamen were also received into their houses, and presented with cotton garments and anything they seemed to admire; while the articles given in return were treasured up as sacred relics.

Several caciques had in the meantime visited the ships. They mentioned a region, evidently the interior, called Cibao, which Columbus thought must be a corruption of Cipango, and whose chief he understood had banners of wrought gold, and was probably the magnificent prince mentioned by Marco Polo.

As soon as the wind was fair, Columbus visited the chief, Guacanagari, the coast having been surveyed by boats the previous day. Feeling perfectly secure, although so near the coast, he retired to his cabin. The helmsman handed over his charge to one of the ship's boys, and failed to notice that breakers were ahead. Suddenly the ship struck; the master and crew rushed on deck. Columbus, calm as usual, ordered the pilot to carry out an anchor astern. Instead of so doing, in his fright, he rowed off to the other caravel, about half a league to windward. Her commander instantly went to the assistance of his chief. The ship had meantime been drifting more and more on the reef, the shock having opened several of her seams. The weather continued fine, or she must at once have gone to pieces.

The Admiral, having gone on board the caravel, sent envoys to Guacanagari, informing him of his intended visit and his disastrous shipwreck. When the cacique, who lived a league and a half off, heard of the misfortune, he shed tears, and sent a fleet of canoes to render assistance. With their help the vessel was unloaded, the chief taking care that none of the effects should be pilfered. Not an article was taken; indeed, the people exhibited the greatest sympathy with their guests, who were treated with the utmost hospitality.

Two days afterwards Guacanagari came on board the Nina to visit the Admiral, and, with tears in his eyes, offered him all he possessed. While he was on board a canoe arrived with pieces of gold, and, on observing his countenance light up, the cacique told him there was a place not far off, among the mountains, where it could be procured in the greatest abundance. He called the place Cibao, which Columbus still confounded with that of Cipango.

Guacanagari, after dining on board, where he exhibited the utmost frankness, invited Columbus to his village. Here he had prepared an abundant banquet, consisting of coneys, fish, roots, and various fruits. He afterwards conducted the Admiral to some beautiful groves, where a thousand natives were collected to perform their national games and dances.

In return, the Admiral sent on board for a Castilian accustomed to the use of the Moorish bow and arrows. The cacique was greatly surprised at the skill with which the Castilian used his weapon, and told him that the Caribs, who made frequent descents on his territory, were also armed with bows and arrows.

Columbus promised his protection, and, to show his host the powerful means at his disposal, ordered a heavy cannon and an arquebus to be discharged. At the report the Indians fell to the ground, as if they had been struck by a thunderbolt. As they saw the shot shivering a tree, they were filled with dismay, until Columbus assured them that these weapons should be turned against their enemies.

The cacique now presented Columbus with a wooden mask, the eyes, ears, and other parts, of gold; and he also placed a golden crown on his head, and hung plates of gold round his neck. The natives, though willing to receive anything in exchange for gold, were chiefly delighted with the hawks' bells, dancing and playing a dozen antics as they listened to the sound. An Indian gave even a handful of gold for one of the toys, and then bounded away, fearing that the stranger might repent having parted so cheaply with such an inestimable a treasure. The shipwrecked Spaniards, delighted with their idle life on shore, expressed their wish to remain on the island. This, with the friendly behaviour of the natives, induced Columbus to agree to their proposal. He considered that they might explore the island, learn the language and manners of the natives, and procure by traffic a large amount of gold. He resolved also to build a fortress for their defence, to be armed with the guns saved from the wreck. With his usual promptness he had the work commenced.

When Guacanagari heard that some of the Spaniards were to be left on the island for its defence from the Caribs, he was overjoyed, as were his subjects, who eagerly lent their assistance in building the fortress, little dreaming that they were assisting to place on their necks the galling yoke of slavery.

While the work of the fortress was rapidly going on, Guacanagari treated the Admiral with princely generosity. As Columbus, on one occasion, was landing, the cacique met him, accompanied by five tributary chiefs, each carrying a coronet of gold. On arriving at his house, Guacanagari took off his own crown and placed it on the head of the Admiral. Columbus presented, in return, a collar of fine coloured beads, his mantle of cloth, a pair of coloured boots, and placed on his finger a large ring of silver, which the Indians valued far more than gold. The cacique also exerted himself to procure a great quantity of gold.

Columbus, by misunderstanding names and descriptions, formed the most magnificent idea of the wealth of the interior of the island, and even in the red pepper which abounded he fancied that he traced Oriental spices. He was thus led to believe that the shipwreck was providential, as, had he sailed away, he should not have heard of its vast wealth. What in some spirits would have awakened a grasping and sordid cupidity to accumulate, immediately filled his vivid imagination with plans of magnificent expenditure.

To the fortress, which was of some size, and sufficiently strong to repulse a naked and unwarlike people, Columbus gave the name of La Navidad, in memory of having escaped shipwreck on Christmas Day. He considered it very likely to prove most useful in keeping the garrison themselves in order, and to prevent them wandering about and committing acts of licentiousness among the natives.

Of the numbers who volunteered he selected thirty-nine in all, among whom was a physician, a ship's carpenter, a cooper, a tailor, and a gunner; the command being given to Diego de Arana, notary and alguazil of the armament, with Pedro Gutierrez and Rodrigo de Escobedo as his lieutenants, directing them to obtain all the information in their power. He charged the garrison to be especially circumspect in their intercourse with the natives, -- to treat them with gentleness and justice, -- to be highly discreet in their conduct towards the Indian females, and, moreover, not to scatter themselves, or on any account stray beyond the friendly territory of Guacanagari.

On the 2nd of January, 1493, Columbus bade farewell to the generous cacique and his chieftains, commending those he left behind to their care. To impress the Indians with an idea of the warlike prowess of the white man, after a banquet he had given at his house, he ordered them to engage in mock fights with swords, bucklers, crossbows, arquebuses, and cannon.

Guacanagari shed tears as he parted with Columbus, who, returning on board, two days afterwards set sail, the garrison on shore answering the cheers of their comrades who were about to return to their native land. The ship, being towed out of the harbour, they stood to the eastward, but were detained for two days by a contrary wind.

On the 6th, a seaman aloft cried out that he saw the Pinta. The certainty that he was right cheered the heart of the Admiral and his crew. In a short time she approached, and, as the wind was contrary, Columbus put back to a little bay west of Monte Cristo, where he was followed by the Pinta.

Pinzon endeavoured to excuse himself, but Columbus discovered that he had purposely separated, and had gone to Hispaniola, where he had remained trading with the natives; collecting a considerable quantity of gold, the greater part of which he retained, and the rest divided among the men to secure his secret.

Columbus, however, knowing the number of friends the Pinzons had on board, repressed his indignation; but so much was his confidence in his confederates impaired, that, instead of continuing his explorations, as he hoped to have done when he first saw the Pinta, he resolved at once to sail for Spain.

While obtaining wood and water for the voyage at a river flowing into the bay, so much gold was perceived in the sand at its mouth that the name of Rio del Oro, or the Golden River, was given to it. At present it is called the Santiago. Turtles of large size were found here, and, as a proof how so sagacious a man as Columbus might deceive himself, he states that he here saw three mermaids, who were very far from lovely, although they had traces of human countenances. They were undoubtedly manatees or sea-cows.

Putting into the river where Pinzon had been trading, some of the natives complained that he had violently carried off four men and two girls to be sold as slaves in Spain.

Discovering that such was the case, Columbus ordered that they should be restored immediately to their homes, and, giving them numerous presents and clothing, he sent them on shore.

Proceeding on, they anchored in a deep gulf a little way beyond Cape Cabron. The natives were found to be of a ferocious aspect, hideously painted. Their hair was long, tied behind, and decorated with coloured feathers; some were armed with war-clubs; others had bows as long as those used by English archers, with slender reed arrows pointed with bone or the teeth of a fish. Their swords were of palm wood, as hard and heavy as iron, not sharp, but broad, and capable, with one blow, of cleaving through a helmet.

Columbus fancied that they must be Caribs, but an Indian on board assured him that the Caribbean Islands were much farther off. They made no attempt, however, at first, to molest the Spaniards. One of them came on board the Admiral's ship. Various presents having been given him, he was sent again on shore in one of the boats.

As she approached, upwards of fifty savages, armed with bows, arrows, war-clubs, and javelins, were seen lurking among the trees. The Indian, however, speaking to them, they laid by their arms, and parted with two of their bows to the Spaniards. Suddenly, however, mistrusting their visitors, they rushed back to where they had left their weapons, and returned with cords as if to bind the Spaniards. The latter on this immediately attacked them, wounded two, and put the rest to flight, and would have pursued them had they not been restrained by the commander of the boat.

This was the first time native blood, soon to flow so freely, was shed by the white man in the New World. It greatly grieved Columbus thus to see his efforts to maintain a friendly intercourse frustrated.

Next day, notwithstanding the above occurrence, when a large party went on shore, the cacique who ruled over the neighbourhood came down to meet them, and sent a wampum belt as a token of amity. The cacique, with only three attendants, without fear entered the boat, and was conveyed on board the caravel. Columbus highly appreciated this frank, confiding conduct, and, having placed biscuits and honey and other food before his guests, shown them round the ship, and made them several presents, he sent them back to the land highly gratified. No other interruption occurred to their friendly intercourse. Four young Indians who came on board gave such glowing accounts of the islands to the east, that Columbus prevailed on them to accompany him as guides. He also wished to visit two islands which he fancied to exist, -- one inhabited by Amazons, and the other by men; but a favourable breeze springing up for Spain, and observing the gloom in the countenances of the seamen, --  knowing as he did also their insubordinate spirit, and the leaky state of the ships, and that, should they founder, his glorious discovery would be lost to the civilised world, -- he deemed it wise to steer directly homewards. The favourable breeze, however, soon died away, and for the remainder of the voyage light winds from the eastward prevailed.

The Pinta also sailed badly, her foremast being so defective that it could carry but little sail. In the early part of February, having run to about the thirty-eighth degree of north latitude, they got out of the track of the trade winds, and once more were able to steer a direct course. The pilots, by the changes of their courses, at length got perplexed; but Columbus kept so careful a reckoning that he felt sure of their position. The two principal pilots made out that they were one hundred and fifty leagues nearer Spain than he knew to be the case. He, however, allowed them to remain in their error, that he alone might possess a knowledge of the route to the newly-discovered countries. By his calculation they were not far off from the Azores. On the 12th of February a strong gale with a heavy sea got up, and the next day the wind and swell so increased that Columbus was aware that a heavy tempest was approaching. It soon burst upon them with frightful violence, increasing still more on the 14th, the waves threatening every moment to overwhelm their battered barks. After laying to for three hours they were compelled to scud before the wind. During the darkness of the night the Pinta was lost sight of. The Admiral steered as well as he could to the north-east to approach the coast of Spain, showing lights to the Pinta; but no answering signals were seen, and fears were entertained that she had foundered. The following day the tempest raged as furiously as before on the helpless bark. During the storm the ignorant and superstitious crew cast lots as to who should perform pilgrimages to their respective saints, in which the Admiral, no less superstitious than his men, joined. Two of the lots fell on him. Each man also made his private vow to perform some pilgrimage, or other penitential rite.

The heavens, however, were deaf to their vows. The storm increased, and the crew gave themselves up for lost. The Admiral took the wisest steps to preserve the ship, by ordering that the empty casks should be filled with water, to ballast her better. His mind all the time was a prey to the most painful anxiety. His fear was that the Pinta had already foundered, and that his vessel would also go to the bottom.

An expedient occurred to him at this time by which, though he and his ships should perish, the glory of his achievement might survive to his name, and its advantages be secured to his sovereigns. He wrote on a parchment a brief account of his voyage and discovery; then, having sealed and directed it to the King and Queen, he wrapped it in a waxed cloth, which he placed in the centre of a piece of wax, and, enclosing the whole in a large cask, threw it into the sea. He also enclosed a copy in a similar manner, placing the cask on the poop so that it might float off should the vessel sink.

These precautions somewhat mitigated his anxiety. Towards sunset a streak of clear sky appeared in the west, the sign of finer weather. It came, though the sea ran so high that little sail could be carried.

At daybreak on the morning of the 15th the cry of "Land!" was raised. The transports of the crew equalled those exhibited on first beholding the New World. Various conjectures were offered as to what land it was. Some thought it the rock of Cintra, others the island of Madeira, others a portion of Spain. Columbus, however, knew that it was one of the Azores, in possession of the Portuguese.

On the evening of the 17th of February the vessel dropped her anchor off the island of Saint Mary's, the most southern of the Azores, and at length the great navigator was enabled to enjoy the first moments of sleep he had taken for many a day.

Next morning the inhabitants were astonished, on seeing the battered vessel, that she had been able to live through the gale, which had, with unexampled fury, raged for fifteen days. Three seamen who had landed were persuaded to remain and give an account of their adventures.

After some time the Governor, Juan de Castaneda, who claimed an acquaintance with Columbus, sent off fowls, bread, and various refreshments, apologising for not coming himself, on account of the lateness of the hour.

On the following morning Columbus reminded his people of their vows, to go in procession to the shrine of the Virgin at the first place where they should land. The messengers who had been kept on board were sent to make preparations, and a priest arrived at a small chapel dedicated to the Virgin some little distance off. One-half of the crew then landed and walked in procession, barefooted and in their shirts, to the chapel, while the Admiral waited their return to perform the same ceremony with the remainder.

Scarcely, however, had the first party begun their prayers than they were surrounded by a gang of horse and foot from the village, and made prisoners.

As the hermitage could not be seen from the caravel, not being aware of what had taken place, the Admiral feared that his boat had been wrecked, and accordingly, weighing anchor, he stood in a direction to command a view of the chapel.

He now caught sight of a number of armed horsemen, who, dismounting, entered the boat, and came towards the caravel. He accordingly got ready to give them a warm reception, but they approached in a pacific manner, and Castaneda himself, who was in the boat, asked leave to come on board.

Columbus reproached him for his perfidy, to which he replied that he was only acting in accordance with the orders of his sovereigns, so that Columbus began to fear that a war had broken out between the two countries during his absence. He had no time to ascertain the truth before another heavy gale coming on, he was driven from his anchorage, and compelled to stand out to sea.

For two days the vessel remained in the greatest peril, short-handed as she was, being unable to return to her anchorage at Saint Mary's.

As soon as she dropped anchor, a notary and two priests came off demanding to see his papers on the part of Castaneda, who had sent them to assure him that if it should be found that he really sailed in the service of the Spanish sovereigns, he would render him every assistance in his power.

The notary and priest were satisfied with his letters of commission, and the following morning the boat and seamen were sent back. From the latter Columbus learnt the cause of Castaneda's conduct. The inhabitants had told them that the King of Portugal, jealous lest his expedition should interfere with his discoveries in India, had directed his governors of islands and distant ports to seize and detain him wherever he should be met with.

Having been detained two days longer at Saint Mary's in an endeavour to take in wood and ballast, but being prevented by the heavy surf which broke upon the shore, he set sail on the 24th of February. After a fine run of two days the weather again became tempestuous, and there appeared every probability of the ship foundering.

On the 3rd of March land was descried, and it was with the greatest difficulty that the ship could be kept off the shore. At daylight on the 4th the voyagers found themselves off the rock of Cintra, a few miles from Lisbon. Rather than risk another night at sea, Columbus determined to hazard the chance of falling into the hands of the Portuguese. The ship was accordingly steered in and brought up opposite Rastello, at the mouth of the river Tagus.

The oldest mariners who came off assured Columbus that they had never known so temptestuous a winter, and had been watching his vessel with the greatest anxiety since she had first been seen. He immediately dispatched a courier to the King and Queen of Spain with the tidings of his discovery, and requested permission of the King of Portugal to go up to Lisbon, fearing that the inhabitants of Rastello, when they heard of her rich freight, might be tempted to rob her.

The King of Portugal, who was some distance from the capital, at once invited Columbus to visit him. During the interview which ensued he endeavoured to conceal his vexation at having refused the proposals which had been made him by the navigator.

His Court tried to persuade him that Columbus had visited countries over which, according to the Pope's bull, he had the right to rule. Some had the baseness to hint that Columbus should be assassinated, and suggested that he should be embroiled in a quarrel, during which the project might be accomplished.

The King, happily, had too much magnanimity to agree to so nefarious a measure. He treated Columbus with the greatest courtesy, and a large party of cavaliers escorted him back to his ship.

By the time Columbus reached her the weather had moderated, and, again setting sail, on the 15th of March, A.D. 1493, he entered the port of Palos, whence he had sailed on the 3rd of August of the preceding year, having taken not quite seven months and a half to accomplish this momentous maritime enterprise.

The enthusiastic reception he met with from the inhabitants of Palos can be imagined. They had given him and his companions up for lost. Bells were rung and the shops shut; all business was suspended; and the inhabitants came thronging to the ship to ascertain the fate of their friends. On landing, he went to the principal church, accompanied by a concourse of people, to return thanks to God for the accomplishment of his enterprise.

As the Court was at Barcelona, he felt inclined to go there in his caravel, but, considering her condition, he finally resolved to proceed by land. That very evening, while the bells were sending forth their peals of triumph, the Pinta, commanded by Martin Alonzo Pinzon, entered the river.

Pinzon had been driven by the gale into the Bay of Biscay, and had reached the port of Bayonne. Fancying that Columbus had perished, he had written to the sovereigns claiming credit to himself for the accomplishment of the undertaking. On hearing that Columbus had arrived before him, his heart sank within him. He made his way unobserved to his own house, and, on receiving a reproachful letter from Ferdinand and Isabella, he took to his bed, and in a short time died of deep chagrin on seeing Columbus receive all the honours he had himself hoped to obtain.

Columbus, having performed the journey to Barcelona in safety, was received with the greatest possible respect by Ferdinand and Isabella, whose nobles and courtiers vied with each other in endeavouring to do him honour. His entrance into the city was like a Roman triumph. The courtiers and hidalgos, and a vast concourse of people, came forth to meet him. Before him were paraded the Indians, decked out according to their savage fashion, and after these were borne various kinds of live parrots, stuffed birds and animals, and rare plants; while there was a conspicuous display of Indian coronets, bracelets, and other decorations of gold.

Columbus followed on horseback, accompanied by a brilliant cavalcade of Spanish chivalry. The windows and balconies were crowded with the fair; the very roofs were covered with spectators.

The King and the kind Queen awaited his arrival seated on a throne, in a vast and splendid saloon, under a rich canopy of brocade of gold. They raised him as he attempted to kneel, and had a seat placed for him near them, -- a rare honour in so punctilious a Court. He here narrated his adventures, to which they listened with wrapt attention; and, when he retired from the royal presence, he was attended by the whole Court to his residence.

Ferdinand and Isabella setting the example for many days, all the nobles of the land exerted themselves to do him honour. He modestly received all the attentions paid to him. Though his mind was teeming with magnificent schemes for the future, he did not forget that for the deliverance of the Holy Sepulchre, and believing that ere long vast wealth would accrue to him, he made a vow to furnish, within seven years, an army of four thousand horse and fifty thousand foot, for the rescue of the Holy Sepulchre, and a similar force within the five following years.

Not only Spain, but all the civilised nations of the earth rejoiced at the important discovery achieved by Columbus. In England especially it excited that spirit of discovery which was ere long to add so greatly to her wealth and renown.

During his sojourn at Barcelona the sovereigns took every occasion to bestow on Columbus personal marks of their high consideration. Frequently the King appeared on horseback, with Prince Juan on one side and Columbus on the other.

To perpetuate in his family the glory of his achievement, a coat of arms was assigned him, in which the royal arms -- the castle and lion -- were quartered with his proper bearings, which were a group of islands surrounded by waves. To these arms were added the words -- 

"A Castella y a Leon Nuevo Mundo dio Colon."

"To Castile and Leon Columbus gave a new world."



Chapter Four.

Second Voyage Of Columbus -- A.D. 1403.

Preparations for another voyage rapidly made -- Foneseca appointed to superintend the expedition -- Indians brought home baptised -- Fleet sails from Bay of Cadiz on the 25th of September, 1493 -- Steers for the Canaries -- Ordered to rendezvous at Navidad -- Fine passage across the Atlantic -- On Sunday, 3rd of November, a lofty island seen, and therefore called Dominica -- The Antilles -- Lands near a Carib village -- Pineapples first seen -- Supposed cannibals -- Diego Marques and eight men missing --  Ojeda goes in search of them -- The missing party returns -- Land at Santa Cruz -- Caribs in a canoe fiercely attack the Spaniards -- Fleet comes off Porto Rico -- A neat village visited -- Fleet reaches Hispamola -- Invitations from a cacique to remain -- A supposed Indian convert escapes -- Two dead bodies of white men discovered -- Painful suspicions aroused -- Fleet arrives off La Navidad at night -- Canoe comes off, and Columbus hears of the destruction of the settlement -- Sails from La Navidad and founds the town of Isabella -- Expedition of Ojeda to the Golden Mountains -- Ships sent home -- Proposal to exchange Caribs for cattle -- A mutiny suppressed --  Diaz imprisoned -- Columbus makes an expedition into the interior -- Forts built -- Columbus proceeds on a voyage of discovery -- Surveys south coast of Cuba -- Friendly meeting with natives -- Enters the harbour of Jago de Cuba -- First sight of Jamaica, called by Columbus Santiago -- Hostility of the natives -- Attacked by the Spaniards -- Bloodhounds first used -- Canoes formed of enormous trees.

We must briefly follow the adventures of Columbus to their termination. In spite of the efforts of Don John, King of Portugal, to reap advantage from the discovery of Columbus, Ferdinand and Isabella obtained from the Pope a bull, making over the newly-discovered lands and all such others as might be discovered to the crown of Castile. The utmost exertions were at once made to fit out a second expedition. The affairs of the New World were placed under the superintendence of Juan Rodrigues de Foneseca, Archdeacon of Seville, who was finally appointed Patriarch of the Indies. He was a worldly man, malignant and vindictive. He not only wronged the early discoverers, but frequently impeded the progress of their enterprises. Other men of similar character were associated with him.

A royal order was issued that all ships in the ports of Andalusia, with their captains, pilots, and crews, should be held in readiness to serve in the expedition. Columbus and Foneseca were authorised to freight or purchase any of those vessels they might think proper, and overcome them by force if refused.

To provide for the expenses of the expedition, a royal revenue arising from Church tithes was placed at the disposal of the treasurer Pincello, and further funds were derived from the jewels and other valuables, the sequestrated property of the unfortunate Jews, banished from the kingdom according to the bigoted edict of the preceding year. As the conversion of the heathen was professed to be the grand object of this expedition, twelve zealous and able ecclesiastics were directed to accompany it. At their head was Bernado Boyle, one of those subtle politicians of the cloister who in those days glided into all temporal concerns.

The Indians Columbus had brought to Barcelona were baptised, the King, Queen, and Prince Juan officiating as sponsors; and great hopes were entertained that on their return to their native country they would facilitate the introduction of Christianity among their countrymen. One of them, who remained in the household of Prince John, died not long afterwards, the first of his nation who entered heaven, according to the notion of a Spanish historian.

The Spanish monarchs were anxious for the speedy departure of the expedition, on account of the proceedings of King John of Portugal, who had prepared a large armament for the avowed object of an expedition to Africa, its real destination being to seize upon the newly-discovered countries. Before, however, the Portuguese vessels sailed, the King was compelled to sign a treaty by which the Papal line of partition was moved to three hundred and seventy leagues west of the Cape de Verde Islands. The Spaniards might appropriate all countries to the west of the line, the Portuguese to the east. But no one appears to have reflected that they must ultimately meet at the antipodes.

The Spanish fleet, consisting of three large ships of heavy burden, and fourteen caravels, large and small, was rapidly got ready. The number of persons permitted to embark had been limited to a thousand, but so many volunteers applied, that the number was increased to twelve hundred, among whom were numerous cavaliers of the best families, eager to acquire honour or obtain the gold supposed to abound in the Indies.

The best pilots of Spain, husbandmen, miners, carpenters, and other mechanics, were engaged for the projected colony; horses, mules, domestic animals of all kinds were shipped, as well as grain, seeds, vines, sugar-canes, and saplings, and vast quantities of merchandise, consisting of trinkets, beads, hawks' bells, and looking-glasses.

At dawn on the 25th of September the fleet set sail from the Bay of Cadiz, and keeping wide of the coast of Portugal, stood south-west for the Canaries, where it arrived on the ist of October. After touching at the Grand Canary, Columbus anchored on the 5th at Gomera, where he obtained a supply of water, and also purchased calves, goats, sheep, eight hogs, and a number of domestic fowls, these latter the progenitors of those now found in abundance in the New World. By sealed instructions the commanders were ordered in case of separation to rendezvous in the harbour of La Navidad, the residence of the cacique Guacanagari.

After leaving Gomera Columbus steered considerably more to the southward than in his first voyage, hoping to fall in with the islands of the Caribs.

Being in the region of the trade winds, the breeze continued fair and steady, while the sea was perfectly smooth. As October drew on, they were visited by showers and a storm, lasting, however, only four hours. They were cheered during it by observing the lights of Saint Elmo, which the ignorant mariners believed to be the body of the saint himself holding lighted tapers as an assurance of safety.

How different was this voyage to the former! Then tears and wailing accompanied the unwilling seamen on board, and often and often, their hearts failing them, they desired to turn back. Now one and all pressed on, eager to witness the wonders of the New World. On the evening of Saturday, the 2nd of November, Columbus was convinced, by the colour of the sea and other signs, that he was drawing near the land, and accordingly ordered a vigilant watch to be kept during the night.

On Sunday, at dawn, a lofty island was seen to the west, and as the ships glided on, others rose to sight covered with forests, while flights of parrots and other tropical birds passed from one to the other. To the first island seen, on account of the day on which it was discovered, Columbus gave the name of Dominica, or Sunday Island. On the whole group the appellation of The Antilles was bestowed, because a group so-called was supposed to exist off the coast of Asia, and Columbus now fully believed that he had arrived at it, and that the mainland was to be found at no great distance farther west.

Six beautiful islands were seen during the day, to one of which he gave the name of Marigalante, the name of his ship. It was overspread with trees, some in full bloom, others laden with unknown fruits.

Sailing on to a larger island with a volcanic peak in the centre, they saw a cataract, of prodigious height, descending from the mountain-side. The Admiral called this island Guadaloupe, in fulfilment of a promise to the monks of the convent of Guadaloupe in Estremadura to call some newly-discovered place after it.

Landing here, the Spaniards visited a village, the inhabitants of which fled, some leaving their children behind. These were soothed by binding hawks' bells and trinkets round their arms. The huts were formed with the trunks of trees, interwoven with twigs and branches, and thatched with palm-leaves. They were square, and each had its portico, one of which was decorated with images of serpents tolerably well carved in wood. Hammocks of cotton netting were hung up, and their utensils were formed of calabashes or earthenware. There were great quantities of cotton and many bows and arrows, as also domestic geese and large parrots of blue, green, white, and scarlet plumage.

Here the Spaniards first met with the anana, or pineapple, with the fragrance and flavour of which they were delighted. In another house was the sternpost of a vessel, probably part of a wreck driven across from the coast of Africa. The voyagers, however, were struck with horror at the sight of what they took to be human bones and skulls, convincing them that the island was inhabited by Caribs, supposed to be cannibals.

Leaving this spot, Columbus sailed some miles along the coast. The boat landing succeeded in taking and bringing off a boy and several women. From them he understood that this was one of the islands of the Caribs, and that it was their custom to make descents on the neighbouring islands, in order to carry off the youngest and best-looking women, and to murder and eat the men.

He had just gained this information when it was reported to him that Diego Marques, the captain of one of the caravels, and eight men were missing. They had landed in the morning, and strayed into the woods. The night passed away, and they did not appear. The next morning parties were sent in quest of them, each with a trumpeter to sound calls, and guns were fired from the ships.

The searching parties found, as they supposed, human limbs suspended from the beams of houses, and some declared that they saw the head of a young man recently killed, while parts of his body were roasting before a fire.

The natives were seen on shore, looking with wonder at the ships. When the boats approached, they fled to the woods. Several women, however, came off, and some were captured. Columbus ordered that they should be decorated with hawks' bells and other baubles, and sent on shore to entice off the men. They soon, however, returned to the boats stripped of their ornaments, imploring to be taken on board again. The greater portion of the male inhabitants were, they informed the Spaniards, on a cruise in search of prisoners and booty.

Anxious to continue his course to Hispaniola, Columbus was much annoyed at the absence of the wanderers. At length Alonzo de Ojeda, a brave young cavalier, offered to go in search of them. Ojeda and his party had great difficulty in making their way through the tangled forest. In vain they sounded their trumpets and shot off their arquebuses. No reply was received, and they returned on board without tidings of the stragglers.

Several days passed, and the fleet was about to sail, when the missing ones appeared on the beach, their haggard looks showing how much they had suffered.

They had been lost in the trackless forest, too dense to allow them to see any distance ahead, until they had reached the sea-shore, keeping along which they had made their way to the ships.

Leaving Guadaloupe on the 10th, Columbus passed Mont Serrat and Antigua, and, the weather becoming boisterous, anchored off an island, to which he gave the name of Santa Cruz. Here a boat was sent on shore, and the crew visited a village, deserted by the men, but secured a few women and boys, most of them captives from other islands. On returning they saw a canoe, the people in which -- two of whom were women -- were so entranced at the sight of the ships that the boat got close up before they perceived it. The Indians now attempted to escape, but, finding their retreat cut off, they plied their bows and arrows so rapidly that two Spaniards were wounded, the women fighting as fiercely as the men. Though the canoe was upset, the savages still, while swimming, discharged their arrows at their foes. They were, however, captured and brought on board, some of them wounded.

One of them was evidently their Queen. She was accompanied by her son, a young man strongly made, with a frowning brow and a lion's face. The hair of these savages was long and coarse, and their eyes were encircled with paint, so as to give them a hideous expression.

Though captives in chains, they still retained their defiant air. They were afterwards carried prisoners to Spain. One of the Spaniards died of a wound from a poisoned arrow shot by one of the women.

After this Columbus reached a group of upwards of fifty small islands, to which the name of Saint Ursula and the Eleven Thousand Virgins was given. Continuing his course, he came off a beautiful island, covered with forests and indented with fine havens. It is now known by the name of Porto Rico. This was the island from which most of the captives who had fled to the ships had been taken by the Caribs.

After running for a whole day along this beautiful coast, the squadron anchored in a bay at the west end, abounding in fish.

On landing they found an Indian village constructed round a common square like a market-place, with one large and well-built house in it. A wide road led thence to the sea-shore, fenced on either side.

The whole place had an air of great neatness. Not a human being, however, was to be seen, the natives having concealed themselves.

After remaining here two days Columbus stood for Hispaniola. This ended his cruise among the Caribbean Islands, the inhabitants of which he described as cannibals, and the most warlike people hitherto met with.

On the 22nd of November the squadron came off the eastern end of Hispaniola, or Hayti, and the sailor who had died of his wound was here sent on shore to be buried.

Several natives came off with a message from the cacique of the neighbourhood inviting Columbus to land, and promising great quantities of gold, but, anxious to reach La Navidad, he continued his course. The next place he put into was Las Flechas, where he landed one of the young Indians, who it was supposed had been converted to Christianity, handsomely apparelled and loaded with trinkets. But the youth either forgot his promises or was murdered on account of his finery, as nothing more was heard of him.

Only one young Indian, who had been sent by Guacanagari, and who, having been to Spain, had been baptised and named after the Admiral's brother, Diego Colon, remained on board, and he continued always devoted to the Spaniards.

On the 25th Columbus anchored in the harbour of Monte Cristo, wishing to form a settlement in the neighbourhood of the stream to which he had before given the name of the Golden River.

Near this, on the green banks of a rivulet, the bodies of a man and boy were found, the former with a cord of Spanish grass about his neck, his arms extended and tied by the wrists to a stake in the form of a cross.

It was impossible, from the state of decay in which they were found, to ascertain whether they were European or Indians. Painful doubts, however, were raised, and the following day two other bodies were discovered, one of which was evidently the corpse of a white man.

Gloomy forebodings were now raised as to the fate which might have befallen Arana and his garrison. The frank and fearless conduct, however, of the natives who came off to the ships somewhat allayed the suspicions of Columbus. He sailed on, hoping to find the greater part of the garrison alive, until he arrived off the harbour of La Navidad, late on the evening of the 27th. Two guns were fired, but no reply was received. While waiting in dismal suspense for the morning, about midnight a canoe approached the fleet; but the people in it would not come on board until they perceived the Admiral standing on the deck of his ship, when they came up the side without hesitation. One of them was a cousin of the cacique Guacanagari. He brought a present of two masks ornamented with gold.

To the inquiries of Columbus as to what had become of the garrison, the Indians replied that several had died of sickness, others had fallen in a quarrel among themselves, and others had removed to different parts of the island, where they had married native wives. He added that Guacanagari had been attacked by the fierce cacique of the Golden Mountains of Cibao, who had wounded him in battle and burnt his village, and that he still remained ill of his wound in a neighbouring hamlet. Columbus was greatly relieved on finding that the cacique and his people still remained faithful, and he hoped that some of the Spaniards scattered about the country, on hearing of his arrival, would quickly hasten on board.

In the morning, however, not a canoe was to be seen. The inhabitants, too, kept out of the way. A boat was therefore sent on shore. On landing, the crew hastened to the fortress. It was a ruin. The palisades were beaten down, and the whole presented the appearance of having been sacked, burnt, and destroyed.

Columbus, on visiting the ruins the next morning, discovered no dead bodies, but broken utensils and torn vestments were found scattered here and there among the grass.

In vain cannon and arquebuses were fired. Proceeding along the coast in a boat for about a league, Columbus came to a hamlet, the inhabitants of which had fled with their goods. In their houses, however, were found European articles, such as stockings, pieces of cloth, and a Moorish robe. While he was absent the bodies of eleven Europeans were discovered buried in different places, evidently some time dead, as grass had grown over their graves.

At length the Indians, recovering from their alarm, came up to the Spaniards, and from them the fate of the garrison was in some measure ascertained.

With the exception of Arana and two or three others, the people left behind had disobeyed all the orders given by Columbus. The simple natives soon discovered that the beings they had at first worshipped as gods were gross sensualists, who carried off their wives and daughters, and possessed themselves of their gold and property by fraud and violence.

In vain Arana interposed his authority. His lieutenants deserted him and set off on an expedition to the mines of Cibao, where they were captured by Caonabo and put to death. Others, abandoning the fortress, lived carelessly about the neighbourhood, and Caonabo burst upon the fortress while the residue of the garrison were asleep, and, setting it on fire, massacred some, while others fled to the sea and were drowned.

Guacanagari and his people had fought faithfully in defence of their guests, but were easily routed, and the cacique being wounded, his village was burnt to the ground.

Columbus afterwards visited the unfortunate Guacanagari, who received him in the same friendly spirit as before; but Father Boyle and others declared their belief that he was acting a treacherous part, and advised, when he afterwards returned the Admiral's visit, that he should be detained. Columbus, however, rejected the counsel of his followers as contrary to sound policy and honourable faith. The cacique, seeing that he was mistrusted, took his departure, and for long kept out of the way of the Spaniards.

Finding that this was not a suitable place for a settlement, Columbus weighed anchor on the 7th of December, but in consequence of adverse weather he put into a harbour about ten leagues east of Monte Cristo. He was here struck by the advantages of its spacious harbour, there being also two rivers watering a green and beautiful plain, while the soil appeared to be fertile, and excellent fish were found. It was also at no great distance from the mountains of Cibao.

It being considered, therefore, that no situation more favourable for the projected colony could be found, the troops and labourers were landed with their provisions, articles for traffic, guns, ammunition, and live stock of all sorts, and an encampment was formed round a sheet of water.

Streets and squares were projected; a church, public storehouse, and a residence for the Admiral were commenced. These were built of stone. The other houses were constructed of wood, plaster, and reeds; and for a short time every one exerted himself with the utmost zeal.

To the first Christian city in the New World thus founded Columbus gave the name of Isabella, in honour of his royal patroness. Sickness, however, soon broke out among the colonists, several died, and even Columbus was confined for many weeks to his bed.

Notwithstanding his illness, he continued to give directions, superintending the building of the city and the management of the fleet. His mind, however, was oppressed with the thought that, in consequence of the destruction of the fortress, he should be compelled to send back the ships empty, instead of laden with gold and spices, to the great disappointment of the sovereigns. Before dispatching them, therefore, he sent Ojeda, at the head of an expedition, to the Golden Mountains, to try and obtain some of the precious metal. Another young cavalier was also sent away on a similar expedition, and both returned with favourable reports as to the inexhaustible wealth of the district. Thus, with more satisfaction than he had expected, Columbus was able to send back the ships to Spain. He recommended various persons to the notice of the sovereigns, to whom he sent a petition for provisions, wine, medicine, clothing, arms, horses, to be dispatched to the colony with all speed. He sent also the men, women, and children taken in the Caribbean Islands, recommending that they should be carefully instructed in the Spanish language and the Christian faith. In his ignorant zeal for promulgating that faith, he proposed to establish an exchange of the cannibal pagans as slaves, against live stock to be furnished to the colony, fancying that these slaves would be thus converted to the Catholic faith.

The sovereigns, however, did not agree with his ideas, but ordered that the Caribs should be converted like the rest of the islanders.

The city of Isabella having made considerable progress, the church being open for service, Columbus prepared to lead an expedition to the mountains of Cibao.

Jealousy of Columbus' superior merits and the rewards he had received had been for some time rankling in the hearts of some of his officers. As he was about to set off on his expedition, a mutiny was designed, but discovered before it broke out, and the leader, Bernal Diaz, was confined on board one of the ships, to be sent to Spain for trial.

Columbus now commenced the proposed expedition, leaving his brother Don Diego in command of the city and the ships. He was well received by the natives wherever he went, and was fully satisfied that the region was prolific in gold. To secure it he built a fortress called Saint Thomas, to the command of which he appointed Pedro Margarite, and garrisoned it with fifty-six men.

Delighted with all he had seen, Columbus returned to Isabella on the 29th of March. Great progress had been made, and many of the seeds had already sprung up, bearing fruit. Unfortunately, however, bread had become scarce, and there was no means of grinding wheat. Disease also had attacked the settlers, and many persons of all ranks had died. He was, however, anxious to proceed on his voyage of discovery, and supposing that he could trust his subordinates, he left ample instructions for their conduct. He directed Margarite, with a strong force, to explore the province of Cibao, while Ojeda was to assume the command of Saint Thomas. One of the objects of the expedition was to secure the persons of any chiefs who had exhibited hostile feelings towards the Spaniards. Several were thus captured and sent in chains to Isabella. At length Columbus, satisfied that the colony would go on well, set sail, intending to visit the coast of Cuba at the point where he had abandoned it, and thence to explore it on the south side. He, it must be remembered, supposed it to be the extreme end of Asia, and that by following its shores he must at length arrive at Cathay, and those other rich countries described by Mandeville and Marco Polo.

Having visited La Navidad, where Guacanagari kept out of the way, he continued his course westward, until he reached the port of Saint Nicholas, whence he beheld the extreme point of Cuba. Having crossed the channel, he sailed along the southern coast of that island for a distance of twenty leagues, until he entered a harbour, which from its size he called Puerto Grande. Going on shore, he arrived at some cottages, where, although the inhabitants had fled, great quantities of fish, utias, and iguanas were found, some hung up, others roasting before the fires. The Spaniards, who had long been fasting, satisfied their appetites on the food, and then set out to explore the country. On their way they saw a party of Indians, collected on the top of a rock, looking down upon them with astonishment.

Though most of the natives ran off, one remained, whose apprehensions were quickly dispelled by the friendly way the young Lucayan interpreter spoke to him. Going after his companions, he soon brought them back. They assured Columbus that he was welcome to the food which had been consumed; but he, with his usual liberality, directed that ample compensation should be made to them.

The next harbour in which he brought up he called Saint Jago de Cuba. Here he was treated with the usual simple hospitality of the natives. Wherever he went he inquired for gold, and the natives invariably pointed to the south, intimating that the country abounded with gold in that direction.

He therefore, without delay, steered in search of this reported island. He had not sailed many leagues before the summits of lofty mountains were seen rising above the horizon. As he approached the island he was struck with the beauty of its scenery, the majesty of its forests, the fertility of its valleys, and the number of its villages.

In a short time seventy canoes filled with savages, gaily-painted, and decorated with feathers, paddled off a league from the shore, uttering loud yells, and brandishing lances of pointed wood. They were quickly soothed, however, by the interpreter, and a few gifts bestowed upon them, so that they did not molest the ship.

Coasting westward, Columbus, finding a sheltered harbour, made preparations for careening the ship, which leaked. As he was entering, the boats sounding ahead, two canoes came up, filled with Indians, who hurled their darts; but wishing to avoid any act of hostility, he ordered the boats to return and, standing on, came to an anchor.

Directly afterwards the whole beach was covered with savages, painted chiefly with black, and all wearing coronets of feathers. They showed their hostile intentions by hurling their javelins towards the ship, making the shores ring with their war-whoops.

As further forbearance might have been mistaken for cowardice, the Admiral sent a boat on shore full of well-armed men, who let fly a volley of arrows from their crossbows, wounding several Indians, and throwing the rest into confusion. They then sprang on shore and let loose a dog, who pursued them with sanguinary fury. This was the first time bloodhounds had been used against the natives, afterwards to be employed with such cruel effect by the Spaniards in their Indian wars.

Columbus then landed and took formal possession of the island, which he called Santiago, but it has retained its original Indian name of Jamaica.

Notwithstanding this unpleasant commencement, the natives soon entered into a friendly intercourse with their visitors. Columbus was struck with the appearance of their canoes, which were carved and painted, many of them being of large size, formed of the trunk of a single tree. He measured one, which was ninety-six feet long and eight broad, hollowed out of a species of mahogany-tree.

He now coasted along the northern shore of Jamaica, the natives everywhere coming off and trading without fear. At the last place where he touched in Jamaica a young Indian came off and begged the Spaniards to take him to their country. Notwithstanding the tears and supplications of his friends, he persisted in his request, and Columbus ordered that he should be received on board and treated with kindness.

As the wind at the western end of Jamaica was found to be contrary, Columbus resolved to return to Cuba, and not to leave it until he had explored its coast sufficiently to determine whether it was terra firma or an island.



Chapter Five.

Second Voyage Of Columbus Continued -- A.D. 1494.

Again off Cuba -- The numerous keys -- Inhabitants hide -- Sees a canoe --  Curious mode of fishing -- Intercourse with the friendly cacique of Ornofay -- Believes that he is approaching Asia -- The natives welcome the strangers -- Sailing west, the Spaniards land near some mountains -- The archer's report of white-robed natives -- Columbus believes that he shall soon reach the Indian Ocean -- Error as to the extent of Cuba -- Returns eastward -- Visited by a cacique and his venerable minister -- Stands across to Jamaica -- Coasts along it -- A cacique with his family come off to the ships requesting to be taken to Spain -- The squadron stands across to Hispaniola -- Natives show signs of hostility, but become friendly --  Columbus struck down with illness -- Carried to Isabella -- His brother Bartholomew meets him -- Efforts to improve the colony -- Traitorous designs formed against Columbus -- Accusations sent home -- Aguado sent out to investigate his conduct -- Columbus resolves to return to Spain -- A rich gold-mine discovered -- Sets sail -- Detained by contrary winds -- Puts into Guadaloupe -- Attacked by Amazons -- Huts plundered -- Some of the Amazons captured -- Again sails -- Prolonged passage -- Spaniards propose to kill the prisoners -- Prevented by Columbus -- The vessels reach Cadiz -- Finds a squadron about to sail for Isabella -- Honourably received by the sovereigns.

Standing across to Cuba, Columbus reached Cabo de la Cruz, near which, landing, he was cordially received by the cacique and his subjects, who had long since heard of him. The Admiral endeavoured to ascertain from the cacique whether Cuba was an island or a continent. The reply was such as to induce him to believe that it was the latter.

Meeting with a storm, fortunately of short duration, he soon found himself among a labyrinth of keys and small islands, so numerous that it was impossible to count them. To these he gave the name of The Queen's Gardens. At first he thought of leaving this archipelago to the right, and standing out to sea; but he recollected that Sir John Mandeville and Marco Polo had mentioned that the coast of Asia was fringed with islands to the number of several thousands, and persuading himself that he was among that cluster, he hoped soon to arrive at the dominion of the Grand Khan.

The weather became unfavourable, adding greatly to the difficulties of navigation. These islands were generally uninhabited, but on the 22nd of May he came to one to which he gave the name of Santa Marta. Here was a large village abandoned by its inhabitants.

Quantities of fish were found in their dwellings, as also domesticated parrots, scarlet cranes, and some dumb dogs, which they fattened as an article of food. One day a number of natives were seen in a canoe, occupied in fishing. They employed a small fish, tied by the tail, the flat head of which was furnished with numerous suckers, by which it attached itself so firmly to any object as to be torn to pieces rather than abandon its hold. In this way the Spaniards witnessed the taking of a tortoise of enormous size. The same mode of fishing is said to be employed on the eastern coast of Africa. The natives led the Admiral to suppose that the sea was full of islands south and west, and that Cuba ran to the west without any termination.

Having extricated himself from this archipelago, Columbus steered for a mountainous part of Cuba, and landing at a large village, he was received with the same kindness which invariably distinguished its inhabitants. He found them mild, hospitable, and pacific; even the animals were tamer as well as larger and better than those seen elsewhere. Here stock doves were brought to him, whose crops were found to contain several spices. The cacique told him that the name of his province was Ornofay, and that farther on to the west was the province of Mangon, whose inhabitants would give him more ample information. He was struck by the sound of the name. It resembled that of Mangi, the richest province of the Grand Khan bordering the ocean. He understood the Indians to say that it was inhabited by people who had tails, and wore garments to conceal them. He recollected that Sir John Mandeville had recorded a story to the same effect as current among certain naked tribes, who could not conceive that people would wear clothes unless to conceal some defect. He flattered himself, therefore, that he should soon come to the rich province of Mangi and the long-robed inhabitants of the empire of Tartary. He therefore sailed on, animated by one of the pleasing illusions of his imagination, along a coast where, for thirty-five leagues, the navigation is unembarrassed by banks or islands. The shores were thickly populated. As the vessels glided by, the natives came off in their canoes to offer fruits and other productions of the land. Often too the sound of their loud music could be heard, as they celebrated the arrival of the white men.

It is sad to think that this whole district was soon depopulated, the simple inhabitants destroyed by the ruthless hand of the cruel and bigoted Spaniard. Again the vessels were entangled among sand-banks, and the water appeared as white as milk. This appearance was produced by fine sand raised from the bottom by the agitation of the waves and currents, but the seamen, unable to account for it, entreated that they might return to the east. Columbus, however, would not consent to relinquish his voyage, believing, as he did, that he was on the eve of a brilliant discovery. The caravel was sent ahead to explore. Only by the greatest caution, toil, and peril did he succeed in making his way through the narrow channels.

At length, with a fair wind, he steered towards some mountains seen rising close to the coast, and came to an anchor near a beautiful grove of palm-trees. Here a party was sent on shore to obtain wood and water. While they were thus employed an archer, who had gone into the forest with his crossbow in search of game, came hurrying back, declaring that he had seen, through an open glade, a man in a long white dress, two others following in white tunics reaching to their knees, their complexions as fair as those of Europeans. Behind these appeared many more, to the number of thirty, armed with clubs and lances. They gave no signs, he confessed, of hostile intentions, the man in the long white dress alone advancing.

The watering party having no wish to encounter so many armed men, hastened back to the ship. Columbus, on hearing the story, was fully persuaded that they were the clothed inhabitants of Mangon.

The following day he sent a strong force to penetrate into the interior. They, however, found it impossible to get far on account of the matted grass and creeping vegetation, and at length returned, wearied and exhausted, to the ships. The next day another party was dispatched, but they came back, some declaring that they had seen the tracks of a lion, others of a griffon. Probably the marks were produced by alligators, while the supposed white-robed natives were no doubt tall white cranes, of which the bold archer had suddenly come in sight. The only inhabitants seen on the coast were perfectly naked. Columbus attributed this circumstance to their being mere fishermen, and supposed that the civilised regions lay in the interior.

For several days Columbus continued exploring the coast, until he perceived that it took a bend to the south-west. This accorded with the descriptions given by Marco Polo of the remote coasts of Asia. He was now sure that he was on that part of the Asiatic continent beyond the limits of the Old World laid down by Ptolemy, and that by continuing his course he should arrive at the point where this range of toast terminated in the Aurea Chersonesus of the ancients. Doubling this, he would emerge into the seas bordered by the luxurious nations of the East. Stretching across the Gulf of the Ganges, he might continue on to the Straits of Babel Mandel, and arrive on the shores of the Red Sea. Thence he might make his way by land to Jerusalem, taking ship at Joppa, and traverse the Mediterranean to Spain, or sail round the whole coast of Africa, and thus circumnavigate the globe.

These notions, though not his enthusiasm, were shared by many of the able navigators on board; but they considered the vessels, strained and leaky, with rigging worn out, totally inadequate to the undertaking. Of this Columbus himself became convinced, and after exploring the coast for four days longer, and finding it still trending to the south-west, all declared that it was impossible so extensive a continuity of land should belong to a mere island.

That no one might afterwards blame him for abandoning the enterprise, he made each pilot and master sign a document expressing his opinion on the subject, and as he had no other opportunity of verifying this idea, he died in the belief that Cuba was the extremity of the Asiatic coast.

From this point, escaping numerous perils, he now again steered eastward, until on the 7th of July he anchored in the mouth of a fine river, intending to give the crews rest and recreation after their confinement of two months on board. He was here visited by the cacique and his venerable minister of fourscore years, who brought a string of beads, to which he attached a mystic value, and a calabash of a delicate kind of fruit. These he presented in token of amity.

The people also brought utias, large pigeons, bread, and rich fruits; indeed, they and the chief cacique received him with mingled demonstrations of joy and reverence.

In all remarkable places Columbus visited he erected crosses in conspicuous situations. Here a large one of wood was elevated on the bank of a river. Mass was then performed, and after it was concluded, the old counsellor approached, and expressed his satisfaction that the strangers thus gave thanks to God.

"Be not vainglorious," he added, "at all you have accomplished. Know that there are two places to which the souls of men go: the one dismal, foul, and dark, prepared for those who have been unjust and cruel; the other pleasant and full of delight for such as have promoted peace on earth. Beware, then, that you wrongfully hurt no man, and do no harm to those who have done no harm to thee."

The Admiral, greatly moved, assured him that he rejoiced to hear his doctrine respecting the future state, and told him that he had been sent by his sovereigns to teach them the true religion, and to help them subdue their enemies the cannibals, and therefore that all peaceable men might look to him as their protector.

The old man then offered to embark with the Admiral, seized with a desire to visit the wonderful country from which he and his followers came, and only with great reluctance, moved by the lamentations of his wife and children, would he abandon his project.

After remaining several days here, Columbus put to sea; but unable to fetch Hispaniola, stood over to Jamaica, intending to finish its circumnavigation. The inhabitants came off, exhibiting the most friendly disposition whenever the vessels neared the shore, and Diego Colon, the interpreter, never failed to expatiate on the wonders he had seen in Spain, and the prowess of the Spaniards who had defeated the dreaded Caribs.

As the ships were one day standing along the coast under easy sail, with a light wind, three canoes came off. In the largest, handsomely carved and painted, sat a cacique, his wife, two daughters, two sons, and his five brothers. One of the daughters, eighteen years of age, was beautiful in form and countenance, and though destitute of clothing, was of modest demeanour. In the prow stood the standard-bearer, clad in a mantle of variegated feathers, with a tuft of gay plumes on his head, while he bore in his hand a fluttering white banner. Two Indians, with caps of feathers, their faces painted, beat upon drums, while two others, with caps of green feathers, blew their trumpets of black wood ingeniously carved. There were six others in caps of white feathers, who appeared to be guards to the cacique.

Having arrived alongside the Admiral's ship, he came on board with all his train. He wore on his head a band of small green stones, joined in front by a large jewel of gold; two plates of gold were suspended to his ears; to a necklace of white beads hung a large metal plate, resembling gold, in the form of a fleur de lys, while a girdle of variegated stones completed his costume; though his wife and daughters, with the exception of girdles, to which were suspended tablets of coloured stones, were unadorned.

The chief, warmly greeting the Admiral, told him that his object in coming was to accompany him to Spain, to do homage to the King and Queen. Columbus, knowing the dangers that the simple savage and his people would be exposed to, was touched with compassion, and determined not to take them from their native land. He therefore told him that as he had many places to visit, he could not take him then, but would at some future time fulfil his desire. Reluctantly the cacique and his family re-embarked in his canoe and returned to the shore, while the ships continued their cruise.

Columbus now stood across to Hispaniola. On sending a boat on shore near a large village, the inhabitants issued forth with bows and arrows, while others came provided with cords to bind their expected prisoners. These were the natives of the eastern province. Their hostility, however, was only in appearance, for directly the crew landed they threw aside their arms, and readily brought provisions, asking for the Admiral, whose fame had spread over the whole island. Shortly after this he was weatherbound for several days in a harbour formed by an island close to the coast.

When once free, and in seas now well known, being relieved from all anxiety and the excitement which had so long existed, his mind and body sank exhausted by his almost superhuman exertions. He was struck by a sudden malady, which deprived him of his memory, sight, and all his faculties, and he fell into a deep lethargy, resembling death itself. In that state he was borne back to Isabella. Soon after arriving there he recovered consciousness, and his heart was cheered by seeing his much-loved brother Bartholomew, from whom he had been separated many years, standing over him.

Bartholomew had in the meantime made a voyage to Africa, and visited Henry the Seventh of England and Charles the Eighth of France, and on his arrival in Spain had been sent out in command of three ships, freighted with supplies for the colony.

He had arrived just after his brother had sailed, and since had been waiting for his return. On his recovery, aided by his two excellent brothers, Bartholomew and Diego, Columbus took the most energetic steps for the benefit of the colony. A turbulent spirit existed among the settlers, and many of the natives had been driven into hostility. By an inexcusable stratagem of Ojeda, one of the most powerful caciques, Caonabo was captured. Several others were afterwards taken prisoners. The Spaniards, however, quarrelled among themselves, and neglecting the excellent regulations of Columbus, set his authority at defiance, while some of those he had most trusted openly rebelled. Margarite, one of the principal officers, and the cunning friar Boyle, with other worthless men, sent home insidious reports regarding his administration of the government. He, aware of the accusations against him, forwarded counter reports, and, in the meantime, endeavoured to obtain all the gold to be procured to satisfy the cupidity of Ferdinand. He built several fortresses, both in the gold region and other parts of the country, and in a short time the whole of the inhabitants were reduced to a helpless state of slavery, for, though he intended that they should be treated with justice and kindly, the heartless and greedy Spaniards thought only how they could obtain the largest amount of profit from their labours.

In spite of all his representations, his enemies so contrived to poison the mind of Ferdinand, that a commissioner, Juan Aguado, armed with supreme authority, was sent out to investigate the behaviour of Columbus, and to administer the government.

The Admiral received him with calmness and courtesy, and gave him no opportunity of creating a quarrel. All the rebels and dissatisfied spirits, however, thronged round Aguado and brought their accusations against Columbus, who, finding that Aguado was about to return to Spain, resolved likewise to go there, in order to defend himself.

As Aguado was about to sail, a fearful hurricane burst over the island and destroyed his four ships. Columbus on this ordered that the Nina, which was in a shattered and leaky condition, should be prepared, and another vessel constructed out of the wrecks.

At this juncture a young Spaniard, who, in consequence of wounding a man, had fled from the settlement and concealed himself among the natives near the mountains, where he married, had, by the aid of his wife, discovered a rich gold region.

Knowing that he should be pardoned, he returned and reported the discovery to Columbus, who, highly elated, fully believed that the mines were those of the ancient Ophir.

The Santa Cruz, the new caravel, being finished and the Nina repaired, Columbus appointed his brother, Don Bartholomew, as Adelantado, to govern the island, and going on board, set sail on the 12th of March, 1496. Aguado went on board the other vessel, and between the two were two hundred and twenty-five passengers, all those who wished to return to the old country, as well as thirty Indians, with the cacique Caonabo, one of his brothers, and a nephew. Even captivity could not crush the spirit of the haughty chief till he fell ill, and died before the termination of the voyage.

After meeting with baffling winds for a long time, on the 6th of April Columbus found himself still in the neighbourhood of the Carib Islands, his crew sickly and his provisions diminishing. He bore away, therefore, in search of supplies, and after touching at Maregalante, made sail for Guadaloupe. Here a boat going ashore to obtain wood and water, a large number of females, decorated with tufts of feathers and armed with bows and arrows, as if to defend their shores, were seen issuing from the forest. The natives on board having explained to these Amazonian dames that the object of the Spaniards was barter, they referred them to their husbands, who, they said, were in a different part of the island.

As the boats pulled along the beach numbers of natives approached, shouting and yelling, and brandishing their weapons, and discharging flights of arrows.

A few shots from the firearms of the Spaniards drove them off. The boat when landing met with no further opposition, and, contrary to the injunctions of the Admiral, they plundered and destroyed the native huts. Honey and wax were found in the houses, and hatchets made of hard and heavy stone. One of the seamen declared that he found a human arm roasting, but this statement was probably made to excuse himself and his companions for the wanton mischief they had committed.

While some of the men were obtaining wood and water, Columbus dispatched a strongly-armed party of forty into the interior. Here they encountered a number of women of large and powerful form, their long hair flowing loose upon their shoulders, and their heads decorated with plumes of various colours. Ten women and three boys were brought back. Among the former was a woman of great strength and of proud spirit, who endeavoured to escape, but being pursued by a Spaniard, was overtaken while attempting to strangle him, and was captured.

After they were brought on board Columbus ordered them to be restored to the island, but the chieftainess, whose heart had been touched by the misfortunes of Caonabo, insisted on remaining to comfort him, and was thus carried captive to Spain.

Guadaloupe was left on the 20th of April, but a whole month was spent beating against contrary winds and currents, so that water and provisions began to fail, and the people were put upon short allowance. So reduced were they at last that some of the Spaniards proposed, as an expedient, that they should kill and eat their Indian prisoners. Others suggested that they should throw them into the sea.

Columbus had to exert all his authority to prevent this atrocious act. He urged them to wait with patience, and assured them that in a short time they would see Cape Saint Vincent.

Many scoffed, declaring that they were on a different part of the coast, but on the 10th he ordered that sail should be taken in at night, and on the next morning they were in sight of the very land he had predicted.

After a dreary voyage of three months, on the 11th of June the vessels anchored in the Bay of Cadiz. He found three caravels on the point of sailing, to carry provisions to the colony. Nearly a year had passed without relief of any kind having been sent out, as four vessels which had sailed in January had been lost. By this squadron he wrote to his brother, the Adelantado, urging him to bring the island into a peaceful and productive state, and to send to Spain all Indians who should injure any of the colonists.

Columbus was honourably treated by the sovereigns, although the mind of Ferdinand was evidently poisoned by the representations of his enemies. Notwithstanding the cruel opposition of his foes, the great navigator, refusing to take the repose his health so much required, bent on prosecuting his discoveries, employed all his energies to obtain forthwith the command of another expedition.



Chapter Six.

Third Voyage Of Columbus -- A.D. 1498.

Columbus, after many delays, fits out another squadron, and sails on his third voyage, 30th May, 1498 -- Touches at Gomara -- Retakes a prize to a French privateer -- Off the Cape de Verdes -- Sends three of his ships to Hispaniola, and steers south-west with the remainder -- Long becalmed --  Steers west and sights Trinidad -- Sees mainland of South America -- Natives come off -- Alarmed by music -- A bore threatens to destroy the ships --  Enters the Serpent's Mouth -- Sails up the Gulf of Paria -- Mistakes the promontory for an island -- Anchors at the mouth of the river -- Natives come off -- Pearls seen among them -- Large quantities procured -- Passes through the Dragon's Mouth -- Natives seen fishing for pearls -- Three pounds weight obtained -- His eyesight failing, steers for Hispaniola --  Makes the land fifty leagues more to the west than he had expected --  Reaches Isabella -- Disastrous state of the settlement -- Bobadilla sent out to supersede Columbus -- Summoned to Isabella -- Columbus and his brothers sent in chains to Spain -- Arrival -- Reaction in his favour -- Honourably received at Court -- Ovando sent out to supersede Bobadilla -- The belief of Columbus that a passage into the Indian Ocean was to be found -- Obtains authority to fit out another fleet.

It was not without numerous wearying delays that Columbus at length succeeded in getting another squadron fitted out to prosecute his discoveries. He at length obtained six vessels, with which he set sail on the 30th of May, 1498. Having heard that a French squadron was cruising off Cape Saint Vincent, he first stood to the south-west, touching at the islands of Porto Santo and Madeira, and then continued his course to the Canary Islands. As he approached Gomara on the 19th of June, he saw at anchor a French privateer with two Spanish prizes. The former put to sea in all haste, followed by her prizes, one of which had only four men on board, besides six Spanish prisoners. Though he sent three of his vessels in pursuit, the privateer and one of the prizes escaped, but the six Spaniards on board the other, rising on their captors, she was retaken and brought back to the port.

Leaving Gomara, Columbus dispatched three of his ships to carry supplies to Hispaniola, and with the three remaining vessels prosecuted his voyage towards the Cape de Verde Islands. Though suffering from sickness, he continued to keep his reckoning and make his observations with his usual minuteness.

Touching at the Cape de Verdes, he was disappointed at not obtaining the goats, sheep, and cattle he had expected. The weather was sultry and depressing, and he and his crew suffered greatly. Steering south-west for about one hundred and twenty leagues, he reached the fifth degree of north latitude, the region known among seamen by the name of the "calm latitudes." Suddenly the wind fell, a dead calm commenced, which lasted for eight days. The air was like a furnace, the tar melted, the seams of the ships yawned, the salt meat became putrid, the wheat was parched, the hoops round some of the casks of wine and water shrank, while others burst, letting out their contents.

To get out of this latitude he steered to the south-west, hoping to find a milder temperature farther on. In this he was not disappointed. At length a cool breeze filled the sails of the vessels, and they again made good progress.

Columbus intended to have stood first to the south and then westward, but the heat had made the vessels leak so excessively that it was necessary to find a harbour as soon as possible. The provisions were also spoiled, and the water nearly exhausted. On the 31st of July but one cask of water remained in each ship, when about midday a seaman at the masthead hailed that he saw the summits of three mountains rising above the horizon.

Columbus had before determined to give the name of the Trinity to the first land he should behold, and was struck by the appearance of these three mountains united in one. He therefore called the island La Trinidad. Steering to its eastern extremity, he saw a rock resembling a galley under sail off a headland, which, in consequence, he called Punta de la Galera. No safe anchorage appearing, he coasted westward in search of a harbour and water. Instead of a sterile land, he saw the country covered with groves of palm-trees, cultivated in many places, and enlivened by hamlets and scattered habitations, while streams came rushing down the hill-sides.

At length anchoring, abundance of water was obtained from a limpid brook, and traces of animals were seen, which must have been those of deer, though supposed to be those of goats.

When coasting the island, he now for the first time saw, stretching away to the south, that mighty continent of which he had so long been in search, it being the land near the many mouths of the Oronoco; supposing it, however, to be an island, he called it La Isla Santa. On the 2nd of August he cast anchor near the south-west portion of Trinidad. As the ships approached this place, a large canoe, with five and twenty Indians on board, put off from the shore.

He in vain tried to induce the savages to come on board, by offering them looking-glasses, glass, beads of polished metal, and glittering trinkets. They remained gazing in mute wonder at the ships, but kept their paddles ready to make off at the least attempt to approach them. They were young, well formed, and naked, excepting fillets of cotton bound round their heads, and coloured cloths about their loins. Besides their bows and arrows, they carried bucklers, -- an article of armour now first seen among the inhabitants of the New World.

Believing that they might be affected by music, Columbus ordered the band to strike up; but the Indians, mistaking the sounds as a sign of hostility, seized their bows and let fly a shower of arrows. The discharge of a couple of crossbows, however, put them to flight. They afterwards approached the other ships, but had conceived an especial fear of that of the Admiral.

Columbus, supposing himself to be in the seventh degree of latitude, though actually in the tenth, expected to find the inhabitants similar to the natives of Africa, under the same parallel, -- black, with crisp hair, -- and was astonished at finding these natives even fairer than those met with farther north.

The ships brought up at Point Arenal, the nearest to the mainland, between which and the island Columbus observed, night and day, a current flowing at a tremendous speed, boiling and raging to such a degree that he thought it was crossed by a reef of rocks. From its dangerous appearance he gave to it the name of Boca del Sierpe -- the Serpent's Mouth. He feared that the current from the east would prevent his return, while his ships might be lost on the supposed rocks, should he attempt a passage.

That night, while kept awake by his illness, he heard a terrible roaring from the south, and beheld the sea heaped up and covered with foam, like a huge watery ridge the height of the ships, rolling towards them. As this furious surge approached, rendered more terrible in appearance by the obscurity of night, he trembled for the safety of his vessels. His own ship was lifted up to such a height that he feared she would be overturned, while another was torn from her anchorage. The crews expected to be swallowed up, but the surge passed on and gradually subsided.

Early in the morning he sent the boats to sound the water at the Serpent's Mouth, and to his great joy several fathoms were found; the currents and tides setting both ways, either to enter or return. A favourable breeze springing up, he entered the tranquil expanse between Trinidad and the mainland of Paria, and, to his great surprise, he here found the water fresh.

He continued northward towards a mountain at the north-west point of the island, and here beheld two lofty capes, one projecting from the island of Trinidad, the other at the end of the long promontory of Paria, which, supposing it to be an island, he named Isla de Gracia. Between these capes was another channel beset with rocks, among which the current forced its way with roaring turbulence, to which he gave the name of Boca del Dragon.

Not wishing to encounter it, he steered along the inner side of the promontory, round which, fancying that it was an island, he expected to get, and then to be able to strike northward for Hispaniola.

The country appeared to be cultivated in some places, and in others covered with fruit-trees and plants, and abounding with monkeys. He was, however, greatly astonished at finding the water still fresh, and that it became more and more so the farther he proceeded. It was that season, however, when the rivers which empty themselves into the Gulf of Paria are swollen by rains. He was surprised also at the calmness of the sea, not being aware that the only two entrances were by the Serpent's and Dragon's Mouths into this large expanse of water.

For some time no inhabitants were met with. At length the ships brought up at the mouth of the river, and immediately a canoe with three Indians came off to the caravel anchored nearest the shore, when the captain, springing in, upset her, and the people, as they were swimming, were secured. Being brought to the Admiral, they were presented with beads, hawks' bells, and sugar. The report they gave in consequence, on returning on shore, induced many other natives to come off. They were tall, finely formed, and graceful in their movements, being armed with bows and arrows and targets. The men wore cotton cloths of various colours about their heads and loins, but the women were destitute of clothing. They brought maize and other eatables, with beverages, some white, made from maize, others green, expressed from various fruits. They judged of everything by the sense of smell. As they came near they smelt the boat, then smelt the people, as they did all the articles offered them. Although setting little value on the beads, they were delighted with the hawks' bells, and still more so with anything of brass. Taking some of the people as guides, he proceeded west for eight leagues, to a point which he called the Needle. So beautiful was the country, that he gave it the name of The Garden.

Here many natives came off, and invited the Admiral on shore in the name of their King. Many wore collars and burnished plates of that inferior kind of gold, called by the Indians guanin, and they pointed to a land in the west, from whence they said it came; but the cupidity of the Spaniards was excited by strings of pearls round the arms of some of them. These, they said, were procured at the sea-coast on the northern side of Paria, and they showed the mother-of-pearl shells from which they were taken.

To secure specimens to be sent to Spain, Columbus dispatched some boats to that part of the shore. Numbers of the natives came down, and treating the Spaniards as beings of a superior order, regaled them with bread and various fruits of excellent flavour. They had among them tame parrots, one of light green with a yellow neck, and the tips of the wings of a bright red, others of a vivid scarlet, except some azure feathers in the wing. These they gave to the Spaniards, who, however, cared for nothing but pearls, many necklaces and bracelets of which were given by the Indian women in exchange for hawks' bells or articles of brass.

The Spaniards returned on board highly delighted at the way they had been treated, while the quantity of pearls seen among the natives raised the sanguine anticipations of Columbus, who was anxious to send the finest specimens to the sovereigns.

Still believing the peninsula of Paria to be an island, he sailed on westward until compelled, by finding the water more shallow as he advanced, to anchor, when he sent a caravel to explore. She returned the following day with a report that at the end of the gulf there was an opening of two leagues, which led into an inner gulf, into which flowed a quantity of fresh water by four openings. It was in reality the mouth of the large river now called the Paria. To the inner gulf Columbus gave the name of the Gulf of Pearls.

Finding no passage to the westward, the ships proceeded in an opposite direction for the Boca del Dragon. On the 13th of August they anchored in a fine harbour, to which Columbus gave the name of Puerto de Gatos. Here also were seen mangroves growing in the water with oysters clinging to the branches, their mouths open, as the Spaniards supposed, to receive the dew which was afterwards thought to be transformed into pearls. That they were thus formed was believed until comparatively late years.

The passage through which he was about to pass is extremely dangerous after the rainy season, and the water which rushes through it foams and roars as if breaking on rocks. Scarcely had the ships entered than the wind died away, and shipwreck appeared imminent, but they were at length carried through by the current of fresh water into the open sea.

Columbus now stood to the westward, running along the northern coast of Paria, still supposing it to be an island, intending to visit the Gulf of Pearls. To the north-east he saw the two islands of Tobago and Granada, and on the 15th those of Margarita and Cubagua, afterwards famed for their pearl fishing.

On approaching the latter, a number of Indians were seen fishing for pearls. A boat being sent to communicate with them, a seaman offered a broken piece of gaily-painted porcelain to a woman who had round her neck a string of pearls, which she readily gave in exchange.

On this the Admiral sent people on shore, who with beads and hawks' bells soon procured three pounds weight of pearls, some of very large size.

The coast still trending to the westward, and rising into lofty ranges of mountains, Columbus began to suspect that he was off the mainland of India; but his eyesight failing, he was reluctantly compelled to steer for Hispaniola to seek for needed rest. On making land, after a sail of five days, he found that he was fifty leagues to the westward of his destination, having been driven across by the strong steady current which sets in from the east, and assists to give an impetus to the Gulf Stream.

Sending on shore for an Indian messenger to take a letter to his brother the Adelantado, a canoe came off with several Indians, one of whom carried a Spanish crossbow. As this was not an article of traffic, the Admiral feared that fresh troubles had arisen, and that the weapon had fallen into the Indian's hands by the death of a Spaniard.

Sailing, he arrived near the mouth of the river on the 30th of August, when a caravel, appeared, on board of which came the Adelantado. The brothers met with mutual joy, but the latter grieved to see the great navigator so broken down in health, a mere wreck of himself, though with his spirit still rising superior to all bodily affliction.

Though considerable progress had been made in the building of Isabella, now called San Domingo, at the mouth of the Ozema, the Adelantado had sad accounts to give of the state of the island. Rebellion had been rife among the colonists in all directions. The Indians had been barbarously treated, and all authority had been set at defiance. Attempts had been made to murder the Adelantado, and the leaders had sent home the most serious accusations against him and Columbus and their brother Diego. They had succeeded too well in raising suspicions in the mind of Ferdinand as to the loyalty of Columbus, and an officer of the royal household, Don Francisco de Bobadilla, was sent out nominally to investigate the causes of the rebellion, but with power to arrest the persons and sequestrate the effects of those he might consider guilty; while he was to take upon himself the government of the island, and to demand the surrender of all fortresses, ships, and other royal property.

Columbus had gone into the interior to arrange matters, while the Adelantado and his brother had almost succeeded in overcoming the rebellion, when Bobadilla, accompanied by a guard of twenty-five men and six friars, who had charge of a number of Indians sent back to their country, appeared off Saint Domingo on the 23rd of August, 1500. Landing, without stopping to investigate the conduct of Columbus and his brothers, he instantly commenced the most arbitrary proceedings. He took up his residence in the house of Columbus, of whose whole property, gold, plate, jewels, horses, together with his public and even private letters and manuscripts, he at once possessed himself.

Don Diego was seized, thrown into irons, and confined on board a caravel. Columbus was summoned to San Domingo; he came, almost unattended, when, being at once seized, Bobadilla gave orders that he should be put in irons, and confined him in the fortress.

When the irons were brought, every one present shrank at the task of putting them on the limbs of the venerable and illustrious prisoners, either from a sentiment of compassion at so great a reverse of fortune, or out of habitual reverence for his person. A wretched cook named Espinosa was the only person found to rivet the fetters. The great navigator conducted himself with the magnanimity which might have been expected. The injustice and ingratitude of the sovereigns alone wounded his spirit, and he bore all his present misfortunes in silence.

Though the Adelantado was at the head of a strong force when summoned to San Domingo, he returned unattended, and was treated as his brother had been. Columbus had expected to have suffered on the scaffold, and was greatly relieved when he found himself conducted on board a caravel commanded by a worthy captain -- Alonzo de Villejo -- who told him that he had orders to carry him to Spain.

He and his brother embarked, amidst the scoffs and shouts of a miscreant rabble, who took a brutal joy in heaping insult on his venerable head.

Villejo, touched by the sufferings of Columbus, treated him with much respect, and would have relieved him of his shackles, but he answered, "No: their Majesties commanded me to submit to whatever Bobadilla might devise; by their authority he has put upon me these shackles. I will wear them until they direct them to be taken off, and I will preserve them as relics and memorials, as the reward of my services."

The page of history presents no sadder picture than Columbus in chains crossing the ocean from those lands discovered by his genius, boldness, and perseverance.

The voyage was favourable and of moderate duration. In a short time the ship, with her illustrious prisoner on board, arrived at Cadiz. Columbus a prisoner and in chains produced almost as great a sensation as his triumphant return from his first voyage. A reaction took place, and a strong sympathy was expressed, against which it would have been odious for the Government to contend. The ignominious manner in which Columbus had been treated created murmurs of astonishment at the Court at Grenada, and a letter written by him on board reached the noble-minded Isabella before the document sent home by Bobadilla. She saw how grossly Columbus had been wronged and the royal authority abused, and her heart was filled with mingled sympathy and indignation.

The Queen and Ferdinand instantly sent off to Cadiz, directing that the prisoners should be set at liberty and treated with all distinction; and they wrote a letter to Columbus, expressing their grief at what he had suffered, and inviting him to Court. Conscious of his integrity, his heart was cheered, and he anticipated an immediate restitution of all his rights and dignities.

He appeared in Grenada, not as a disgraced man, but richly dressed, and attended by a noble retinue. He was received with unqualified favour and distinction, and as he beheld tears in the benign eyes of Isabella, he threw himself on his knees, and for some time could not utter a word for the violence of his tears and sobbing. Enabled to speak, he defended himself fully; indeed, the imputations of his enemies had been his best advocate.

Meantime the Pinzons and several other explorers had sailed forth, chiefly in search of pearls and gold.

While we feel indignant at the treatment received by Columbus, we must not forget the miseries of the helpless natives his discoveries had brought within the power of so-called civilised Europeans.

The excellent Las Casas gives a vivid and faithful picture of the tyranny exercised over the Indians by worthless Spaniards; wretches who in their own country had been the vilest of the vile, but had in the New World assumed the tone of grand cavaliers. Over much of their conduct it is necessary to draw the veil. Their very pleasures were attended with cruelty. At the least freak of ill humour they inflicted blows, and lashes, and even death itself, on their helpless slaves.

Such were some of the evils which had sprung up under the rule of Bobadilla. The wrongs of the natives reaching the benevolent heart of Isabella, she urged that a new governor, Don Nicolas de Ovando, should be sent out to supersede him, to inquire into the conduct of Columbus. Ovando shortly afterwards sailed in command of one of the largest fleets that had yet proceeded to the New World.

We should always bear in mind the lofty enthusiastic aspirations which influenced the mind of the great navigator. He had hoped by the wealth he should obtain to win the Holy Sepulchre from the infidels, but more practical schemes soon occupied him. The wealth brought from the East, owing to the discoveries of the Portuguese, aroused him to emulation. He had found a strong current setting westward, through the Caribbean Sea, between the coasts of Paria on the south and Cuba on the north, the latter, as he believed, being a part of the Asiatic continent stretching onwards in the same direction. He believed therefore that there must be a straight opening into the Indian Sea, and, could he discover it, he believed that he should be able to reach India by a far more easy route than any yet followed.

His plan was listened to with attention by the sovereigns, and he was authorised to fit out another armament.

He asked permission to touch at Hispaniola for supplies on the outward voyage, but the sovereigns, knowing that he had many enemies in the island, forbade him doing so. They, however, to soothe his feelings, wrote him a letter dated the 14th of March, 1502, solemnly assuring him that all his dignities should be enjoyed by him and his sons after him, and that they would bestow further honours and rewards upon him and them as well as upon his excellent brothers.



Chapter Seven.

Fourth And Last Voyage Of Columbus -- A.D. 1502.

Columbus sails from Cadiz the 9th of May, 1502, in command of four caravels -- Reaches Martinico, and steers for San Domingo to change one of his vessels finds Bobadilla about to sail -- Refused admission to the port -- Warns the Governor of an impending hurricane -- Keeps close in with the land -- Escapes -- Bobadilla's ship founders -- Only one with the treasure of Columbus reaches Spain -- Touching at Jamaica, stands across to Bonacca off the coast of Honduras -- Visited by a cacique in a large canoe laden with numerous articles -- Search for the supposed strait -- Goes on shore on the mainland -- The natives bring presents -- Sails along the coast -- Stormy weather continues -- Columbus suffers from illness -- Fine weather -- Off the Mosquito shore -- Natives offended at their presents not being accepted --  Hostages brought -- Frightened at seeing the notary write -- Natives carried off as guides -- Ships anchor in the Bay of Caribaro -- Large quantities of gold seen among the natives -- Reaches the coast of Veragua -- Hostility of natives -- Frightened into friendship -- Much gold obtained -- Columbus quits the gold region in search of the straits -- Hears of the gold region of Ciguere -- Anchors in Puerto Bello -- Passes Nombre de Dios -- Anchors in Cabinet Harbour -- The seamen insult the natives, who attack the ships --  Put to flight by the guns -- Columbus sails in search of the gold-mines of Veragua.

Columbus had reached the age of sixty-eight years when he embarked upon his fourth voyage. His squadron consisted of four caravels, the smallest of fifty tons burden, the largest not exceeding seventy; the crews amounted, in all, to one hundred and fifty men. He had with him his faithful and intrepid brother, Don Bartholomew, and his younger son, Fernando. The squadron sailed from Cadiz on the 9th of May, A.D. 1502, and after touching at Ercilla, on the coast of Morocco, stood away for the Canaries, where it arrived on the 25th of May, on the evening of which day he took his departure for the New World. Without shifting a sail it reached Martinico.

Though prohibited from touching at Hispaniola, one of his vessels was so bad a sea boat that he ventured to steer for San Domingo, in order to change her for another.

Arriving off the river on the 29th of June, he found a fleet with Bobadilla on board, as well as a large amount of treasure and several unhappy Indian captives.

The agent of Columbus had shipped four thousand pieces of gold, recently collected or recovered from Bobadilla, on board one of the caravels.

Columbus immediately sent to ask permission of Ovando, who had assumed the government, to enter the harbour, stating that the weather looked threatening, and that he believed a hurricane was brewing.

Ovando most ungraciously refused the boon asked for by Columbus, who then again sent on shore, entreating that, although shelter was denied to him, the fleet about to sail might be detained in harbour until the coming tempest had spent its fury.

This request was also refused, the Governor and his officers not believing the warning. Columbus, therefore, steered along the coast, keeping as close to the shore as possible, convinced that the storm would blow from the north. The crews at once began to complain, having lost their reliance on one who was subjected to such ill treatment.

Within two days his predictions were verified. A fearful hurricane burst upon them, during which the ship carrying Bobadilla and an unfortunate cacique foundered, together with an enormous mass of gold, --  the principal part of the treasure gained by the miseries of the Indians. Many other ships were lost, some returning to San Domingo sorely battered, while only one, the weakest of the fleet, with the treasure of the Admiral on board, continued her voyage to Spain.

The squadron of Columbus, though having suffered much, safely reached the port of Hermoso, at the west end of San Domingo. Here he remained several days, and then, after touching at some small islands off Jamaica swept by the current, he reached a group near the coast of Honduras, one of which he called the Isla de Pinos, now known as Guanaja, or Bonacca.

The Adelantado, on landing on its beautiful and fertile shore, saw an immense canoe approaching, eight feet wide, and of great length, though formed of the trunk of a single tree. Under a canopy of palm-leaves sat a cacique, with his wives and children, rowed by twenty-five Indians.

The canoe was filled with all kinds of articles of manufacture and natural production. The Indians, without fear, came alongside the Admiral's caravel. He was delighted to obtain, without trouble, specimens of so many important articles of this part of the New World. Among them were hatchets formed of copper, wooden swords with channels on each side of the blade, in which sharp flints were firmly fixed by cords formed of the intestines of fishes, such as were afterwards found among the Mexicans. There were bells and other articles of copper, and clay utensils; cotton shirts worked, and dyed with various colours; great quantities of cacao, a fruit as yet unknown to the Spaniards, and a beverage resembling beer, extracted from Indian corn. Their provisions consisted of maize bread, and roots of various kinds. Many of the articles they willingly exchanged for European trinkets. The women were wrapped in mantles like the female Moors of Grenada, and the men had cloths of cotton round their loins. From their being clothed, and from the superiority of their manufactures, the Admiral believed that he was approaching more civilised nations.

The natives stated that they had just arrived from a rich cultivated country, with the wealth and magnificence of which they endeavoured to impress him. His mind, however, being bent on the discovery of the strait, and believing that he could easily visit them at some future period, he determined to seek the mainland, and keep steadily on until he reached the opening between it and Paria.

Had he followed the advice of his visitors he might have discovered Mexico, and even the Southern Ocean might have been disclosed to him. He was encouraged to persist in the course he had designed by hearing from an old man, whom he had detained as pilot, that there were many places farther on abounding in gold.

Reaching the mainland on Sunday, the 14th of August, he and his officers, and many of the men, landed, and Mass was performed under the trees. On the 17th the Adelantado went ashore near the mouth of a river, and took possession of the country in the name of their Catholic Majesties. At this place upwards of a hundred Indians appeared, laden with bread, maize, fish, fowl, vegetables, and fruits.

These they laid down as presents, and then, without speaking a word, drew back. The Adelantado distributed among them various trinkets, which so pleased them that they came with still more abundant supplies. These natives had higher foreheads than those of the islands. Some were entirely naked and had their bodies tatooed, some wore coverings about the loins, and others short cotton jerkins without sleeves. The chieftains had coats of white or coloured cotton. The Indian guide asserted that some of them were cannibals.

Day after day, exposed to storms, drenching rains, and currents, Columbus made his way along the coast of Honduras, often gaining only a league or two in the day. Though suffering from gout, he still attended to his duty, having had a small cabin fitted on deck from which he could keep a look-out. Often he was so ill that he thought his end was approaching.

At length, after two months of continued gales, fine weather returned, and he doubled the Cape, to which he gave the name of Gracias a Dios, or Thanks to God. He next sailed along what is now called the Mosquito shore, seeing many rivers in which grew enormous reeds, abounding with fish, alligators, and turtles.

While the squadron was anchored near a river and the boats were on shore to obtain wood and water, a bore, or swell of the sea, occurred, by which one of them was swallowed up, and all on board perished. The name, therefore, of El Rio del Desastro was given to the river.

The next place at which the ships dropped anchor was between a beautiful island, which Columbus called La Huerta, or The Garden, and the mainland, where some way up was a native village named Cariari. The inhabitants, seeing the ships, quickly gathered on the shore, prepared to defend their country; but when the Spaniards made no attempt to land, their hostility ceased, and, waving their mantles, they invited the strangers on shore. Swimming off, they brought mantles of cotton and ornaments of guanin.

The Admiral, though he made them presents, would take nothing in exchange, and the savages, supposing that their proffered gifts were despised, retaliated, pretending indifference to the things offered them, and, on returning on shore, tied all the European articles up and left them on the beach.

The following day, while a boat cautiously approached the shore to procure water, a venerable-looking Indian appeared, bearing a white banner on the end of a staff, and leading a girl of fourteen, and another of about eight years of age. These he made signs were to be detained as hostages while the Spaniards were on shore. They were taken on board, and being kept under the care of the Admiral, were clothed and adorned with various ornaments, and on the following morning were restored to their friends, who appeared grateful for the kind way in which they had been treated, but returned all the presents they had received.

On the Adelantado approaching the beach, two of the principal natives, wading into the water, carried him ashore in their arms. Wishing to collect information, he ordered the notary of the squadron to write down their replies; but no sooner did they see the pen, ink, and paper than, supposing he was working some necromantic spell, they fled in terror. After some time they returned, scattering a fragrant powder in the air, intended, apparently, to counteract it. The Spaniards, equally ignorant, also fancied that the Indians were performing some magic rite; indeed, Columbus asserts that they believed all the hardships and foul winds they had experienced on the coast were owing to the witchcraft of the natives.

On leaving this place, Columbus carried off two of the natives, to serve as guides, promising that he would restore them, with ample remuneration, on his return.

The squadron then sailed along the coast now known as Costa Rica, and anchored in a large bay, full of islands, called Caribaro, the neighbourhood of which, the natives of Cariari had asserted, abounded with gold. The islands were covered with groves, which sent forth the fragrance of fruits and flowers; and so deep and narrow were the channels, that the spars of the vessels, as they passed on, brushed the overhanging branches. The natives were at first afraid, but, encouraged by the guides, advanced with confidence. They wore numerous ornaments of pure gold, and one of them exchanged a plate of gold, valued at ten ducats, for three hawks' bells.

The country on the mainland was hilly, the villages perched on the heights. As the boats proceeded to the bottom of the bay, they met ten canoes, the Indians in which had their heads decorated with garlands of flowers, and coronets formed of the claws of beasts and the quills of birds, while most of them wore plates of gold about their necks. Although they refused to part with the gold, they told the Spaniards it was to be had in abundance within the distance of two days' journey, mentioning, among other places, Veragua.

Columbus, eager to discover the strait, cared, at this time, very little for the gold, and sailing along the coast, now known as that of Veragua, came off the mouth of a large river. Here the natives rushed into the water, brandishing their weapons; but were quickly pacified, and bartered away seventeen plates of gold, worth one hundred and fifty ducats, for a few toys.

When the Spaniards next day went on shore, the natives exhibited a hostile disposition, but a bolt from a crossbow wounding one of them, and a cannon being fired, they fled with terror; and on being pursued, threw down their weapons, and, gentle as lambs, brought three plates of gold, meekly receiving the articles given in exchange. A similar scene was enacted at the next place, and nineteen plates of pure gold were obtained. Here, for the first time, Columbus met with signs of solid architecture, which he believed indicated his approach to civilised lands. As he ran along the coast, but was unable to land on account of the heavy sea, the guides pointed out numerous towns where gold abounded, one of them being Veragua, where they said the plates of gold were fabricated, and near which were the rich mines.

Soon after this he arrived opposite a village, where he was told the country of gold terminated, but still believing that he should discover a strait, he pushed on. He understood from the Indians that there was a magnificent country called Ciguare, situated at about ten days' journey to the west, where the people wore crowns and bracelets and necklets of gold, and used it for all domestic purposes; that they were armed like the Spaniards, with swords, bucklers, and cuirasses. He also fancied they said that the sea continued round to Ciguare, and that ten days beyond it was the Ganges. Probably they were describing Mexico or Peru.

The country was everywhere beautiful and fertile in the extreme. On the 2nd of November the squadron anchored in a commodious harbour, to which Columbus gave the name of Puerto Bello, which it still retains. They were delayed here ten days by heavy rains and stormy weather, but the painted natives brought off provisions, though few had ornaments of gold.

Again sailing eastward, they passed the point now known as Nombre de Dios, but being driven back, anchored in a harbour, which, from the large fields of Indian corn, fruits, and vegetables, was called the Port of Provision. They here remained until the 23rd, endeavouring to repair their vessels, which were fearfully pierced by the teredo. Misled by the seamen, always eager to get on shore, who went to sound it, he entered a small harbour, which he called The Cabinet. It was infested with alligators, which filled the air with a musky odour.

The natives gathered in large numbers, and at first treated their visitors with hospitality; but the rough seamen soon committed excesses which aroused their hosts to vengeance. In a short time the natives were seen approaching to attack the vessels. Not until some shotted guns were fired among them did they take to flight.

The seamen now began to murmur at the continuance of the tempestuous weather, declaring that the looked-for straits would never be found. Columbus might have begun to suspect the same, and, to the great joy of his men, he expressed his intention of relinquishing his search for the present. Sailing on the 5th of December from the Cabinet, he steered in search of the gold-mines of Veragua.



Chapter Eight.

Last Voyage Of Columbus, Concluded -- A.D. 1503-6.

The squadron encounters fearful storms -- Returns to Veragua -- The Adelantado visits the cacique Quibian -- Vessels nearly lost by a bore in the river -- The Adelantado sets off for the gold-mines -- During a second excursion collects much gold -- Columbus resolves to form a colony -- The vessels prevented from crossing the bar -- Eighty men engaged in building a fort -- Diego Mendez goes on a scouting expedition, and discovers the treacherous designs of Quibian -- Visits the village of the cacique -- The Adelantado undertakes to capture Quibian -- He succeeds -- The cacique escapes on his way down the river -- Is supposed to be lost -- Columbus prepares to sail -- Indians attack the settlement -- Driven off -- Tristan goes up the river for water -- He and his party destroyed by the Indians --  Settlement again attacked -- The Spaniards entrench themselves -- No communication possible with the ships -- Fearful tragedy on board -- Gallant conduct of Ledesma -- The settlement abandoned -- The ships, pierced by the teredo, unseaworthy -- One abandoned at Puerto Bello -- Stands across to Cuba -- A tempest -- Narrow escape -- In vain endeavouring to get westward, steers for Jamaica -- The caravels run on shore and prepared for defence --  Diego Mendez obtains provisions -- Crosses in a canoe to Hispaniola --  Mutiny of Porras and others -- They put to sea in canoes -- Driven back by a storm -- Misconduct on shore -- Instigate the Indians to withhold provisions -- Columbus predicts an eclipse of the moon -- A second mutiny --  Arrival of Escobar -- Refuses to take Columbus away -- Adventures of Mendez -- Porras persists in his rebellion -- Porras captured by the Adelantado -- Vessels arrive -- Columbus reaches San Domingo -- Reaction in his favour -- Returns with his brother to Spain -- His last illness and death.

The vessels put into Puerto Bello, then once more stood westward; but the wind, again heading them, began to blow with such terrible violence, that they were obliged once more to run back towards the port they had left; but before they could reach it, they were driven out to sea by a terrific gale. Here for days they were tossed about, while the rain poured down in a perfect deluge, and to add to the terror of the seamen a waterspout was seen approaching, from which they narrowly escaped. For a short time the tempest ceased, but again raged with greater fury than before. No serious damage, however, having occurred, the vessels at length, on the 3rd of February, 1503, came to an anchor off the river Yebra, which was within a league of another river known as the Veragua, running through the country said to abound in gold-mines.

Both rivers were sounded, and the Yebra, or Belen as Columbus called it, being somewhat the deepest, the caravels entered it at high tide. At first the natives assumed a menacing attitude, but assured by the guides of the pacific intentions of the Spaniards, they received them in a friendly way. Besides a quantity of fish and provisions, they brought also numerous golden ornaments, -- objects delighting the greedy eyes of the Spaniards. The Adelantado lost no time in ascending the river in a well-armed boat to the residence of Quibian, the principal cacique of the country.

The chief, a tall powerful warrior, received him in a friendly manner, and presented him with various golden ornaments. The following day Quibian visited the Admiral, by whom he was hospitably entertained.

Suddenly, on the 24th of January, a vast mass of water came rushing down the river, forcing the ships from their anchors, and dashing them against each other with such violence that the foremast of the Admiral's vessel was carried away, and the squadron placed in great danger; a furious storm and the heavy surf on the bar preventing them from running out to sea.

When the weather moderated, the Adelantado paid another visit up the river to Quibian, who came down to meet him with a large train of his subjects unarmed, making signs of peace. The chief was naked, and painted after the fashion of the country. Seated on a stone, he received the Adelantado with great courtesy, and acceding to his wishes to visit the interior of his dominions, supplied him with three guides to conduct him to the mines.

Leaving a party to guard the boats, the Adelantado set off on foot with the remainder, sleeping one night on the road. After travelling about six leagues, they entered a forest, where the guides informed them the mines were situated. The whole soil indeed seemed to be impregnated with gold, and in the space of two hours each Spaniard had collected a considerable quantity from among the roots of the trees.

Reaching the top of a hill, the guides pointed out to the Adelantado a wide forest region, which they assured him, for a distance of twenty leagues, abounded with gold. It appeared, however, that by the directions of Quibian they had deceived him, and taken him to the mines of a neighbouring cacique, with whom he was at war, and that the real mines of Veragua were nearer and far more wealthy.

After this the indefatigable Adelantado made another exploring expedition along the coast and through the interior, from which he returned well laden with gold. Columbus, satisfied that the mines of Veragua and those of the Aurea Chersonesus were identical, considered that this would be a suitable place to found a colony and establish a mart which should become the emporium of a vast tract of mines. The Adelantado agreed with him, and offered to remain with the greater part of the people while the Admiral should return to Spain for reinforcements and supplies.

Eighty men were selected to remain, and they immediately set about building dwellings and a store-house within bowshot of the river Belen. Columbus endeavoured to conciliate the good-will of the Indians, that they might bring provisions to the colony, and he made many presents to Quibian to reconcile him to this intrusion into his territories.

When an attempt was made, however, to carry the vessels over the bar, it was found there was not sufficient water for them. They had to wait for the periodical swelling of the river before this could be accomplished.

Columbus was satisfied with the good disposition of the natives, but the chief notary, Diego Mendez, his attached friend, had some doubts about the matter, and offered to sally forth and visit a large Indian camp which it was discovered had been formed in the neighbourhood.

Rowing up the river in a strongly-armed boat, he suddenly came upon a thousand or more Indians evidently on a warlike expedition. Landing alone, he offered to accompany them. This proposition was received in a suspicious manner, and he returned to his boat. Watching narrowly during the night, he perceived that they went back to Veragua.

Hastening to the Admiral, he expressed his opinion that the Indians intended to surprise the settlement. Further to ascertain the intentions of Quibian, he undertook to penetrate to his head-quarters. Accompanied by one Rodrigo Escobar, he made his way to the mouth of the Veragua, where he induced two Indians to convey him and his companion up the river.

On reaching the village of the chief, the two Spaniards observed a bustle of warlike preparation, and heard that Quibian was confined to his house by a wound. Mendez on this announced that he was a surgeon, and offered to cure the chief of his wound. Making his way towards the chief's residence, he came upon an open space where he saw raised on posts the heads of three hundred enemies of the tribe slain in battle.

As he approached the house, a powerful Indian -- son of the cacique --  rushed out and struck him a blow; but Mendez producing a box of ointment, pacified him. Though unable to gain access to the cacique, he escaped without further injury to the boat, and he and his companion made their way down to the harbour.

It was evident that the natives intended hostilities, and from an Indian who had become attached to the Spaniards they learned that Quibian intended to surprise the Spaniards by night, to burn the vessels and houses, and make a general massacre. To prevent him carrying out his plan, the Adelantado offered to go up the river and capture him and his principal chiefs and family during the night, and to bring them in chains on board.

Taking Diego Mendez, with seventy men and an interpreter, he set off on the 30th of March. Reaching the neighbourhood of the village, he left the rest of his people, and, accompanied by Diego Mendez and four others, went forward. The remainder, two and two, climbed the hill. It was arranged that upon the discharge of an arquebus they were to surround the dwelling and suffer no one to escape.

As the Adelantado approached, Quibian came out to meet him, and seated himself in the porch; Don Bartholomew telling Mendez and his companions to remain at a little distance, and that when they should see him take the cacique by the arm, to rush immediately to his assistance.

He then advanced with his Indian interpreter, and after a short conversation, pretending to examine the cacique's wound, he took him by the arm.

At the concerted signal four of the Spaniards rushed forward, the fifth discharged his arquebus. The cacique attempted to get loose, but was held firm in the iron grasp of the Adelantado. A violent struggle ensued, but Diego Mendez and the rest coming up, Quibian was bound hand and foot; and at the report of the arquebus the main body of the Spaniards surrounded the house and seized all who were within, the wives and children of Quibian included. When the savages saw their chief a captive, with loud cries they implored his liberty, offering a rich treasure as his ransom.

The Adelantado, deaf to their entreaties, carried off Quibian and the other prisoners to the boat, committing them to the charge of Juan Sanchez, the principal pilot, while he remained on shore with part of his men to secure the Indians who had escaped.

The night was dark, and as the boats proceeded down the river Quibian pretended that the cord which bound him to a bench hurt his limbs, and the pilot loosed it.

The wily Indian, watching his opportunity, plunged into the water, and in the darkness and confusion it was not known whether he sank or reached the bank. Sanchez, crestfallen, returned in the boats to the ships.

The next morning the Adelantado, seeing from the nature of the country that it would be impossible to overtake the fugitives, contented himself with carrying off all the coronets, necklaces, and plates of gold found in the cacique's mansion, to the value of three hundred ducats, and got safely on board.

Columbus, believing that Quibian had perished and that the vigorous measures of the Adelantado had succeeded in quelling the natives, made preparations for sailing. The river having swollen, he got three of the caravels over the bar by landing their cargoes, but left the fourth for the use of the settlement. Taking leave of his brother, and making his final arrangements, he set sail. The wind, however, continued adverse, and on the 6th of April, wishing to communicate with his brother, he sent a boat on shore under the command of Diego Tristan, captain of one of the caravels.

As Tristan approached the shore he found his countrymen, some on board the caravel, some on the sea-shore looking at the ships, and others scattered about the houses, when suddenly a vast number of Indians rushed forward with yells and howls, launching their javelins through the windows and roofs, or thrusting them through the crevices of the woodwork, wounding some of those who were within.

At the first alarm the Adelantado, seizing a lance, sallied forth with seven or eight men, and being joined by Diego Mendez and others, they drove the enemy into the forest, killing and wounding many of them. In spite of their furious sallies the savages could not withstand the keen edge of the Spanish swords and the attacks of a fierce bloodhound, and fled howling through the forest, leaving a number dead on the field, having, however, killed one Spaniard and wounded eight, among the latter of whom was the Adelantado.

Tristan had been afraid to approach the land lest his countrymen should spring on board and sink the boat, and when the Indians had been put to flight he proceeded up the river in quest of fresh water, disregarding the warnings of his friends on shore. He had get up some way, and was passing through a narrow channel between high, rocky, and wooded banks, when he was suddenly assailed by showers of darts and arrows. As the crew, losing all presence of mind, made no attempt to row away, only covering themselves with their bucklers, in a short time he and the whole of them, with the exception of one man, were massacred. The survivor, springing overboard, gained the bank of the river unperceived, and made his way down to the settlement with the tidings of the death of his captain and comrades.

The Spaniards were dismayed. They were few in number in the midst of exasperated savages. The Admiral, ignorant of their misfortunes, they said, would sail away, and leave them to perish. In vain the Adelantado remonstrated. They insisted on embarking in the caravel and following Columbus. The water, however, had fallen, and she could not be got over the bar. They attempted to put off in the boat, but a heavy surf rolling on the shore made this impossible.

In the meantime the Indians, instigated by Quibian, who had escaped, again attacked the Spaniards, rushing out from their coverts in the woods, and hurling their javelins and darts. As the huts were so near the woods that they might at any moment be surprised, a spot was chosen on the shore, where a breastwork was thrown up formed of the boats, casks, and cases, in the embrasures of which were placed two small pieces of artillery. Here, when the Indians came on, they were received with so warm a fire from the arquebuses and guns that they quickly took to flight. The little garrison knew, however, that before long their ammunition would fail and their provisions be exhausted, and that they could anticipate nothing but destruction in the end.

Columbus all this time was not aware what was taking place on shore. He became anxious, however, at the non-appearance of Diego Tristan and his party, but as there was one boat only remaining, he was afraid of sending her off lest she should be overwhelmed by the surf breaking on the beach.

A fearful circumstance now occurred. The prisoners were confined at night in the forecastle of the caravel, the hatchway of which was generally secured by a strong chain and padlock. Several of the crew slept on this hatchway, and as it was so high as to be considered out of the reach of those beneath, they neglected to fasten the chain.

The Indians, discovering their negligence, made a heap of stones from the ballast directly under the hatchway. Several of their most powerful warriors then mounting on the top, and bending their backs, by a sudden effort forced up the hatch. In an instant the greater part of the Indians sprang forth, some plunging into the sea and swimming for the shore. Several were seized and forced back into the forecastle, when the hatchway was chained down and a guard was set for the remainder of the night.

In the morning the Spaniards, on lifting the hatch, found to their horror that their captives were all dead. Some had hanged themselves with the ends of ropes, their knees touching the floor, while others lay strangled, having drawn the ropes tight with their feet. Columbus, fearing that the prisoners who had escaped would stimulate their countrymen to some act of vengeance, was anxious to communicate with his brother. It still seemed impossible for the boat to reach the shore, when Pedro Ledesma, a pilot of Seville, volunteered to swim to the beach if the boat would carry him outside the breakers and wait his return.

Stripping himself, he plunged into the sea, and buffeting the surges, reached the shore. He here found the intended settlers verging on despair, and also heard the fate of Diego Tristan.

With a message from the Adelantado, the brave pilot made his way back to the boat. Columbus, on receiving the alarming intelligence brought by the pilot, was thrown into a state of the greatest anxiety. Rather than allow the settlement to be broken up, he would have joined the Adelantado with all his people; but how, then, could he send tidings of his important discovery to the sovereigns? After much trouble of mind he resolved to embark the people and abandon the settlement.

Bad weather and a heavy sea rendered this for a long time impossible. At length the wind going down, the sea became calm, and he was able to send the boat on shore. Every exertion was at once made to bring off the people. The zealous Diego Mendez had been actively employed in making sacks to hold the biscuit. He also constructed a raft, which greatly facilitated the conveyance of the stores, arms, and ammunition.

The caravel was also dismantled. Her provisions and stores were got off, so that nothing remained but her hull. The joy of the Spaniards when they found themselves safe on board was unbounded, and the Admiral, as a reward for his services, gave the command of the caravel, vacant by the death of the unfortunate Diego Tristan, to the zealous Diego Mendez.

By the end of April, with a favourable wind, Columbus left the disastrous shores of Veragua; but his ships, honeycombed by the teredo, could with difficulty be kept afloat. To the surprise of his pilots, instead of standing northwards towards Hispaniola, he steered due east, knowing that the the current, which has a strong set into the Caribbean Sea, would have swept him far away out of his intended course.

He continued on to Puerto Bello, where he found that one of his caravels was so pierced by the teredo that he was compelled to leave her behind, and to divide her crew between the two remaining vessels. He then proceeded on as far as what is now known as the Gulf of Darien.

Having struggled in vain against contrary winds and currents, he on the ist of May stood northward in quest of Hispaniola. As the wind was easterly, with a strong current setting to the west, he kept as near the wind as possible. So ignorant were the pilots that they fancied all this time that they were to the east of the Caribbean Islands, whereas the Admiral feared truly that he should fall to the westward of Hispaniola.

Sailing across the Caribbean Sea, he at length sighted two small islands to the north-west of Hispaniola, which he called the Tortugas, from the quantity of turtles seen about them, though now known as the Caymans. Passing west of these, he found himself among the islands to the south of Cuba which he had called the Queen's Gardens. Here he cast anchor. His crews were almost worn out, and the only provisions left were a little biscuit, oil, and vinegar, while they were obliged to labour incessantly at the pumps.

Suddenly a tempest burst upon them. Three of their anchors were lost, and the vessels, driving together, nearly knocked each other to pieces. With the greatest difficulty they were separated, and the Admiral's ship anchored with his sole remaining cable, which in the morning was found nearly worn asunder. At the end of six days, the weather moderating, he sailed eastwards for Hispaniola.

Contrary winds, however, compelled him at length to stand across for Jamaica, where, on the 23rd of June, the caravels put into Puerto Bueno, now called Dry Harbour. No natives being found, the following day they sailed eastward, and entered another harbour, called Porta Santa Gloria. Here, at length, Columbus was compelled to give up his arduous struggle against the elements; his ships, reduced to mere wrecks, could no longer be kept afloat, and he ordered them to be run aground within bowshot of the shore, and fastened side by side. Here they soon filled with water to the deck. Cabins were therefore erected at the bow and stern, for the accommodation of the crews, and the vessels were placed in the best possible state of defence against any sudden attack of the natives.

To prevent his men roving about the neighbourhood, he ordered that no one should go on shore without a special licence, and every other possible precaution was taken to prevent giving offence to the Indians. Scarcely had these arrangements been made, than the natives appeared in vast numbers, bringing provisions to barter. That no disputes might arise, two persons were appointed to superintend all such trading transactions. It was feared, however, that the food thus furnished would soon fall short, in which case the Spaniards would be reduced to famine. In this emergency, Diego Mendez, with his accustomed zeal, offered to set off with three men on a foraging expedition. He was everywhere treated with the utmost kindness by the natives, who supplied him and his companions with meat and drink; and he made arrangements with the cacique of a numerous tribe that his subjects should hunt and fish, and bring cassava bread every day to the harbour. They were to receive, in exchange, various articles which they most valued.

This arrangement being made, Mendez dispatched a message to apprise the Admiral, and then proceeded upon his journey, during which he visited three different caciques, who all agreed to his proposals.

Having now sent back his companions, Mendez made his way to the eastern end of the island, where he found a powerful cacique, named Ameyro. He won over this chief by his ingratiating manner, and, having purchased a canoe, induced him to send six Indians to navigate it. He made a successful trip, and when he rejoined the Admiral, he found that the canoes of the friendly chief had already arrived with abundance of provisions.

The great desire of Columbus was now to get from the island. But his ships were like sieves, and he had but one small boat. The idea occurred to him that he might send Diego Mendez, in the canoe lately obtained, to Hispaniola. He broached the subject to his worthy follower, who at once agreed to perform the hazardous voyage, provided no better man was to be found to undertake it.

All were perfectly ready to let Mendez go. He accordingly embarked, the Admiral's despatches being ready, with one Spaniard and six Indians. The brave officer at first paddled to the east end of the island, where he remained waiting for calm weather. When here, he and his men were seized by a party of savages, who were about to kill them, when Mendez, making his escape, reached his canoe and got back to the harbour. Still undaunted, he resolved to make another attempt, and being joined by Bartholomew Fiesco, a Genoese devoted to the Admiral, in another canoe, he and his associates set off, escorted by the Adelantado, to the east end of the island, with an armed party to prevent the savages from molesting them. The weather being serene, they once more set off, hoping to reach Hispaniola in four or five days.

Soon after this sickness broke out among the crews of the two caravels, while many bitterly blamed the Admiral, considering that all their misfortunes were owing to him.

Week after week went by, and no ships appearing, Columbus, with too much reason, feared that his friends had perished.

It had been arranged that Mendez, as soon as he could send off a vessel, was to proceed on to Spain with the Admiral's despatches giving an account of his new discoveries, and that Fiesco was to return in a vessel to take him and his companions off from Jamacia.

Meantime, two brothers, Porras by name, the eldest of whom was a captain of one of the caravels, had concocted a vile plot to seize Columbus, capture the largest Indian canoes to be found, and go on in them to Hispaniola.

The Admiral was in his cabin, confined to his bed by gout, when, on the 2nd of January, 1504, Francisco de Porras entered, and, uttering bitter complaints, accused him of having no intention of returning to Spain.

Columbus maintained his calmness, and suggested that the officers should meet together, and decide what measures should be pursued. Porras, however, replied that there was no time for further consultations, and told the Admiral that he must either embark, or remain by himself. He then shouted, "I am for Castile! Those who choose may follow me!"

"I will follow you, and I, and I!" answered the crew, brandishing their weapons.

Columbus leapt from his bed, but fell. A few of his faithful adherents gathered round him, while the Adelantado sallied forth, lance in hand, to take the whole brunt of the assault. Columbus entreated that no blood might be shed, and told the mutineers that they might depart peaceably.

Hearing this, they at once prepared for embarking in ten canoes, which had been purchased of the Indians. Many who had not taken part in the mutiny joined the deserters, and the whole set off along the coast. As they proceeded they landed and committed outrages upon the Indians, robbing them of their provisions and whatever else they coveted. As they did so they told the Indians that Columbus would pay them, and advised them to kill him if he did not.

Reaching the eastern end of the island they put off, intending to stand across the gulf; but a heavy sea arose, and fearing that their light canoes would be swamped, they threw the helpless Indians, whom they had taken to paddle them, overboard. When some of the natives attempted to seize the gunwales and save themselves, the barbarians cut off their hands and stabbed them with their swords.

The deserters, on reaching land, took up their abode in an Indian village, the inhabitants of which they treated in their usual tyrannical manner. They then wandered from village to village, a dissolute gang, supporting themselves by robbery, and passing like a pestilence through the island.

Columbus, meantime, supported by conscious rectitude, devoted himself to relieving the sufferings of his sick companions who remained with him. The good faith with which he had ever acted towards the natives now produced a beneficial effect, and supplies of provisions were brought from time to time, which were scrupulously paid for. As, however, the trinkets lost their value, the supplies fell off, and at length entirely ceased. Every day the difficulty of procuring food increased, and when any was brought, a ten times higher price than formerly was asked for it. The atrocities committed by Porras and his party had produced an injurious effect on the minds of the natives, even against the Admiral, and they hoped that, by withholding provisions, either to starve him and his people, or to drive them from the island.

At this juncture Columbus ascertained that there would be a total eclipse of the moon in the early part of the night, and he, in consequence, conceived a device, which, according to the erroneous notions of those days, he probably considered a pious and excusable fraud. To make the natives believe in his superior powers, he invited the principal cacique and his followers to a conference, when he told them that the white men worshipped a great divinity, who would be displeased if his votaries were allowed to starve; and, lest they should despise his warning, the moon would be ordered to change its colour and gradually lose its light that very night. Many of the Indians were alarmed, others treated the prediction with derision.

When, however, they saw a dark shadow steal over the moon, seized with terror, they hurried to the ships, and entreated Columbus to intercede for them. He promised to do so, and, retiring to his cabin, waited until he saw that the eclipse was about to diminish, when, coming forth, he assured them that they would be pardoned, provided they fulfilled their promise, in sign of which he would withdraw the darkness from the moon.

The Indians once more seeing the planet shining brightly? came with all reverence to Columbus to propitiate him with gifts, and from that time forward there was no lack of provisions.

Many months went by, and at length more of his followers became desperate, and another conspiracy was formed by an apothecary Bernado, who, with two confederates, designed seizing the remaining canoes, and making their way to Hispaniola.

The mutiny was on the point of breaking out, when, just eight months after the arrival of the two shattered barks in the harbour, a vessel was seen in the offing. She stood in and a boat approached, in which was Diego de Escobar, a wretch who had been condemned to death by Columbus and pardoned by Bobadilla.

Putting a letter on board for the Admiral from Ovando, he then withdrew to a distance, and shouted out that he had been sent by the Governor to express his concern for the sufferings of Columbus, and his regret that he had no vessel of sufficient size to bring him off, but would send one as soon as possible.

This was the first intimation that Columbus had received of the safe voyage of Mendez and Fiesco. In writing an answer to Ovando, he vividly depicted the dangers of his situation, and recommended Mendez and Fiesco to his favour, assuring him that they were only sent to apply for succour. Escobar receiving the letter, returned on board, and making all sail, was soon lost to sight.

Columbus well knew that jealousy was the cause of Ovando's cruel conduct, and that he had sent Escobar as one who would have no sympathy with his sufferings. Diego Mendez and his companions had nearly perished on their voyage across the channel, but he had at length reached the western end of Hispaniola, from whence he set off to coast in his canoe one hundred and thirty leagues to San Domingo. After proceeding eighty leagues against adverse currents and in danger from hostile tribes, he was informed on landing that the Governor was at Xaragua, fifty leagues away.

Undaunted by difficulties, he proceeded on foot through forests and over mountains, until he arrived at Xaragua, having achieved one of the most perilous expeditions ever undertaken by a devoted follower for the safety of his commander.

Ovando received him kindly, but kept him seven months under various pretexts, until he at length had permission to go to San Domingo, where he hoped to purchase a vessel to go to the rescue of his beloved commander.

When left in doubt, after the appearance of Escobar, as to whether assistance would really be sent, Columbus endeavoured by kind measures to win back Porras and his rebel crew to their allegiance.

Porras, however, who had formed a plan to attack and plunder the stranded caravels and make the Admiral prisoner, persuaded his men to hold out. On this the sturdy Adelantado resolved to try the effect of force, and taking with him fifty followers, he set out for the camp of the traitor.

On approaching he sent two messengers, who had before accepted the offer of pardon, to treat with Porras; but he would not permit them to approach, and he and his men, brandishing their weapons, defied the Adelantado, six of them vowing that they would put him to death. Two of the strongest of their number, however, quickly fell beneath his flashing sword; and many others lay killed or wounded, when Porras, rushing forward, struck at the Adelantado's shield, in which his sword remained fixed. Before he could withdraw it, several of the Adelantado's party closing on him, made him prisoner. His followers, seeing this, fled, and Don Bartholomew returned in triumph with his prisoner to the Admiral.

Next day the fugitives sent a petition, couched in abject terms, for pardon, swearing that they would for ever afterwards remain faithful.

At length, after a year of alternate hope and despondency, the Spaniards saw two vessels approaching the harbour. One had been fitted out by Diego Mendez, and the other was sent by Ovando, placed under the command of Salcedo, the Admiral's agent at San Domingo.

Joy filled the hearts of the exiles as they approached. Columbus nobly forgave the rebels, and all were received on board, Porras alone being still kept a prisoner, while the Indians wept when they beheld the departure of their guests, having experienced nothing but just and gentle treatment from Columbus.

The vessel set sail on the 28th of June for San Domingo. Adverse winds and currents still opposed his progress, and it was not until the 3rd of August that Columbus reached the little island of Beata, on the coast of Hispaniola, and not, in consequence of the same cause, until the 13th that he anchored in the harbour of San Domingo. Here a strong reaction in his favour took place, and many of those who had jeered as he was led away a prisoner in chains, now came forward to welcome him with every mark of respect. He was lodged in the house of Ovando, who, however, set at liberty the traitor Porras, and even talked of punishing the Admiral's followers for having, in the fray at Jamaica, killed several of the mutineers.

Columbus had much cause for grief when he saw the desolation brought upon the island by the cruel treatment of the natives, and heard of the horrible massacres which had been perpetrated by Ovando and his agents. He was eager to depart, and as soon as the vessels which had brought him from Jamaica could be repaired, he put one under charge of the Adelantado, while he, with his son and domestics, embarked on board the other.

Most of his late crew remained at San Domingo, and even the most violent of the rebels were helped from his purse. Scarcely had he left the harbour than the mast of his vessel was carried away; so sending her back, he embarked on board that commanded by the Adelantado.

The caravel continued her voyage, sorely buffeted by storms, during which one of her masts was sprung, he all the time lying prostrated by sickness in his cabin. It was not until the end of several weeks that the tempest-tossed barks anchored, on the 7th of November, in the harbour of San Lucar.

Thus ended the last voyage undertaken by the great navigator. From San Lucar he was conveyed to Seville, where he hoped to obtain rest after all his toils; but on arriving there he found his affairs in confusion, as they had been ever since his property had been seized by Bobadilla. His great anxiety was to get to Court to defend himself from the malignant accusations of his enemies; but his patroness, the magnanimous Isabella, fell ill and died. Ferdinand, though he treated him with respect, made constant excuses for not attending to his requests.

At length King Philip with Juana arrived from Flanders to take possession of their throne of Castile, and the Admiral, trusting that in the daughter of Isabella he would once more find a patroness, being too ill to leave his bed, sent his brother the Adelantado to petition for the restoration of his honours and estates.

It was the last time he was to see his gallant brother. Before the return of Don Bartholomew, feeling his end approaching, leaving his eldest son Don Diego his heir, he made his dying bequests in the presence of his faithful followers, Mendez and Fiesco, and on the 20th of May, 1506, at the age of seventy years, he yielded up his dauntless spirit to his Maker.



Chapter Nine.

Voyage Of Vasco Da Gama, To Find A Way To India By Sea, And To Discover The Kingdom Of Prester John -- A.D. 1497.

Early voyages of Portuguese to coast of Africa -- Prince Henry of Portugal -- Cape Bojador discovered -- Madeira visited by Gonzales -- Dom Joao the Second -- Bartholomew Diaz discovers Cape of Storms, called by the King Cape of Good Hope -- Envoys sent to Prester John -- King Manuel fits out a squadron -- Appoints Vasco da Gama to command them -- Paulo da Gama --  Nicholas Coelho -- Grand ceremony at leave-taking -- Squadron sails -- Meet at Cape de Verde Islands -- Enter a bay on African coast -- Intercourse with natives -- Veloso nearly caught by them -- Ships stand off the land -- Terror of the crews -- Wish to return -- Da Gama refuses -- The Cape of Good Hope doubled -- Ships stand along south coast of Africa -- No natives seen -- A tremendous gale -- Clamours to return -- Mutiny suppressed by a device of Coelho's -- Da Gama puts his pilots in irons.

Nearly a century before Vasco da Gama sailed on his renowned voyage, a spirit of discovery had been aroused in the breasts of the rulers of Portugal. Prince Enrique, who had accompanied his father, King Joao, on an expedition against Cueta in Africa, had obtained from several Moors much information concerning the coasts of that dark continent, which had fired his ambition to ascertain more about it. Hitherto Europeans had not ventured beyond the Cape, to which was given the name of Cabo Nao, signifying in Portuguese, No, or in other words, This cape is not to be passed.

Prince Enrique, believing this idea to be a bugbear, fitted out two vessels in A.D. 1417, with orders to their commanders to push beyond the dreaded cape. This they succeeded in doing; but on finding the sea breaking furiously on another cape farther to the south, to which they gave the name of Bojador, they also turned back.

The next year the Prince sent a second expedition under Joao Gonzales. Being driven off the African coast by a gale, the ships put into the harbour of Porto Santo in a small island a little to the northward of Madeira, and then returned home. The Prince, on hearing of this, dispatched a ship carrying some colonists provided with agricultural instruments, plants, and seeds, as well as cattle and other animals. Among the latter were a couple of rabbits, which increased so prodigiously, that the corn and plants of all descriptions were destroyed by them, and as they could not be got rid of, it became necessary to remove the human inhabitants.

The next year, by order of the Prince, Gonzales, again sailing, re-discovered the island of Madeira, at which the Englishman, Lionel Machin, with the hapless Arabella Darcy, two centuries before, had landed and died. The Portuguese gave to it the name of Madeira, which means Wood, in consequence of finding it overgrown with trees. To clear a part for settlement they set the wood on fire, but being of a dry character, the trees burned until the whole were destroyed.

Several years passed, when Prince Enrique dispatched an experienced seaman, Captain Gilianez, charging him to pass the dreaded Cape of Bojador. Gilianez proceeded thirty leagues beyond it, but dreaded to go farther. He turned back, therefore, satisfied at having performed his commission. Next year he proceeded another twelve leagues to the south, to a part of the coast where a number of sea-wolves, or rather seals, were taken.

Thus, year by year, expeditions were sent out, each gaining, step by step, a knowledge of the African coast, until in the reign of Dom Joao the Second, in 1486, Bartholomew Diaz sailed with three ships, resolved to proceed farther than any of his predecessors. Touching at several places on the coast, he at length reached an until then unknown cape, to which he gave the name of Il Cabo Tormentoso, or the Cape of Storms, on account of the furious gales and heavy seas he there encountered.

The seamen, frightened by the weather, and believing that Nature had set a barrier against their further progress, insisted on returning, although Diaz was convinced that he had reached the southern end of the continent. On the arrival of Diaz at Lisbon, the King, delighted with his discovery, gave to the cape the name of Cabo de Boa Esperanza, or Cape of Good Hope. Dom Joao had in the meantime dispatched overland two envoys with directions to visit the kingdom of Prester John, and was preparing to send out an expedition by sea, when death put a stop to his projects.

His successor, Dom Manoel, resolved, however, to carry them out, but before doing so he set to work to obtain all the information in his power. On consulting a Jewish astronomer, Zacato, he learned the cause of the ill success many of the expeditions had met with. He could not understand why some of his captains had in certain latitudes encountered storms, while others had passed through them in fine weather. The Jew suggested that as the ocean is very large, in some parts it is summer and in others winter, and that his ships following the same course, some might arrive in a region where winter prevails and meet with storms, and when the other reaches the same latitude it may be summer, and perfectly fine weather be enjoyed. Thus, he continued, when navigators have obtained more experience, they will know when to sail so as to obtain summer during the whole of the voyage, and will then be able to come from and go to the Cape of Good Hope without difficulty.

Notwithstanding the valuable information the astronomer Zacato had given the King, he was compelled, with other Jews, to fly from Portugal, on account of the persecution to which they were subjected. The King, Dom Manoel, at once gave orders for the completion of the ships which Dom Joao had commenced, and directed that they should be as strong and serviceable as possible. The sailors who had gone on a previous expedition were collected, and the ships were supplied with double the usual amount of sails and tackling, as well as with artillery, munitions, and provisions, including all sorts of fruits, especially preserves, for the use of the sick, nor were priests for confession forgotten.

Rich merchandise, and gold and silver articles, goblets, swords and daggers, shields and spears, all highly ornamented, fit to present to the rulers of the countries to be visited, were also collected. All the slaves to be found, who could speak Eastern languages, were purchased, that they might act as interpreters. The King having made these preparations, had next to fix on a leader for the expedition. Among the cavaliers who attended his Court was one who had already seen much service at sea, Vasco da Gama, a man of noble lineage, son of Estevan da Gama, formerly Comptroller of the Household of King Dom Alfonso. The King, summoning Vasco into his presence, offered him the command of the squadron he proposed sending out to discover a way to the East Indies by sea.

The cavalier at once gladly accepted the honourable charge, saying at the same time that he had an elder brother, named Paulo da Gama, whom he requested the King to appoint as Captain-Major to carry the royal standard. The King, pleased with his modesty, and satisfied that he was a man especially fitted for the undertaking, granted him his request, but desired that he himself should carry out all the arrangements for the expedition.

Paulo, in consequence of a quarrel with the chief magistrate of Lisbon, had been compelled to quit the city. He was summoned back, and a free pardon granted him. The two brothers having selected a particular friend, Nicholas Coelho, to command one of the ships, the three, without loss of time, set to work to prepare them for the voyage. They were named respectively the Saint Miguel, the Saint Gabriel, and Saint Raphael. The crews were at once directed to learn the arts of carpenters, rope-makers, caulkers, blacksmiths, and plank-makers, receiving additional pay as an encouragement, while they were furnished with all the tools necessary for their crafts. Da Gama also selected the most experienced masters and pilots, who now, instead of being guided by their charts, would have to depend upon their own sagacity, their compasses, and lead-lines, for running down strange coasts and entering hitherto unknown harbours. To save the officers and trained seamen as much as possible from risking their lives, da Gama begged the King to order six men who had been condemned to death to be put on board each ship, that they might be sent ashore in dangerous regions, or left in certain places, to acquire a knowledge of the language and habits of the people. These cut-throat gentlemen were, as may be supposed, afterwards a source of no small trouble and anxiety to the commanders of the ships.

The preparations for the voyage being completed, the King and Queen, with their Court and many of the nobles of the land, assembled in the cathedral of Lisbon, to hear Mass, and bid farewell to the gallant explorers. The three captains, richly dressed, advanced to the curtain behind which the Royal Family had sat during the service, and dropping on their knees, kissed their sovereign's hand, and expressed their readiness to expend their lives in the important undertaking with which he had entrusted them. They then, mounting their horses, and accompanied by numerous nobles and gentlemen, as well as by a procession of priests and monks, with tapers in their hands, chanting a litany, to which a great concourse of people uttered responses, rode down to the harbour. The King went with them in his barge as they joined their several ships, bestowing on them his blessing, and earnestly praying that they might enjoy a prosperous voyage and return home in safety. Vasco da Gama embarked in the Saint Raphael, Paulo in the Saint Gabriel, and Nicholas Coelho in the Saint Miguel. The ships were all of the same size, measuring about one hundred and twenty tons, and each carried about eighty persons, officers and men. They were accompanied by a store ship of two hundred tons, under the command of Gonzalo Nunez, which was to continue with them only a part of the way, and to supply them with provisions and stores. It was on Saturday, the 8th of July, 1497, the anchors being weighed and the sails loosed, that Vasco da Gama proceeded down the Tagus on his memorable voyage.

He first steered so as to reach the Cape de Verde Islands, where he had ordered the ships to rendezvous in case of separation.

Having sighted the African coast, they again stood out to the westward, meeting with a heavy gale, against which they had to beat for several days, until the crews were almost worn out, and the ships received no little damage. Being separated, as it was expected would be the case, they all steered for the Cape de Verde, where Paulo da Gama, Coelho, Diaz, and Nunez rejoined one another, but the Captain-Major had not arrived.

At length his ship made her appearance, when, to show their joy, they saluted him with salvoes from their artillery, for fears had been entertained that he was lost.

Having taken in water and repaired the damaged spars and rigging, they again sailed. Here Diaz parted from his friends to proceed on his separate voyage.

After battling with wind and waves for five months, they entered a bay to which the name of Saint Elena was given. Here they set up an astrolabe of wood three spans in diameter, which they mounted on as many poles in the manner of shears, to ascertain the sun's altitude.

While Vasco da Gama was thus employed with his pilots, he observed behind a hill two negroes, apparently gathering herbs. He immediately ordered his people to surround them, which they did, one being caught.

As the poor captive was too frightened to understand the signs made, the Captain-Major sent for two negro boys from his ship, and made them sit by him and eat and drink, to banish his fears. At length the negro appeared to have overcome his alarm, on which da Gama induced him to point out by signs where his people were to be found. Having given him a cap and some beads and bells, the Captain-Major ordered him to be set at liberty, making signs to him to return to his companions and tell them that if they would come they would receive similar articles.

The negro, fully comprehending what was desired, set off, and returned with a dozen men, to whom various presents were made. They appeared, however, not to value articles of gold and silver and spices. The next day upwards of forty more came, and were so familiar, that a man-at-arms named Fernando Veloso begged permission to accompany them, and obtain more information about their country. While he was gone, Coelho remained on shore to look after the crews, who were collecting wood and catching lobsters, while da Gama, not to be idle, went in chase of some young whales. Having speared a whale, the rope being made fast to the bow of the boat, the animal in its struggles nearly upset her, but fortunately running into shallow water, offered no further resistance.

As it was getting late in the day, the boats were about to return to the ships, when, just as they were shoving off, Vasco da Gama saw Fernando Veloso, who was somewhat of a braggadocio, coming rapidly down the hill, looking every now and then behind him. On this the Captain-Major directed Coelho, whose boat was nearest, to pull in and take him off. The sailors, however, for the sake of frightening Fernando, rowed on slowly.

Before he reached the beach two negroes sprang out and seized him, when, as matters were becoming serious, some sailors leaping on shore struck right and left at Fernando's assailants in a way which brought blood from their noses. Perceiving how their companions were being treated, a number of other negroes rushed out, very nearly catching the boaster, and began throwing stones and shooting arrows at Coelho's boat. Fearing that matters might grow serious, Vasco da Gama rowed in to try and pacify the natives; but before he could do so he received an arrow through his leg, and the master of the Saint Gabriel and two seamen were also wounded.

Finding that nothing could induce the natives to be friendly, and Veloso, having been rescued, Vasco da Gama ordered the boats to return to the ship, and then sent back a party of crossbow-men to chastise the savages.

No information about the cape or the people had been gained, for Fernando could only describe the dangers he had encountered. Accordingly, the anchors were weighed and the squadron stood out to sea. The wind, however, blew hard from the southward, while tremendous waves rose up, threatening destruction to the vessels, and, as they could only sail on a bowline, they continued for many days standing off land. They then tacked and stood back, when once more they put about close hauled, so that they at length reached a far southern latitude. The heavy sea still running and the wind blowing harder than ever, the crews suffered greatly; still the Captain-Major insisted on continuing his course. Once more tacking and making the land, the masters and pilots became much alarmed from seeing it extending away to the west, and they declared that it went across the sea, and had no end to it.

Vasco da Gama, on hearing of their complaints, assured them that the cape was near, and that by making another tack on their return they would find that they had doubled it. He accordingly ordered the ships to be put about, doing his utmost to raise the sinking courage of his companions.

On the ships sailed, day after day, in spite of the heavy winds and seas. He himself took no repose, sharing the hardships his men were enduring, never failing to come on deck, as they did, at the sound of the boatswain's pipe. The terrified and disheartened crews of the several ships clamoured loudly to return to Portugal, but their captains told them that they had resolved to follow the fortunes of their leader.

At length the pilots and masters entreated Vasco da Gama to tack back again, on the plea that the days were short, the nights long, and the vessels leaky, while the wind blew strongly, and cold rain and sleet came beating in their faces. He accordingly ordered the ships to be put about, declaring at the same time, should he find that they had not weathered the cape, he should again tack, as he would never turn back until he had accomplished his object.

The weather now happily began to moderate, and the crews believing that they were approaching the land, their spirits rose. Vasco da Gama's wish was to keep close hauled; but at night, when he was asleep, the pilot kept away, hoping thus to ease the ship and more quickly to get sight of land. As the admiral carried a huge lantern at the poop, the others followed, each showing a light one to another.

Finding that they did not make the land, they were convinced that their great object was accomplished -- the dreaded Cape of Storms, now joyfully called the Cape of Good Hope, doubled. So it was, and Vasco da Gama had established for himself a name imperishable on the page of history. With great joy, they praised God for delivering them from the dangers to which they had been exposed.

Sailing free, with all canvas spread, they one morning sighted a range of lofty mountains, their peaks touching the clouds, at which, falling on their knees, they returned thanks to Heaven. Though they ran on all day, they were yet unable to reach the land till the evening. At night they continued along the coast, which here trended from west to east. During the night they sailed on under single canvas to the eastward. They passed several large bays and rivers, from which fresh water came forth with powerful currents. They also found many fish, which they killed with spears.

A bright look-out was kept in the fore-top for shoals which might be ahead, while the pilots hove the lead, but found no bottom. At night they stood off shore under easy sail.

Thus for three days they ran on, until they discovered the mouth of a large river, when, shortening sail, they entered it, a boat going before and sounding. At length they came to an anchor. Here they found good fishing, but no beach was to be seen, rocks and crags forming the shore.

Vasco da Gama and Coelho then went on board Paulo's ship, where the three captains dined together, and talked cheerfully over the dangers they had encountered and their prospects for the future. The Captain-Major next day sent Coelho up the river in a boat; but after proceeding twenty leagues, finding no inhabitants, he returned, when the ships got up their anchors, and, aided by the current, the boats towing, they sailed once more into the open ocean.

They now continued their course along the land, entering several other great rivers and bays, but meeting with no one on shore nor any boats at sea, and keeping all the time a good look-out so as not to run on the rocks or on shoals. As the country appeared to be unpeopled, the Captain-Major determined to enter no more rivers. All day long they ran on in sight of the shore in the hope of at length seeing some towns and villages, and at night they stood away to sea, shortening sail.

After being becalmed for some time, another heavy gale arose, and, fearful of being driven on shore, they again stood off land. When they had got, as they supposed, far enough out, they sent down the loftier spars, secured the lower masts and yards with additional stays, and, with all canvas furled except their foresails, prepared to weather the storm. On finding the fierce wind which began to blow, the pilot and master urged the Captain-Major, for fear the ships should founder, to run back along the coast and enter the river which they had before discovered; but he replied that he would not allow such words to be spoken, for, as he was going over the bar at Lisbon, he had sworn not to turn back a single foot of the way he had once gained, and whoever should dare to counsel such a proceeding should be hove overboard.

Notwithstanding that the tempest increased he remained firm. The gale now blew from one quarter, now from another. At times the wind fell, but the sea continued tossing about with such power that the ships, labouring severely, were in great danger, now lurching on one side, now on another; while the men had to secure themselves from being washed overboard or dashed along the decks. As yet things had not grown to their worst. It became difficult even to work the pumps, while the water came in both from above and below, and many of the crew sank and died. Again the pilots and masters of the other vessels urged their captains to put back; but they received the same answer as before, that as long as Vasco da Gama set the example they could not accede to their request, while he declared that even should he see a hundred die before his eyes, return he would not, for that by so doing they would lose all their labours. He reminded them that having already doubled the Cape of Storms, they were in that region in which India was to be discovered. "Trust in God, He will deliver us," he added.

Notwithstanding the brave words of their leader, the seamen continued to clamour; but even though the sea began to go down and the wind to abate, and the ships were able to get nearer each other, the crews with loud cries insisted that they should seek for some harbour where they might be repaired.

On this Vasco da Gama again swore by the life of the King, that from that spot he would not turn back a span's breadth until they had obtained the information they had come to seek. The sailors shouted that they were many, and that they feared death, though their captain took no account of it. Vasco da Gama replied that he took the same account of death as any of them, but that they had heard his resolution, and he intended to keep to it.

At this juncture a furious blast struck the ships, the sea again getting up in such a way that they were frequently hidden from the sight of each other, and could only be perceived as they rose to the top of a sea before again falling into the trough.

Lights were hung out so that they might keep together, for the Captain-Major had been warned before sailing of the danger of separating, and his friends and relatives on board the other ships were ever on the watch to prevent such a catastrophe.

Mutiny was nearly breaking out on board the ship of Nicholas Coelho; but he was warned by a young boy who had overheard the discussions of the malcontents, and he therefore took all the means in his power to defeat their objects. Passing near the Captain's ship, the brave Coelho warned him in language which the mutineers could not understand of their intentions, and at the same time told him that it would be as well to put about, since they had determined on doing so.

Vasco da Gama immediately comprehended the meaning of Coelho's words, and replied, so that those on board his own ship might hear, that he could not withstand the tears and lamentations of his people, nor did he wish to have to give an account to God of their lives, and that he had begged them to labour on for their own safety; observing that should the weather again become bad, he would put back, but that to exculpate himself with the King, he should draw up a document explaining his reasons for returning, and should require them to put their signatures to it.

On going to his cabin he desired his secretary to draw up the paper, and then ordered three of the seamen who were the most clamourous to come in and sign it. Immediately they did so they were seized and put in irons, and the master and pilots were treated in the same manner. He then returned on deck, and addressing his crew, told them that they had no longer a master or pilot, that he himself would take charge of the ship and direct her course aright.

Still further to convince his crew that he did not depend on the master or pilots, he ordered their nautical instruments to be brought to him, when, taking them in his hands, he threw them one by one into the sea, exclaiming as he did so, "I need no other pilot save God, and will from henceforth direct the course of our ships."

On hearing this the crew were still more afraid, and entreated him not to put the prisoners to death.

To this Vasco da Gama consented, saying that he did so in consequence of their entreaties; and to prove that he did not require the services of those officers, he ordered them to remain in their cabins, still in irons, and forbade them to give any instructions for the navigation of the ship, except for the trimming of the sails. He then, running alongside the other ships, told their crews that he had put his master and pilots in irons, and promised that he would conduct them back in safety.

Nicholas Coelho, on hearing this, was rejoiced, but feigning sorrow, told his ship's company that he regretted what had happened, and that he would entreat the Captain-Major, when the ships next met, to liberate the prisoners.

Paulo da Gama spoke in the same way, and with much urbanity, to his people, also promising to intercede for the prisoners. Thus, the crews being tranquillised, they promised to obey the orders of their superiors.



Chapter Ten.

Voyage Of Vasco Da Gama, Continued -- A.D. 1498.

The squadron sails along the coast on Christmas Day -- That part is named Natal -- Reaches the "River of Mercy" -- Careen ships -- The Saint Miguel broken up -- Coelho ascends the river -- Meets natives, who come on board -- A column erected -- A native vessel sighted -- Chase another -- Davane, a Moorish broker, captured -- Offers to conduct them to Cambay -- A zambuk taken -- Davane engaged in the service of the Portuguese -- Squadron enters harbour of Mozambique -- The sheikh visits the Saint Raphael -- Promises to send pilots -- His intended treachery -- Machado left on shore -- Voyage along coast continued -- The pilots plot to wreck the ships -- Anchor off Mombas -- Two convicts sent on shore -- Narrow escape of the Saint Raphael -- A zambuk taken, with her owner and his wife -- Melonda reached --  Friendly reception by the King of Nicholas -- Coelho visits him -- The captains pay him a visit in great state -- The King comes on board the Saint Raphael -- Pleasant intercourse with the people.

At length, the wind moderating and there being a great want of water, in consequence of the casks having broken or become leaky, Vasco da Gama stood close in for the land, to look for some harbour into which he might run to repair the ships, as well as to obtain a supply of that great necessary of life.

The end of the year 1497 was approaching, and at Christmas, called by the Portuguese Natal, the squadron passed that part of the coast, to which they in consequence gave the name it has since retained. At length, at early dawn, they came off the mouth of a large river, into which the Captain-Major led the ships, and dropping their anchors, the crews exclaimed "The mercy of the Lord!" for which reason the name of the "River of Mercy" was bestowed on it.

Paulo, coming on board his brother's ship, entreated that the prisoners might be set at liberty. The Captain-Major consented on condition that if God should bring them back to Lisbon, they would agree again to be put in chains, and be thus presented to the King to receive his pardon.

The crews then proceeded to careen their ships, but on examining the Saint Miguel, commanded by Nicholas Coelho, she was found to be so severely damaged, many of her ribs and knees being broken, that she could not be repaired. It was therefore decided to break her up, and to make use of her masts, timbers, and planks in repairing the others.

They now set to work on the Captain-Major's ship, first discharging all the lighter stores into that of Paulo, when everything heavy below decks was placed on one side, which caused her to heel over, and with the aid of a tackle fixed to the mainmast, they canted her so much that her keel was laid bare. Stages being formed, the crew got on them, some cleaning the planks from the growth of seaweed, some extracting the caulking which was rotten, when the caulkers put in fresh oakum, and pitched it over. The officers took upon themselves the task of supplying the men with food and drink while they were at work, and so much dispatch was used that in one day and night they had finished one side. They then turned her over, and performed the same work on the other.

The Saint Raphael being once more loaded, Paulo's ship was next repaired and strengthened with additional knees and ribs and inner planking. The stores of the Saint Miguel being divided between the two ships, the Captain-Major received Coelho on board his own. They then, having taken all the planking and timber they required from the Saint Miguel, set her on fire, that the nails might be secured. This important work being accomplished, Nicholas Coelho was sent with twenty men up the river. After ascending it for two leagues he found the banks covered with woods, and discovered some canoes fishing. The men on board them were dark, but not very black, being almost naked, with the exception of a kilt of leaves round their middles. Without the slightest hesitation they entered the boat, and several canoes followed her as she returned to the ship, while some of the natives ran back to take the news to their villages.

The people came on board without showing the slightest fear, and on biscuits, with slices of bread and marmalade, being given them, they did not seem to understand that the food was to be eaten until they saw the Portuguese eat, when they devoured it eagerly. Meantime, a number of other canoes came alongside. The people were so numerous that the Captain-Major would not allow more than a dozen or so to come on board at a time. The first who had been entertained went down the side very unwillingly. They brought some birds resembling hens, and a yellow fruit, which had the appearance of walnuts. The latter the Portuguese would not touch until they saw the natives eat them, when, following their example, they were much pleased with the taste. Biscuits and wine were then offered to the savages, but they would not touch the latter until they saw the Portuguese drink.

The Captain-Major then gave them a looking-glass. When they saw it they were much amused, and as they gazed into the mirror, they laughed heartily and made jokes, telling their companions in the canoes. On being allowed to carry it away, they were highly delighted, and left six of the birds and much of the fruit.

In the afternoon they returned, bringing a quantity of the birds, which they willingly exchanged for pieces of shirts, which the seamen cut up to give them, or for any trifles.

The birds, when killed and dried in the sun, kept well. A mass of stone being found at the entrance of the river, a hole was made in it, into which a marble pillar was fixed, six of which having been brought out for the purpose of being thus erected. On the base of each pillar were two escutcheons, one the arms of Portugal, and on the opposite side a representation of the globe, together with an inscription, "Of the Lordship of Portugal, Kingdom of Christians."

Vasco da Gama, pleased with the diligence shown by his officers and men, called them together, entreating them to be of good courage, and not to allow the thoughts of treason -- so hateful to God -- to enter their hearts; and, being aware that it was from faint-heartedness that they had given way before, he forgave them. He pictured to them the joy they would feel when, on their return to Portugal, he would present them to the King, and describe their dangers and labours.

With tears of joy they exclaimed, "May the Lord, in His great mercy, so will it!" Returning to their ships, the anchors were weighed, and, with a fair breeze, on the 24th of February, 1498, they sailed out of the river.

After running along the coast for some distance, they sighted a sail, which, on observing, they stood out to sea; but it was lost sight of during the night. Proceeding on, when close to land they arrived off a large creek, near the mouth of which they saw a zambuk at anchor. On this Vasco da Gama ordered the ships to heave to, and sent a boat in chase of a canoe which was seen leaving the zambuk, carrying her crew, who were trying to escape, on shore. She was soon overtaken, when the six blacks who were on board her threw themselves into the sea. One Moor alone remained on board, he being unable to swim. He wore on his head a round skull-cap, made of silk of various colours, sewn with gold thread, and small rings in his ears. His shirt was of white stuff, and a girdle of coloured cloth was fastened round his waist.

The Portuguese, taking him into their boat, went to the zambuk; but she was empty, the Moor having been about to freight her with a cargo for a certain merchant, for whom he acted as agent.

Returning with their captain to the ship, the Portuguese were delighted at finding a man from whom they could obtain information about the country. They then set sail, and continued their course. The Moor was well entertained, and seemed perfectly contented with his lot. Great difficulty was, however, found in carrying on a conversation with him, as the only interpreter on board was an African slave, who spoke Arabic, of which the Moor understood but a few words. He made his captors comprehend, however, by signs, that farther on there were people who understood that language. Vasco da Gama offered him cakes of sugar, olives, and wine. He freely ate of everything, but would not touch the wine. The Captain-Major then presented him with a long robe, with which he appeared highly pleased, and examined with curiosity everything he saw. On showing him spices, he gave the Portuguese to understand that he could fill their ships with such things. He was, as it turned out, a broker, and being an intelligent man, with a keen eye to business, he at once determined to become the broker of the Portuguese, hoping to make a good profit by loading their ships. He offered to conduct them to Cambay, of which he was a native, and showed much satisfaction when they agreed to go there with him.

Sailing on, the ships came off the banks and shoals of Sofala, when the Moor, by signs, warned them to keep a look-out for danger ahead. Standing out to sea, the shoals were passed during the night. Shortly afterwards they sighted another sail ahead, when the Saint Raphael, edging out to sea to prevent her escape, quickly got up with her. The boat being sent alongside, two blacks -- cafres, as the Portuguese called them -- were brought on board the Saint Raphael. Immediately a boat was dispatched to Paulo da Gama's ship to bring a black, a native of Guinea, who sailed with him, that he might interpret. The blacks, though from opposite sides of the coast, perfectly understood each other, showing that at that period the language of Congo extended from the Atlantic to the Indian Ocean.

The zambuk was laden with pigeons' dung, and was bound for Cambay, where it is used in dyeing stuffs. The Captain-Major gave the blacks biscuit, salt fish, and wine, which they ate and drank with evident satisfaction, not refusing the wine as the Moor had done.

The vessel called a zambuk was probably the style of craft similar to the dhow of the present day, with a high stern, the bow sharp and low, and either perfectly open or partially decked over with light planking.

The Moor, Davane -- which he said was his name -- now informed the Captain-Major that farther on they should come to a place of large size, thickly peopled and with much trade, and that from thence he would conduct them to Cambay, where he would load the ships with full cargoes of drugs and spices, as it was a rich country, and the greatest kingdom in the world.

The Captain-Major replied that he considered himself fortunate in having met him, and swore that he would reward him richly for the work he performed. Davane then advised him to follow the zambuk, the crew of which, being acquainted with the navigation, would pilot the ships clear of all dangers. Six Portuguese sailors were therefore sent on board her, that no treacherous trick might be played, and the same number of blacks brought to the Saint Raphael.

Although the zambuk's sails were of matting, she made better way than either of the ships. After steering on for twenty days, they arrived towards the end of March, 1498, off Mozambique, and, piloted by the zambuk, entered the harbour, where they dropped anchor in a spot sheltered from the sea winds.

On the shore a large number of houses covered with thatch and many people were seen. The Portuguese sailors were now brought from the zambuk, and the blacks, rewarded with pieces of white stuff, were sent to their own vessel. The blacks having gone on shore and reported how well they had been treated, canoes came off from the beach with cocoa-nuts and hens. The Moor Davane, having received a present of a scarlet cap and a string of coral beads, was carried on shore by Nicolas Coelho, with directions to obtain fresh provisions and to learn where the ships could water.

Davane informed the Sheikh, who acted as governor for the King of the country, that the Portuguese were making a voyage to Cambay to obtain cargoes of pepper and drugs, and that they were, he understood, Christians. Not crediting the account, the Sheikh told the Moor that he intended to visit the ships himself. It was found that many Moors were settled in the country as merchants, carrying on an extensive commerce in silver, gold, ivory, and wax; indeed, that most of the kings and rulers of these countries were Moors and Mohammedans.

After some delay, the Sheikh came off to the Saint Raphael in a vessel composed of two canoes lashed together, upon which rested poles and blankets, forming a deck, which was canopied by mats affording shade.

The Sheikh was seated on a low round stool, covered with a silk cloth, with a cushion for his feet, while his attendant Moors were squatted round him. He was a well made, dark man, dressed in a jacket of velvet, and a blue cloth trimmed with braid and gold thread wrapped round him, his drawers being of white stuff, reaching down to the ankles. Round his waist he wore a silk sash, in which was stuck a silver-mounted dagger; and in his hand he carried a sword, also mounted with silver. He wore on his head a turban of many colours, with braid and fringes of gold thread wrapped round a dark-coloured skull-cap. His attendants were dressed in the same fashion. Some were fair, and others very dark, being the sons of black women and white Moorish merchants who had for a long time been established in the country. A couch covered with a carpet for the Moors to sit upon, and chairs being placed on the quarter-deck, the Captains in their richest costumes stood ready to receive the Sheikh as he arrived alongside. The trumpets then sounded, and the sailors assisted him to ascend on board.

The Sheikh, taking the right hand of Paulo de Gama, pressed it between both of his, and raised it to his breast. He then took his seat on one of the chairs in the middle, while his attendants occupied the bench. The Captains sat on either side of him. The Moor Davane, as interpreter, remained standing and ready to explain what was said.

The Sheikh looked round with astonishment at all he saw, and expressed his pleasure at the arrival of the strangers, inquiring of what country they were, and what they came for.

Vasco da Gama explained that they were from a far-off country, and servants of the greatest king of the Christians that existed in the world, who had sent out a vast fleet to seek for merchandise, but that they had been separated from their companions in a storm, and that they were unacquainted with the land to which they were going for cargoes.

The Sheikh inquired what they would do if they could not find the country. Vasco da Gama replied that they would sail about the sea until they died, because, should they return without bringing the merchandise they were in search of, their king would cut off their heads.

The Sheikh requested to be shown the sort of merchandise of which they were in search. The Captain-Major then exhibited some pepper, cinnamon, and ginger. The Sheikh, laughing to his own people, replied that he would send pilots who would conduct them to where they could fill their ships with as much as they required, and then asked what merchandise they had brought to purchase the articles they wanted. The Captain-Major replied that it was on board the other ships, but that they had gold and silver to pay for what they bought. The Sheikh observed that with gold and silver they could obtain all over the world whatever they required, and he then requested the Captain-Major to order the trumpets to sound, as he and his people much liked to hear them.

On taking his leave, he promised to send pilots who would faithfully serve his visitors. A handsome present was then offered to him, consisting of five ells of fine scarlet cloth, five of satin, two scarlet caps, four highly ornamented Flemish sheath-knives, and a mirror.

Davane was now sent on shore to bring off the pilots, who each received payment in advance, and he then went back to obtain provisions. The Sheikh took this opportunity of cross-questioning him, and learning the force and means of defence possessed by the two ships.

Believing that they were richly-laden, and that he could capture them, he forthwith laid a plan to effect his object.

Davane did not know the whole plan at the time, but suspecting that treachery of some sort was intended, on his return on board immediately warned Vasco da Gama, and advised him to be on his guard. The Sheikh soon after sent off requesting the Captain-Major and his officers to visit him, and offering to take charge of their sick. His plan was, as soon as the boats should go to the watering-place, to seize the crews, and then, having secured them and the chief officers, to sail out, with four Moorish vessels in the harbour, and attack the Portuguese ships.

When, therefore, a boat was sent on shore, by Davane's advice, two guns were placed in her, and a screen fitted which could be raised to shelter the crew from arrows. Nicolas Coelho went in command of her, with ten seamen and twelve men-at-arms with crossbows.

One of the Moorish pilots, who was taken in the boat to conduct her to the watering-place, instead of steering for it, during the whole night led her through numerous creeks, intending to run her ashore, as the tide was falling, when, had he succeeded, she and all on board would have become an easy prey to his treacherous countrymen.

Coelho, on discovering the design of the pilot, was on the point of killing him, when, just as the boat got into the bay at early morning, the traitor threw himself into the sea, and coming up again at a distance from the boat, swam rapidly for the shore. The Portuguese rowed after him, but he kept ahead, and as the boat approached the beach, a concourse of people came down, discharging flights of arrows and stones from slings at her. This being seen from the ships, Vasco da Gama declared that he would go at once and burn the Moorish vessels; but he was overruled by his brother, who represented that their men might thus be exposed to danger, and that though it would be easy to send the vessels to the bottom with their artillery, should they do so in a new country, they would be looked upon as pirates, and the help they required denied them.

In consequence it was resolved to send on shore a complaint to the Sheikh of the outrage; but Davane declined going, on the plea that he should very likely, if he did so, be killed. It was deemed prudent, therefore, to leave the place.

Soon after the anchors were got up, and the ships were under sail, a boat came off with a white flag, bearing a message from the Sheikh, who complained of the attempt made to kill his pilot, and of his visitors going away without any sufficient cause for their departure. He promised, should anyone have done them injury, to inflict summary justice on the offender.

On this the Captain-Major ordered one Joao Machado, a convict, who understood a little Arabic, to go on shore in the canoe, and explain to the Sheikh that they had been deceived by the pilot, and that when the Portuguese tried to catch him, his people had come out with arms in their hands to fight, and that it was on account of the want of sincerity in the Sheikh and his countrymen that the Portuguese were going away. It was intended that Joao Machado should remain in the country in older that on their return he should be able, should he live, to give them full information about the people.

While the Saint Raphael was hove to, she struck upon a shoal, and was with difficulty got off, in consequence of which it was afterwards named the Banks of Saint Raphael.

Vasco da Gama, irritated at being unable to punish the chief, put the pilot in irons to prevent his escape. The wind being contrary, the ships brought up off an island about a league from Mozambique, where the Admiral awaited the return of his messenger. Machado, however, did not come back, -- the Sheikh, being highly pleased at having it in his power to do so, kept him as a captive. He was also afraid that the people in the canoe would be seized and detained as hostages until the Portuguese prisoner had been returned.

It may be as well here to relate that Joao Machado, the first of his countrymen who ever resided in that part of the world, exchanged his condition much for the better. He quickly learned the language, and being honourably treated, ultimately was enabled to travel through many countries until he reached Cambay. From this place he went to others, the languages of which he acquired; and being a man of great intelligence and fine appearance, he gained the good-will of the Sheikh and his followers, and so raised himself that he was ultimately able greatly to benefit his fellow-countrymen.

There being no inhabitants on the islands, the crews landed, and Mass was performed by the two priests, the only survivors of six who had embarked. The crews also confessed and received the Sacrament, and a Mass was offered in praise of Vasco da Gama's patron Saint George.

The Captain-Major, who was a hot-tempered man, angry that the Sheikh had not further communicated with him, then took it into his head to send Nicolas Coelho back to Mozambique in a boat with cannon and well-armed men, to ask him for a pilot; and should he refuse to supply one, to fire at the Moorish vessels, and send them to the bottom.

In this, however, he was overruled by his brother Paulo. The wind becoming favourable, they proceeded on their voyage along the coast. The remaining pilot told them that he would conduct the ships to a great city named Quiloa, abounding in wealth, where he stated that numerous Christian traders resided. This he said with a treacherous design, intending, in revenge for having been put in irons, to deliver them into the hands of the people, hoping that they would all be killed.

Again Davane, who by this time could express himself very clearly in Portuguese, warned the Captain-Major of the pilot's treacherous plan.

The pilots and masters were therefore charged to be on the watch, Vasco da Gama threatening to put out the eyes of the pilot should the ship strike upon a shoal. Notwithstanding this, the pilot, even though he should die on the spot, had resolved to wreck the ships.

Sailing on, they came off Quiloa, where it was the intention of the pilot to carry out his design; but a contrary wind springing up, the ships were driven out to sea, and so, avoiding the danger, continued on along the coast until they reached Bombaza (Mombas), a large commercial city. Unable to enter the river, the ships came to an anchor outside the bar. The King of Mombas had already received a message from the Sheikh of Mozambique, saying that the Portuguese were Christians and robbers, and came as spies to the countries they visited. The King consequently, though resolved to destroy them, to throw them off their guard, treacherously sent a large boat laden with fowls, sheep, sugarcanes, citrons, and large sweet oranges, with an envoy inviting them to enter the harbour, and sending also two pilots to conduct them.

Excusing himself, Vasco da Gama sent two convicts, intelligent men, to see the city, and ascertain if there were any Christians residing there. The men were courteously received by the King, and conducted about the city by an old Moor, who took them to the house of two merchants, Abyssinian Christians, by whom they were courteously received. One of them was the next morning sent back by the King to give a favourable report of their treatment on shore, and to request the Captain-Major to enter without further delay.

On this, not believing any harm was intended, he ordered the anchor to be weighed; but on the sails being set, the ships missed stays and were being driven by a current towards a bank, when the anchors were let fall and the sails furled.

The holloaing and shouting raised by the Portuguese while performing these manoeuvres so frightened the pilots, that believing their treachery was discovered, they slipped overboard and swam to the shore.

One, however, was detained, and in order to make him confess, according to the cruel custom of the times, he was tortured by having boiling grease dropped on his body until he acknowledged that he and his companions had been commanded by the King to let the ships drift on the banks.

Returning thanks to Heaven for their miraculous preservation as it was considered, as soon as the tide turned, it being moonlight, the Captain-Major ordered the anchors to be weighed and the ships to stand out to sea. In weighing, however, one of the cables broke, and the anchor remained behind. One of the convicts afterwards reported that the King punished the pilots for running away.

Having left Mombas, they steered northward, along the coast as before, until they sighted two zambuks, one of which was captured. She had on board eighty men, and was laden with ivory. The captain had his wife on board, a very pretty woman, richly dressed, with four women to attend on her; he had besides a chest full of jewels and money.

The old Moorish captain, to whom the name of Dias was given, with his wife and her attendants, were brought on board the Saint Raphael, where they were treated so courteously by da Gama, that he completely won their hearts.

The crew of the zambuk were divided among the two ships, and ten Portuguese were put into her, with directions to touch nothing, and not to lose sight of the squadron.

In less than three days the squadron reached Melinda, situated on a plain close to the sea, and consisting of numerous fine buildings surrounded by walls. The ships dropped anchor among a number of vessels, all dressed out in flags, while flags were also exhibited on the walls, to show the pleasure the King of Melinda felt at their arrival.

Next morning a canoe came off, bringing a well-dressed personage, who said that the King desired to know what they wanted in his country, that he might send whatever they had need of from the city.

The Captain-Major replied that he required a good many things, but without the King's leave he would not enter the port.

The old Moor, Captain Dias, who had been taken out of the zambuk, now requested that he might be sent on shore, promising to bring back a report of whatever the King had to say. This being approved of, he was put into a skiff which was passing and conveyed on shore.

Captain Dias, on his arrival at the palace, informed the King that the Portuguese had escaped the snares laid for them at other places, that they had injured no one, and that he was directed to say that if leave was not given them to enter the port, they would sail away at once.

The King, evidently pleased with this, immediately dispatched a boat laden with refreshments of all sorts to the Captain-Major, requesting him to enter, sending a pilot at the same time to conduct in the ships. Vasco da Gama, however, thought it prudent before weighing anchor to dispatch Davane to ascertain the real temper of the King.

Davane accordingly went on shore in the boat which had brought the provisions, dressed in a red robe, so as to look as dignified as possible, and presented himself at the palace. After some conversation with the King, satisfied that his intentions were honest, he thanked his Majesty for the refreshments he had sent, and said the Captain-Major, accepting his invitation, would enter when the pilots thought fit.

Several persons of distinction came on board, among them the principal priest of the mosque, who was honourably received: preserves in a silver vase, and water with a napkin, being presented to him. The pilots having taken in the ships and anchored them in a secure place, they were decked out with flags. The crews then fired a salute with all their artillery, so that the very city shook. Several of the larger guns being discharged to seaward, the shots went skimming and ricochetting over the water, causing great amusement to the people collected on the beach, while the trumpets sounded and the men cheered.

When the priest was about to be sent on shore he informed the Captain-Major that he had been directed to remain there as a hostage until all arrangements were completed. On this the Captain-Major assured him that he required no hostages, as he was convinced of the good intentions of the King.

Soon after this the old Moor Dias, who had been captured in the zambuk, presented himself to the King, and entreated that he would make interest to have himself, his wife, and crew restored to liberty, observing that none of his property had been touched, nor had any harm been done them. The King accordingly sent a message to Vasco da Gama, who immediately directed Davane to take a boat and tow the zambuk, with the old Moor and all his property, to the city, and present them to the King.

When Captain Dias and the others heard this, they exclaimed, raising their hands to heaven, "May God reward you and all your company, and restore you to your country in health and safety!"

By this and other judicious measures, Vasco da Gama secured the friendship of the King. Nicolas Coelho was also sent on shore, richly dressed, accompanied by Davane, to pay a visit of ceremony to the King, who was highly pleased at seeing him, and bade him sit on the same carpet on which he himself was seated, a stool inlaid with ivory and worked with gold being placed for him.

The sagacious Coelho did not fail to impress the King with the great power and dignity of the sovereign of Portugal, whom he represented as the chief Christian monarch of the world. After the interview, Coelho was carried on board the Saint Raphael in the King's barge of state, richly adorned and gilt. The King also presented him with some fine coloured cloths, and with a ring having a blue stone set in it.

Everything the ships required was purchased on shore, and paid for with silver testoons, which went for double their worth. The honest Coelho's visit having been so successful, it was arranged that the King should have an interview with the two chief Captains. The day being fixed, they dressed themselves in their most splendid costumes, all the men they took with them being likewise handsomely clothed.

Each Captain went in his boat, seated on a chair covered with crimson velvet, with a carpet underneath, the sides of the boats being covered with rugs, on which the men sat. The boat, adorned with several flags, had also two swivel guns, and two cannoneers ready to discharge them.

A salute being fired as they left the ships, they proceeded side by side to the shore, where the King was waiting for them with his attendants, the people crowding the walls, the houses, and beach.

The King then came on board Vasco da Gama's boat, where a carpet had been spread and a chair placed for him to sit upon. The usual complimentary speeches having been exchanged, the Captains falling on their knees tried to kiss his hand, when the King made them rise, on which the crews of the boats shouted "Welcome, the Lord be praised!" The trumpets sounded and the great guns saluted as had been arranged. On hearing the trumpets the King seemed highly delighted.

The King having landed, the two brothers returned to their ships, and gave an account to Nicolas Coelho of what had passed.

The next day Vasco da Gama paid a visit to the King at his palace, where his Majesty made him sit down on a silk dais, and the same sort of compliments passed as before.

The chief drawback to the satisfaction of the voyagers was that, although furnished with a variety of provisions, they were unable to obtain flour, which was not produced in the country.

The King, that they might not be cheated, sent a crier over the city, ordering that nobody was to sell anything to the Portuguese for more than it was worth, and that, should the law be infringed, he would burn down the culprit's house.

The King now expressed his wish to visit the ships, and the Captain-Major having fixed a day, they were cleaned and ornamented with flags; the quarter-decks were covered with figured stuffs from Flanders, and carpets and rugs, lances with the points burnished, and naked swords and other weapons, with splendid breast-plates, on which were engraved the arms of the Captains, were hung up; while in the cabin was a sideboard covered with plate, all the attendants being splendidly dressed.

The Captain-Major, going on shore, received the King, who was accompanied to the ship by numberless boats, with flags flying, kettledrums and other musical instruments being played; but when the trumpets of the Portuguese sounded, all kept silence that they might be heard. The great guns of the ships fired salutes and the people shouted as the King, mounting the ladder, came on board, where the Captains, supporting him in their arms, with great courtesy placed him in a chair on the quarter-deck.

The King having sat some time, was conducted into the cabin, where a handsome table was spread with napkins, conserves, confectionery and preserved almonds which had been brought in glass bottles, oranges and cases of marmalade.

The King and his courtiers appeared to have been more pleased with the olives than anything else. They were presented with wine in gilt vessels, which they refused, but they drank water from silver cups and gilt glasses.

After the King had finished eating, Vasco da Gama took a richly gilt and chased hand-basin and ewer to match, and was about to pour water on the King's hands; but to this, out of courtesy, his Majesty would not consent. He, however, allowed one of his people to pour out the water, when he washed his hands and mouth, and dried them on a napkin embroidered with gold.

The Captain-Major then ordered the water to be emptied, and put the basin and ewer in their cases, and requested the King to accept them, saying that, as they had been employed in his service, it would be improper to allow anybody else to make use of them.

At this the King was highly pleased, declaring that no sovereign in India possessed such things. On returning to the shore, the King would not allow the Captains to leave their boats as he took leave of them. Vasco da Gama also sent the chair in which the King had sat as a present, greatly to his delight.

Thus was a firm friendship secured between the explorers and the natives, so that the former could go on shore without the slightest fear of receiving ill treatment.



Chapter Eleven.

Voyage Of Vasco Da Gama, Continued -- A.D. 1498.

Vessels fitted with tanks -- Native pilots agree to guide them to India --  Their advanced knowledge of navigation -- Another column erected -- A convict lad left with the King -- Farewells -- Ships sail -- Mortality -- Coast of India seen -- Anchor off Capocate -- Dark-skinned naked natives appear --  Da Gama's politic treatment of natives -- A Nair comes from the King of Calecut -- Da Gama fabricates a story to account for his visit -- The Moorish traders plot to destroy the Portuguese -- A Castilian comes on board -- Warns da Gama of the Moors' plot -- Nicolas Coelho sent on shore with rich presents for the King -- Tired by delays -- Coelho received by the King -- Arrangements made for trading -- Merchandise landed -- Damaged spices offered in return -- Received by the Portuguese -- The Castilian warns da Gama not to venture on shore without hostages -- Hostages sent off -- Vasco da Gama visits the King of Calecut -- Magnificent presents sent by the King.

The time for continuing the voyage having arrived, being the 15th of July, 1498, the King assisted his new friends in making all preparations for their departure. He sent on board two experienced pilots, the Mozambique pilot also agreeing to go with them. They had constructed tanks at the bottom of the ships, sewn together with coir thread and covered with pitch in such a way that they were more watertight than casks. Each ship had four of these tanks placed at the foot of the mainmast, containing thirty pipes of water.

Their pilots possessed nautical instruments greatly differing from their own, but equally useful; indeed, they were not much inferior in skill to the Portuguese navigators. To each of the pilots, in the presence of the King, Vasco da Gama gave fifty cruzadados to leave with their wives, with which the King was greatly pleased, and still more so when the Captain-Major judiciously presented him, in a handkerchief, with ten golden Portugueses. The King assured Vasco da Gama that the broker Davane would act honestly, and that as he was now fairly acquainted with the Portuguese language, he would be of the greatest benefit. He warned his friends, however, to be on their guard against the people of Calecut, who were noted for their want of faith, advising them not to trust themselves on shore without safe hostages. Like a true friend, he gave them much more faithful counsel. He had also prepared a banquet, at which they were sumptuously entertained, and he sent boats laden with food to the ships sufficient for both crews.

The last duty Vasco da Gama had to perform was to set up one of the marble pillars which he had brought. The King, on hearing of his intention, requested that it might be placed within the palace, but Vasco da Gama explained that the object was to let it be visible to all who entered the port, and it was accordingly placed on the summit of a hill near the city. It was similar to that they had erected at the mouth of the River of Mercy. The King sent stonemasons to assist in erecting it. When it was placed the crews of the ships landed and offered up prayers, when the trumpets sounded and a salute was fired from the ships.

The Captain-Major now presented the King with a convict ship-boy, saying he was left in order, should any Portuguese ships come to the country, that he might be able to describe the benefits and gifts the King had bestowed on his countrymen. Vasco da Gama requested also, should the boy wish to go to any other place, that he might be permitted to do so, as no one without a willing heart could serve well. The same day the pilots went on board the ships, one accompanying Paulo da Gama, and the other, as also the Mozambique pilot, Vasco da Gama.

The men had cabins given them in which to live and stow their property. Lastly the King sent off boats laden with biscuits, rice, butter, cocoa-nuts, powdered sugar in sacks, sheep salted whole and others alive, and fowls and vegetables in great abundance. He also accompanied the boats alongside the ships, showing by unmistakable signs his regret at parting with them, and saying very affectionate things while he bade them farewell. As they hoisted in the boats the trumpets sounded, and the crews shouted "Lord God have mercy upon us! Farewell!"

With a fair wind the next morning, the trumpets sounding and the ships dressed in flags, the anchors were weighed, the sails hoisted, and the crews praising God for the favours shown them, they stood out to sea. The hardships they had endured and sickness had already carried off many of the seamen of both ships. Of the six priests four had died. Scurvy, although the name was unknown, had broken out during the lengthened period they had been at sea, without the power of obtaining fresh provisions, which could alone have cured the complaint.

After sailing on for twenty-two days, land was espied, as the pilots had told them it would be; and a lofty mountain, off which they came, was, they were informed, in the kingdom of Cananor. The name of the mountain was Delielly, or The Rat, so named on account of the number of rats frequenting the region, which prevented it being inhabited. On nearing the land, they sailed along it until they came in sight of a large city of thatched houses, in a bay called Cananor.

As a reward for the services they had rendered in carrying the ships safely across the Indian Ocean, each pilot received a robe of red cloth and ten testoons.

Standing along the coast, the ships passed close to the town of Cananor, which, being a mean place, greatly disappointed Vasco da Gama, as he supposed that it was Calecut; but the pilots set him right, and conducted him twelve leagues farther on, when the anchors were dropped off the town of Capocate, two leagues from the large city of Celecut, situated in a bay. As they gazed towards the shore, they could see a number of dark, nearly naked people, their only garments being cloths half-way down their thighs, who came flocking to the beach. A council was held on board Paulo da Gama's ship, when Davane advised that no one should venture on shore without hostages. He stated that the King of Calecut was the most powerful sovereign on the coast of India, and that he was very vain and very rich on account of the trade of his city.

In a short time a number of fishing-boats came off, and, being called alongside by the Moorish pilot, the fishermen willingly sold their fish.

Vasco da Gama told the pilots to repeat to the fishermen the story he had invented: that he had separated from a large fleet of Portuguese ships of which he was in search, and that he had hoped to find them at this port. He would allow no one on board to trade except the pilots, who were ordered to give whatever the fishermen demanded.

Among other boats one loaded with wood came alongside, but as the ships had abundance it was not purchased. There were six men in the boat, and knowing that they would be disappointed at not finding a market for their wood, to their great surprise, as also to that of Davane, Vasco da Gama ordered that a vintin should be given to each of them; so that, when they returned on shore, they did not fail to praise the strangers.

The Captain-Major had resolved not to land until he had received permission from the King to do so, but three days passed and no messenger came off. Davane was therefore directed to go on shore, with a request to the ruler of the country that he would allow the Portuguese to visit him. Just as he was about to set off a large boat came to the ship, bringing an officer of the King, called a Nair. His only garment was a white cloth, covering his body from the middle to half-way down his legs. He carried a light round shield and a short sword with an iron hilt. Addressing the Captain-Major, who was pointed out to him, he stated that he came to ascertain who the new-comers were, and what they required in the port.

Vasco da Gama replied that he was the servant of the greatest Christian king in the world, who had sent a fleet of fifty ships out to these seas to obtain cargoes of pepper and drugs, in exchange for the rich merchandise of gold and silver which they had brought, and that the Portuguese were anxious to establish a lasting peace with the King and people of the country at which they had arrived. He then stated that he himself was the ambassador who had been empowered to arrange the terms of the treaty his sovereign desired to make with the Zamorin of Calecut. To impress the natives with an idea of the power of the King of Portugal, and to prevent them from venturing on any hostile proceedings, for fear of the consequences, he added that he had been separated from the rest of his fleet for a couple of years, during which he had had visited Melinda, with whose King he had formed a lasting treaty of peace and friendship. He now requested the Zamorin to conclude one of the same character between their two nations; and, this being done, he would ask permission to land and carry on a trade with his people.

Soon after the Nair had gone back to the shore, a boat laden with fowls, figs (fresh and dry), and cocoa-nuts, came off. They were accepted out of courtesy, but the Captain-Major sent word that he could neither buy nor sell anything until the treaty was concluded. He stated, moreover, that he could not go on shore until the King had sent hostages for his safety.

Now, as was afterwards ascertained, a large number of wealthy Moors resided in Calecut, who had got the entire trade of the country into their hands. They were Mohammedans, and by means of their wealth had won over a large number of the common people to their faith.

They, on hearing of the arrival of the Portuguese, at once became jealous lest the new-comers should take the trade from them, and therefore resolved by every artful means to defeat their object, by representing to the King that they were spies, come to gain information about the land and to possess themselves of it. For this purpose the Moors had won over the chief ministers of the King to favour their designs, though the liberality exhibited by the Portuguese had at the first gained his good-will.

Before going on shore himself, the Captain-Major sent Davane, accompanied by Joab da Nunez, one of the convicts, -- a Christian and a man of talent, who could speak Arabic and Hebrew, and also understood the Moorish language, although he could not speak it, -- that he might go to the city and ascertain the way of transacting business; he was ordered to buy only provisions, while he listened to what was said without speaking himself.

On reaching the shore the two were so mobbed that they had great difficulty in making their way, until an officer appeared, who took them under his charge, and compelled the people to move aside so that they could pass through the streets. The officer invited them to his house, and on their way they encountered a man clothed as a Moor, but who addressed them in Castilian, and requested them to come to his house, which they obtained permission from the officer to do. The seeming Moor gave them a brief outline of his history. He was, he said, a native of Seville, but that when a boy he was made a prisoner, and after having served many masters, had obtained his freedom. Although he had all the time, he averred, pretended to be a Moor, he was still at heart a Christian. On hearing the account he gave of himself, Joab Nunez invited him off to see the Captain-Major, and the next day he made his appearance on board. He then acknowledged that his object had at first been to betray the Portuguese, but on entering the cabin his heart had been changed, and his great desire was now to serve them. He warned them of the treachery intended them by the Moors, and offered to go on shore to obtain all the information he could, so as to give it to them.

At a council held soon after by the three Captains, Paulo and Nicolas Coelho entreated Vasco da Gama not to go on shore, as he would hazard his life; but he replied that he had resolved to do so in the service of the King; that his life he did not value, and that should he be killed, they must make the best of their way back to Portugal with the account of their important discovery.

He consented, however, before he went himself, to send Nicolas Coelho to obtain an audience of the King, and to ascertain his feelings towards the Portuguese. Accordingly he got ready the presents intended for his Majesty, and ordered twelve of the best-looking of his men, handsomely dressed, to accompany the brave captain.

The presents consisted of a piece of the finest scarlet cloth, one of crimson velvet, and another of yellow satin, a chair covered with brocade and studded with silver-gilt nails, a cushion of crimson satin with tassels of golden thread, a smaller one of red satin for the feet to rest on, a hand-basin and ewer chased and gilt, a splendid gilt mirror, fifty scarlet caps, and fifty sheathed knives with ivory handles gilt.

These things being arranged, were placed in napkins on the deck. The Nair, who soon afterwards came on board, greatly admired them, and intimated that the King was ready to receive the ambassador.

On this Nicolas Coelho, accompanied by the twelve men in rich costumes, at once went on shore, and, surrounded by the people, proceeded to the palace. He, however, was not received that evening, and was compelled to take up his abode in the house of one of the natives, where he was but meanly entertained.

During the night the Castilian came and warned him not to grow angry with these delays, as he was thus treated in order to make him lose his temper. Following this advice, he the next morning pretended to be quite at his ease.

At length, when the overseer appeared, Nicolas Coelho requested that a boat might be prepared to take him back to the ship. Seeing that he was not to be put out of temper, the overseer at last consented to introduce him to the King, whom he found seated in a summer-house on a low couch covered with white cloth, one of his priests attending near him.

Coelho kept silence until the King bade him speak. He then, Joab Nunez acting as interpreter, delivered the message he had brought from the Captain-Major.

After hearing it, the King bade him retire, saying that the overseer of the treasury would bring him an answer; but Nicolas replied that he could receive no answer but from the King himself. After he had waited for some time, the priest brought him out an agreement signed on the dry leaf of a palm-tree, granting all the requests of the Captain-Major, the priest swearing that it was the King's signature.

When Nicolas Coelho returned on board and gave an account of his interview with the King, Vasco da Gama was highly pleased, and ordered flags to be hoisted, trumpets to be sounded, and salutes to be fired.

Having appointed Digo Diaz to act as factor, and Pedro da Braga as clerk, to be assisted by Joao Nunez, Davane, and one of the pilots from Melinda, he sent on shore for the purpose of trading, a chest of unwrought branch coral, the same quantity of vermilion, a barrel of quicksilver, fifty pigs of copper, twenty strings of large cut coral, and as many of amber, five Portugueses of gold, fifty cruzados, and a hundred testoons in silver; as also a table with a green cloth, and a pair of wooden scales. He directed his people to accept the prices offered, and to verify the weight of everything with the scales. The clerk was ordered likewise to write down in a book which he carried the particulars of all transactions.

On arriving on shore, the factor hired a large house in two compartments, one for trade and the other for living in.

The overseer of the treasury soon made his appearance, and sending for a money-changer, weighed all the money, and proved it with his touchstones, setting a value on each coin which the clerk wrote down. It was found to be higher than in Portugal. A price was then set upon each article of merchandise separately, on which a large profit was made.

The overseer of the treasury then inquired whether they wished to begin weighing at once, and on their replying "Yes," he ordered a large number of sacks of pepper to be brought. These were weighed, and sent off to the ships.

As evening approached, the overseer requested the factor to say what goods were required for the next day, that he might have them ready. Accordingly Pedro da Braga was sent back to learn this from the Captain-Major, and to give a report of the transactions which had been concluded.

It should have been said that two armed boats were sent from the ships, which, as they could not on account of the surf reach the shore, were anchored outside, with guns in their bows to protect the factory, the people being carried ashore in the light native skiffs.

Vasco da Gama having received a hint that the natives were great rogues, resolved to outwit them by leading them to suppose the Portuguese to be so ignorant that they might easily be cheated, and thus greatly to desire their return to the country. He therefore directed the factor to receive any goods offered, and to pay whatever price might be asked, and always to appear perfectly satisfied.

The trading was carried on day after day. Pepper, being the heaviest, was the first article obtained. Ginger was next purchased; but it was, in order to preserve it, covered with clay. More than a due proportion had, however, been put on, of which the factor was aware; but according to the orders he had received, he did not complain, but desired that it should be surrounded by more clay, that it might keep the better, paying for it as though it was all ginger.

Cinnamon was next offered. The factor said he would rather wait, but the overseer of the treasury declared that as it was ready it must be received. When it came it was found to consist of old cinnamon of bad quality, done up in packages of sticks and mats. The factor again pretended not to notice the way he was cheated, but sent word to the Captain-Major, who directed him to take even worse goods.

These were afterwards offered, much of the pepper being mouldy and unfit for use, but it was received as if it had been in good order. Though the King was highly pleased at thus easily getting rid of the damaged goods in his stores, the Moorish merchants, more keen-sighted than he was, declared, with some show of reason, that the Portuguese could not be honest traders, but were in reality pirates, who had come to spy out the land.

According to the Oriental custom, to give the Portuguese a great idea of his importance, the King pretended to have forgotten all about the embassy, and day after day deferred sending a message to say that he was ready to receive it. The ministers at length, however, bribed by the Moorish merchants, who were anxious to get the Portuguese Admiral into their power, and hoped to do so should he venture on shore, advised the King no longer to delay inviting him to pay his promised visit.

On hearing this, the Castilian, disguising himself as a beggar, came to the factory, and begging alms in Castilian, was recognised by the factor, who took him inside.

The Castilian then strongly advised that the Captain-Major should not go on shore without proper hostages, and promised to give a sign as to which was a good one of those offered. After this he retired, begging as he had entered. The factor wrote to the Captain-Major, warning him of the treachery intended, and a message was conveyed to the King intimating that Vasco da Gama would not come until proper hostages were delivered up. Three nairs were accordingly sent to the factory, one of whom the Castilian pointed out as the King's nephew, and advised that he especially should be strictly watched. On the arrival of the hostages on board, they were received with due honour and conducted into one of the cabins, where a watch was set over them.

As he was about to depart, Vasco da Gama received information that the King had gone into the country, where he would receive him. The hostages soon afterwards requested to be allowed to go on shore to eat; but this Vasco da Gama would not allow, observing that as he had received them from the King, he could only return them by the King's command.

He had, in the meantime, sent word by a messenger, that he could not present himself as an ambassador before the King, except at his own royal palace. At length the messenger returned, saying that his Majesty had returned to the city, and was now ready to receive the embassy.

Upon this the Captain-Major embarked in his barge, accompanied by Davane as interpreter, taking with him several large Indian boats, loaded with packages.

Arriving at the factory, he dressed himself in a tawny-coloured cloak coming down to his feet, and underneath a short tunic of blue satin, with white buskins, and on his head he wore a blue velvet cap, having a white feather in it, fastened with a jewel; a richly enamelled collar on his shoulders, and a sash with a handsome dagger completed his costume. He had also a page habited in red satin. Before him went a file of men, handsomely dressed, then other men carrying the various gifts; in front of all the chair, carried upon Davane's head, while at their head marched trumpeters sounding their instruments, the whole being conducted by the factor, with a cane in his hand and his cap off.

As they proceeded through a long street the crowd was so great, many among the people being Moors, with swords and shields, that it was with difficulty the Portuguese could make their way, until several nairs arrived and drove the rabble aside.

The factor, having entered the palace, presented each of the articles to the King, who expressed great satisfaction, especially with the chair, on which he took his seat.

When the Captain-Major arrived, he was conducted through many courts to a building opposite to that where the audience was to be held. From thence he proceeded to a hall adorned with silken stuffs of various colours, in which the King was seated on the chair just presented to him under a white canopy, handsomely worked and covering the whole room. He was a very dark man, half naked, covered only from the middle to the knees by a white robe, at the end of which was a long point, on which were threaded several gold rings set with remarkably handsome rubies.

On his left arm he wore a bracelet, above the elbow, consisting of three rings, the centre one studded with rich jewels, and from it hung a large glittering diamond of inestimable price. Round his neck was a string of pearls of the size of hazel-nuts. The string took two turns, and reached to his middle. Above it he wore a thin gold chain, to which was suspended a jewel in the form of a heart, surrounded by pearls and rubies. In the middle was an emerald of the size of a bean.

These jewels, according to the information received from the Castilian, belonged to the ancient treasury of the Kings of Calecut. The long dark hair of the King was tied in a knot on the top of his head, and round the knot he wore a string of pearls, at the end of which was a pear-shaped pearl of large size. To his ears were suspended golden fairings of round beads.

By the side of the King stood two pages, one holding a red shield with a border of gilt and jewels, and a drawn sword, having a hilt ornamented with gold and pendent pearls. The other page held a gold cup, into which the King spat. By the side of his chair was a priest, who from time to time gave him a green leaf containing lime and areca, which he chewed, making his teeth and gums red.

Vasco da Gama, in his character of ambassador, on arriving made a profound salutation, and the King, bowing his head and extending his right hand and arm, touched the right hand of the Captain-Major with the tips of his fingers, and bade him sit on the dais by his side.

Vasco da Gama, through his interpreter, explained who he was, and repeated the account he had already given. He then presented a letter which had been written as if coming from the King of Portugal, and signed with his hand and seal. The King, receiving it, placed it on his breast with both hands, and then, opening it, gave it to the overseer to be translated, and assured Vasco da Gama that he might have whatever merchandise he wished to take on board and whatever he required for his ships, and that he might send his people on shore to amuse themselves and to buy what they liked. Having ordered his minister to announce this by the crier, he dismissed Vasco da Gama, saying that he would speak to him when more at leisure another day.

The Captain-Major, highly satisfied, retired, the trumpets blowing before him until he reached the factory, where he took up his abode for the night. Next day the overseer brought the Captain-Major twenty pieces of fine white stuff embroidered with gold, and twenty other pieces of stuff also white, and ten of coloured silk; also four large loaves of benzoin and fifty bags of musk, as well as six basins and six jars of porcelain. The overseer said that the King sent these things for Vasco da Gama's own use, and that when he went away he would send more for his King. Other presents were returned, and everything appeared to go on smoothly.

Vasco da Gama was much struck by the barbaric splendour of this petty Oriental potentate, little aware that in the far-off interior there were other sovereigns possessed of infinitely greater wealth and power, with whom the Portuguese would have found it impossible to contend.



Chapter Twelve.

Voyage Of Vasco Da Gama Concluded -- A.D. 1498-9.

Treacherous trick to entrap Vasco da Gama -- The Castilian warns him not to complain -- Badly treated -- Carried from place to place a prisoner --  Sends on board for merchandise -- Still kept a prisoner -- Orders his brother to set sail for Spain -- Nicolas Coelho refuses to desert him -- He again sends, ordering the hostages to be set free -- The King learns the treachery of the Moors and makes amends to Vasco da Gama -- The Moors threatened with vengeance -- The ships sail for Cananor -- The King sends provisions and invites the captains to land -- Nicolas Coelho sent with presents -- The King has a pier and pavilion built, extending into the sea -- The Captains visit him in great state -- Davane leaves them -- Sail and anchor in a harbour of the islands of Angediva -- Native vessels -- Friendly fishermen -- Plot of a pilot to destroy the Portuguese -- A Jew Admiral of the King of Goa sent to capture them -- The Jew seized -- Confesses -- His fleet of fustas destroyed -- The survivors made slaves -- The Jew turns Christian -- The ships sail across the Indian Ocean -- Dreadful sickness --  Mombas bombarded -- A fleet of zambuks out of Pate attacks the Portuguese -- Driven off -- Second visit to Melinda -- Pass close round the Cape of Good Hope -- Many deaths -- The Sargarco Sea -- Reach the island of Tercejra -- Death of Paulo da Gama -- Enter the Tagus the 18th of September, 1499 -- Vasco da Gama cordially received by the King, who gives him the title of Dom -- Nicolas Coelho exhibits the treasures to the Queen -- Second voyage of Vasco da Gama -- Anchade reaches China -- Macao founded -- Sequeiro sails up the Red Sea to the country of the Emperor of Ethiopia -- The supposed Prester John -- The Moluccas discovered by Abreu -- Third voyage of Dom Vasco da Gama as Viceroy of India -- His magnificent state in 1524 --  His death at Cochin, the same year -- Buried at Vidigueira in Portugal, of which he was Count -- Succeeded by his son Dom Estevan.

The trade at the factory continued. Drugs, cloves, and nutmegs were brought in; the cloves, however, were mostly bits of stick, and the nutmegs were half rotten, but the factor received them as if they were sound.

The chief minister now arrived in a richly ornamented litter, borne on men's shoulders, with a similar one empty, having a silken canopy over it and soft cushions within, saying that he was sent to bring the ambassador to pay another visit to the King. Accordingly Vasco da Gama got into the one intended for him, while eight of his men got ready to accompany him on foot and unarmed. Just as they were setting out, the Castilian passed, and uttered the words, -- "Sufrir y callar."

"Endure and do not complain."

The Captain-Major had expected to arrive at the country palace of the King, but instead he found himself, as night fell, at a poor house with common straw mats on which to sit. Boiled rice and boiled fish were brought for supper, but he was too indignant at the way he was being treated to eat.

The next day the journey was continued, but by some means the officer who had charge of Vasco da Gama got him separated from five of his men. The heat was excessive; the sun beat down on their heads with terrible force. At last they reached a river, when they embarked in a boat, in which the Captain-Major was conducted a considerable distance, accompanied by Joao Nunez and two others. Again they landed, when the Captain-Major was shut up in a house, by himself while his men were placed in another, though both were ignorant how near they were together. The following day they were led by narrow paths through a jungle, and at the end of it the Captain-Major was again shut up, separated from his men. He now became not only indignant, but very anxious. At last he was led out and conducted to where the Prime Minister had taken up his quarters. That official, who looked very much out of humour, did not even bid him sit down, but kept him standing until Joab Nunez, who had been sent for, arrived. He then said that a ship had come from Mombas, by which information had been received that the Portuguese were pirates, and that they had behaved as such at Mombas and Quiloa. He added that the King of Calecut was very angry, and had ordered the Portuguese ship to be captured, and the officers and crews to be kept in prison until they confessed the truth. He therefore advised the Captain-Major to confess the truth to him, that he might relate to the King what he said.

Vasco da Gama, on hearing this, almost laughed. He replied that, if taken to the King, he would tell him the truth, and that he might go and say so. The Prime Minister, on hearing this, was in a great rage, and cross-questioned Joab Nunez, who replied as he had been instructed. The minister then told Vasco da Gama that he must land all the merchandise from both ships, and have it put into the factory, and that after that the King would fill them up with what they required.

Vasco da Gama replied that he would obey the commands of the King, but that it would be necessary to send a message to the ships, or otherwise the merchandise would not be delivered up. To this, however, the minister appeared in no way inclined to agree.

In the meantime the men who had landed with the Captain-Major, and who had been kept separated from him, were in great alarm as to what had happened, as were also those on board the ships; for the factor could give them no information, and serious fears were entertained that he had been murdered. The hostages had also made an attempt to escape, as the minister had sent them word by the boy who brought their food to do so; but Paulo had kept too strict a watch to allow them to get out of the cabin in which they were confined.

At length one of the men who had accompanied the Captain-Major, Joab Setabal, came on board, in a native boat, saying that he had been sent by Vasco da Gama, to let his brother know how treacherously he had been entrapped, and directing him to send a boat laden with merchandise of all sorts, and also that, should he himself not appear, he was to take back the factor, and allow nobody else to go on shore.

Paulo da Gama, mild as he generally was, became furious on hearing this, but at once sent back the native boat laden with merchandise. When the boat arrived at the factory, the factor sent to the minister -- who had let him know where he was, and that the Captain-Major was with him -- to say that it had arrived, but that unless Vasco da Gama was allowed to return on board, no more would be sent.

On hearing this the Captain-Major was much annoyed, and told the minister that if he would dispatch ten large native boats, he would agree to go off and bring them back full of goods.

When, however, he was about to embark, the minister stopped him, saying that all the Portuguese might return to their ships with the exception of himself, the interpreter, and two others, who must remain on shore for the present; and that when the merchandise arrived, then he would send him on board.

The Captain-Major, clearly seeing the treachery intended by the minister, dissembling his anger, sent word to his brother that he was convinced, even should the boats full of goods be landed, he himself would not be given up; and he therefore charged him to send the hostages on shore, and then to make sail and return to Portugal. "If he himself should be killed," he added, "nothing would be lost, but that if Paulo and the ships were destroyed, their country would fail to reap the benefit they had obtained for her." He also entreated Paulo to lose no time in getting under weigh, as he was very sure that the Moors would send out their ships to attack them.

On receiving this message, Paulo da Garna and all the crews swore that without the Captain-Major they would not leave the port, nor would they send any more goods; while honest Nicolas Coelho was eager to go on shore, resolving that if the Captain-Major were not set free, he would remain with him.

The hostages were then brought out of the cabin, and Paulo da Gama asked them if they were sent by the King to remain in case any harm should be done to the ambassador. They acknowledged that such was the case, and that the Portuguese might cut off their heads if they pleased.

Paulo da Gama then replied that he had no intention of depriving them of life, but that they should be immediately sent on shore, without any stipulation, as he would trust to their honour to exert their influence in obtaining the liberty of his brother and his companions. He remarked also that should any harm be done their ambassador, the inhabitants of Calecut would for ever be considered by all nations as the most treacherous and barbarous people in the world. He then bestowing many handsome presents on the hostages, sent them on shore with all due honour in one of the ship's boats.

Meantime the Moors had gone to the King, and declaring that the Portuguese were pirates, had offered to go out in their ships and attack them. The King, believing this falsehood, ordered the goods in the Portuguese factory to be brought to his palace, and commanded that the Captain-Major and his companions should at once be put to death.

His chief priest and overseer of the treasury, on hearing this order issued, and clearly foreseeing the consequences, hurried to the king, and entreated him not to commit so atrocious an act, observing that the Portuguese had done no harm, but had been kind and peaceable, and had presented the richest presents ever yet offered to a sovereign in India. At this juncture the hostages arrived, and by stating how liberally they had been treated, and how nobly they had been set free, turned the scale in favour of the Portuguese.

The King immediately sending for Vasco da Gama, humbly begged his pardon for the way he had been treated, declaring that much had been done without his knowledge, and that he also had been deceived by evil counsel. Vasco da Gama replied that the King must act according to the dictates of his sense of honour, and that had he murdered an ambassador, the world would have spoken very ill of his Majesty.

The King then gave Vasco da Gama several pieces of fine stuff, and a piece of silk, with several rubies and pearls, and again asking his pardon, and saying that those who had given him bad counsel should be punished, honourably dismissed him.

On his way to the boats Vasco da Gama met the factor, who informed him that the factory had been robbed, no doubt by the order of the King, but he would not allow the factor to complain, though he warned the overseer of the treasury that he would at some time come back and revenge on the heads of the Moors the wrongs he had received. He then embarked with all his men, and proceeded to the ships. The Castilian, as they were shoving off, leaped into the boat and begged leave to accompany them. Vasco da Gama was received with unbounded joy by his brother and the officers and crews of the ships.

He rewarded the Castilian for his services by giving him five Portugueses of gold and a piece of cloth and several red caps, and he signed a paper to the effect that he was a sincere friend to the Portuguese, a faithful Christian, and that all confidence might be placed in him. With this the Castilian returned on shore, when he told the Moors of the hatred they had produced in the breasts of the Portuguese, who swore that they would revenge themselves on their return to India. He also informed the overseer of the treasury that the Portuguese, when they came back, would be his sincere friends. These things were related to the King, who immediately dispatched the Castilian with one of his chief ministers again to express his regret at what had happened, saying that if the Portuguese would come again on shore they would see the punishment he would inflict on the persons who had injured them.

The Captain-Major replied that he should not return to the port, and that he would take upon himself at a future time the punishment of the Moors who had behaved ill to him and his followers.

As there was a fair wind the ships set sail and ran down the coast until they came off Cananor. The King of that country having heard all that had taken place, resolved to win the friendship of the Portuguese.

No sooner did the ships approach than he sent off a large boat, carrying a minister, to invite them to his country. Following the first boat came a number of others, laden with provisions of all sorts. The King stated that he would fill up their ships with cargoes of the goods they had come in search of, at more favourable prices and in better condition than those they had obtained in Calecut.

Vasco da Gama, highly pleased, as soon as the ships came to an anchor, sent off a boat with Nicolas Coelho, bearing valuable presents, similar to those before presented to the King of Calecut, but no one else was allowed to land.

Nicolas Coelho was well received, and was sent back in a native boat by the King, with a message expressing a hope that the Captain-Major would visit him. He also brought word that the King had ordered a wooden pier to be run out into the water, with a small pavilion at the end of it.

The next day his Majesty came with numerous attendants and took a seat in the pavilion, which was adorned with silken stuffs, and had also within it a dais covered with silk. As soon as he came in sight the captains, in their most splendid costumes, accompanied by a number of their men handsomely dressed, the boats being highly decorated, and having streamers flying of white and red silk, and the trumpets sounding, while salutes were fired as they left the ships, rowed for the pier.

On approaching the pavilion in which the King was seated, the two Captains, taking off their hats, bowed profoundly, when he, stepping to the front, entreated them to come up and take seats by his side. He then asked which of them had been imprisoned in Calecut. Paulo da Gama, pointing to his brother, answered, "That is the person whom the King of Calecu: thus insulted."

The King of Cananor then told them that he had received a letter from the King of Calecut exculpating himself, and saying that what had been done was without his sanction, and that he was determined to inflict a severe punishment on the guilty persons. Much further conversation took place of a satisfactory character, when the Captains returned to their ships.

They were three days taking on board the goods and provisions with which the King of Cananor supplied them. Vasco da Gama here dismissed Davane, and signed a document calling on all the captains coming from Portugal to treat him as a sincere friend, whom they were always to honour. He gave him also a hundred cruzados and a hundred testoons, besides the payment due to him, and goods and other presents, so that the honest broker departed highly pleased.

As the crews were lifting the anchors, two large boats came off with a further supply of fowls and other fresh provisions. The sails were then loosed, and the two ships commenced their homeward voyage on the 20th of November, in the year of grace 1498. After proceeding some distance, finding the winds contrary, the pilots recommended that they should put back; but as Vasco da Gama objected to this, they steered a course for the island of Angediva, which had a good port with plenty of wood and water, where they proposed to remain until the monsoon had commenced. The only inhabitant of the island was a hermit, who lived in a grotto, and subsisted on what was given him by passing ships.

The people enjoyed themselves much by being able to go on shore without fear of interruption. Several native vessels came in, not seeing them until they were round the point. They were of two descriptions, some having their planks sewn together with coir rope, which had keels, and others flat bottomed, the planking being secured by nails. Their anchors were of hard wood, with stones fastened to the shanks, so that they might sink to the bottom. The rudders were fastened by ropes passed outside. They had no tops, and only one large sail of matting. Instead of decks they had compartments, in which the different sorts of merchandise was stowed, the whole covered with matting of palm-leaves, which formed a sort of shelving roof so that the water could run off it, and was of strength sufficient to enable the crew to walk on the top. They had no pumps, but only buckets of leather. The yards were long and tapering, two-thirds abaft the mast and one-third before it, with only a single sheet. The tack of the sail was made fast to the end of a sprit almost as long as the mast, so that they could set their sails very flat, and steer close to the wind. When they had to tack they lowered the sail half down the mast, and then hauled upon the heel of the yard until they brought it to the foot of the mast, and passed it over to the other side.

The ships which came in attempted to escape, but the boats were sent after them with Moorish pilots, who persuaded them to return, assuring them that the Portuguese were peaceable, and wished to be their friends. The captains, therefore, brought figs, cocoa-nuts, and fowls, and persuaded the fishermen who had before kept away to come and sell their fish while the crews and passengers landed to wash their clothes, so that the Portuguese and the natives became great friends.

Here the ships were refitted, and water taken in. While thus employed, a floating object, which looked like a large raft, was seen approaching from the main coast, covered over with branches. Vasco da Gama's suspicions being aroused, he inquired of the fishermen what it was. They informed him that it in reality consisted of a number of large low boats fastened together, and was the device of a famous pirate, Timoja by name, who hoped thus to get alongside, and then, with his men, while the Portuguese were unprepared, attack them.

On this the Captain-Major ordered his brother and Nicolas Coelho, who was on board the same ship, to get under weigh, and go out and meet the pirate. They did so, firing their guns as they approached with such effect, that the boats were seen to separate and make with all speed towards the shore.

Thus the Portuguese were saved from the threatened danger. Some time passed, when, their preparations being nearly completed, a small, fast, rowing vessel, called a fusta, carrying sails as well as oars, was seen approaching Vasco da Gama's ship, and would have been received without suspicion had not the faithful fishermen again warned him that treachery was intended. They said that during the night they had observed a large number of fustas come in and conceal themselves in the islets and bays round the island, not more than half a league off, and that it was very evident from this that they intended mischief; that they were under the command of a Jew, who was admiral of the fleet of Sabayo, the ruler of Goa, a large city twelve leagues off; that the object of the Jew was to surprise the ships, hoping to find them unprepared, and carry them into Goa, so that Sabayo might obtain their cargoes. Soon after dawn a small fusta, with the Jew, came close up to the ships, as if about to pass by them to some other part. On getting near the stern he hailed the ships in Castilian, saying, "God preserve the Christian captains and their crews," when the rowers giving a shout, the trumpets from the ships replied. The Jew, getting nearer, said, "Noble captain, give me a safe conduct, that I may come on board your ships to learn the news." Vasco da Gama replied that he might come on board in peace, and that they would do him honour, as they were highly pleased to see a person who could speak their language. On this he came up the side, when he was placed in a chair, and the question as to who he was, and where he came from, was put to him.

The Captain-Major now ordered Nicolas Coelho, who was in the other ship, to come with a boat full of armed men, on the side where the fusta lay, and to board and capture her crew.

Several men were stationed ready to seize the Jew, and at the same moment he and all his men were then suddenly made prisoners. The Jew, on finding himself bound, complained bitterly of the way he had been treated, having trusted to the safe conduct which had been given him. The Captain-Major replied that he was aware of the treachery that he had intended, and that he should be flogged, and tortured by having hot fat poured on him, if he refused to confess his evil intentions. The Jew, finding there was no escape, acknowledged that he was worthy of death, but entreated that the noble Captain would have pity on his white beard.

On this the Captain-Major ordered him to be unbound, and becomingly dressed. The Jew then informed the Admiral that when a lad he was living at Grenada, that on the capture of that city by the Christians he had left Spain, and travelling through many lands, he had gone to Mecca. Thence he had made his way to India, where he had taken service with Sabayo, who had made him captain-major of his fleet; that to please his master he had undertaken to capture the Portuguese ships. He now repented of his design, and as a proof of his desire to obtain the friendship of the Portuguese, he offered to deliver up all the fustas into their hands.

It was therefore arranged that the Jew should go in his own fusta, manned by Portuguese, and that several boats should follow, with the crews well armed. As soon as it was dark they pushed off from the ships. As they approached where the fustas lay, the people on board hailed to know who was coming, when the Jew replied, "It is I. I bring some relations with me."

On this the fusta and boats dashed on, the Captain-Major shouting his war-cry of Saint George, while the crews, who had kept their matches concealed, shouting and firing their guns, threw their powder-jars among the sleeping crews, who being thus alarmed, leaped into the sea, while the fighting men, who were few in number, made but a faint resistance. They were all immediately killed, while the fusta went about destroying the hapless wretches who were in the water. A number also who had taken refuge on the island were made prisoners, not one escaping. The boats and fusta, having thus finished the work, returned to the ships. The Portuguese then selected from among the captives twelve of the strongest-looking men, to work the pumps and do other service, while the rest were killed in the presence of the fishermen, who accordingly knew there would be none left to betray them.

The Captain-Major gave the fishermen permission to carry off the fustas; but this they declined doing, taking only the sails and tackling for their own boats.

The Jew, seeing the punishment inflicted on the other prisoners, became dreadfully alarmed, suspecting that he also would be put to death. The Captain-Major, however, ordered him to be taken below, and confined in a cabin.

The monsoon having just commenced, the pilots advised that the ships should proceed on their voyage. They accordingly made sail and steered westward, their great object accomplished, across the Indian Ocean. The wind was fair, and the sea, as before, calm; but sickness broke out among the men, and many more died. The first land made was near the city of Magadaxo. The Captain-Major having had ample experience of the Moorish rulers of these coasts, bombarded it as he sailed by. He then proceeded, without stopping, until he came off another city called Pate, from which eight large zambuks came out to attack him. A few broadsides drove them away, and he sailed on until he reached Melinda.

Owing to calms, the voyage lasted nearly four months during which, from the want of fresh provisions, scurvy, scarcely before known, attacked the crews. Ulcers broke out on their arms and legs, and their gums became swollen and rotten, so that thirty men died, and others could hardly move about. Some of the pilots also mutinied, and wanted to put back to Calecut; but Vasco da Gama had them placed in irons, and undertook the guidance of the ships himself.

On the shore near Melinda they found the King waiting to receive them, and standing in the water. The Captains leaping out of their boats, he embraced them and conducted them to his palace, where he treated them right courteously. He wrote a letter on gold leaf to the King of Portugal, calling him his brother and promising to befriend his people.

Vasco da Gama, pleased with the conduct of the native pilots, begged that two of them might be permitted to accompany him to Portugal, at which the King expressed his pleasure. To reward the pilots, the Captain-Major presented them with two hundred cruzados in gold, to be given to their wives.

Several more men here died, and were buried on shore, so that the crews of the two ships were reduced to a very small number. Before they took their departure, the King sent a magnificent present to the King and Queen of Portugal. Among other articles was a broad gold neck-chain, with precious stones and pearls, worth ten thousand cruzados; a chest richly inlaid with silver and ivory, full of white stuffs, silks and gold thread, and a piece of ambergris set with silver, half an ell long, and as thick as a man's wrist.

Vasco da Gama, in order to sustain the honour of the King of Portugal, presented numerous valuable articles in return. After taking an affectionate farewell of the King of Melinda, the native pilots being received on board and Mass having been said, the Captain-Major ordered the anchors to be weighed, and on the feast of San Sebastian, 1499, the ships sailed from Melinda. They first stood out from the land, and then made a course along it to the southward. They sighted Mozambique, but did not put in there, and continued their course until off Sofala, where they encountered several severe squalls. They escaped danger by furling all the sails, warned in time by the native pilots. Sometimes they were exposed to heavy seas with little or no wind, which greatly tried the ships.

At length they came off the Cape of Good Hope, in sight of which they passed without accident. Pressing on all sail, they stood into the Atlantic, when, seeing the Cape astern and that they were steering towards Portugal, the seamen in their great joy embraced each other, and then, kneeling down, offered up their praises and thanksgivings to Heaven for having thus far preserved them.

In order to make the shortest possible course for Portugal they kept away from the land, but as they approached the equator they suffered much delay from calms. Paulo da Gama was also taken very ill, and kept to his bed, when Vasco went on board his ship that he might be with him leaving Coelho in charge of his own.

Seeing that they were approaching Portugal, the pilots who had mutinied became very uneasy, until Vasco da Gama told them that they were forgiven, but that he should take them bound into the presence of the King. Even the stoutest hearted, however, might have doubted whether they should ever reach the land, for the ships were so leaky that it was necessary to keep the pumps constantly at work. Frequent calms were also met with, and they passed through a vast mass of seaweed, to which the name of Sargarco was given, from its resembling the leaf of the grape so-called. That part of the ocean has ever since retained the name of the Sargarco Sea. It is that vast collection of seaweed thrown off by the Gulf Stream, and prevented from drifting farther south by the counter-current which sets westward towards Central America.

At length, to the great joy of the pilots, they caught sight of the north star, almost on the same altitude as it was seen at Portugal. They thus knew that they were approaching the termination of their voyage. Steering north, they came to an anchor in the port of Angra, in the island of Terceira, towards the end of August. So battered were the ships that it was with difficulty they could be kept afloat. Of the two crews not sixty men survived. Many of these also died on reaching the shore, and among them, to the great grief of his brother, was Paulo da Gama, who survived but one day, and was buried in the Monastery of Saint Francis.

The authorities wished to discharge the cargoes and place them on board other ships, but to this Vasco da Gama would not consent; and having them partially repaired, he again sailed, accompanied by several other vessels, and arrived safely in the Tagus on the 18th of September, 1499. Endeavouring to overcome the grief he felt for the loss of his brother, handsomely dressed, his beard, not cut since he sailed, streaming over his breast, he landed to present himself to the King, who had come down to the beach at Cascaes to welcome him. The next day the King received him at his palace, when he bestowed upon him the honourable title of "dom," to be borne by him and his heirs. They afterwards repaired to the Queen's apartments, where Nicolas Coelho, who had charge of the presents, was summoned, and where, having kissed the hands of the King and Queen, they exhibited the magnificent jewels and stuffs which they had brought.

Although the King promised to reward honest Coelho, it does not appear how this was done. The pilots, having been brought in chains before the King, as Vasco da Gama had sworn to do, they were pardoned. The old Jew, the Moorish pilots, and the prisoners taken in the fustas were landed, and either from the instructions they received from the priests on board or afterwards, all became Christians, the old Jew taking the name of Gaspar da Gama, the Captain-Major standing as his godfather. The King also had frequent conversations with him, and so pleased was his Majesty with what he heard that he made him many presents from his own wardrobe and horses from his stables, and gave him the slaves who had been brought from India. After this he was always known as Gaspar of the Indies.

The crews were handsomely paid, and each man received a portion of the cargoes to bestow in gifts on their families and friends, while the heirs of the deceased also received the wages which were their due. This memorable voyage lasted, from the day Dom Vasco left Lisbon to that of his return, exactly thirty-two months, and of the one hundred and fifty men who left Portugal only fifty-five came back.

This voyage may be considered one of the most notable on record. The dreaded Cape of Storms, henceforth to be known as the Cape of Good Hope, had been doubled, a large portion of the east coast of Africa hitherto unknown had been visited, the Indian Ocean, which no European keel had ever before ploughed, had been traversed, and India, the great object of the voyage, had been reached, all the difficulties and dangers to which the explorers were exposed being manfully overcome. More remarkable still had been the return voyage in battered ships, the scanty crews suffering from sickness, yet their brave leaders, with indomitable perseverance and hardihood, keeping on their course week after week and month after month over the ocean, guided by the stars and the imperfect instruments they possessed.

Twice after this Vasco da Gama sailed for India. His second voyage was commenced in 1502, when he visited many places he had before discovered, and returned the next year with twelve richly-laden ships. Meantime the Portuguese had sent out, year after year, numerous fleets with large bodies of men, who, by force or stratagem, took possession of many places along the eastern coast of Africa, and on the west of that of Hindostan. Among the most important were Goa and Cochym and others on the coast of Ceylon. While penetrating eastward their ships reached the Indian Archipelazo and the far-off shores of China.

In 1505 Dom Francisco de Almeyda was sent out to India under the title of Viceroy, in command of twenty-two ships, and in them fifteen hundred men, when he began the erection of those forts by means of which the Portuguese ultimately established themselves in the country.

The following year Alfonso da Alburquerque and Tristan da Conha sailed with thirteen ships and thirteen hundred men. On their passage the latter, parting company off the Cape of Good Hope, ran far away to the south, where he discovered the islands which still bear his name --  Tristan da Conha. He afterwards, with part of his fleet, cruised along the Arabian shores, while Alburquerque was employed in trading, building forts, and establishing factories on the coasts already discovered.

Other commanders followed, and Fernando Perez da Andrade, sailing east, passed through the Straits of Malacca, until he reached Canton, then the most celebrated sea-port on the southern coast of China. Thence he sent an ambassador to the Emperor of China, to settle trade and commerce. At first things went well; but when the next Portuguese squadron arrived, the people on board behaved so outrageously to the Chinese that their envoy was murdered, and they were driven out of the country. Some years afterwards the Portuguese obtained leave to settle in a little island opposite to Canton. It was called Macao, and they have ever since held it, though subject to the Emperor of China.

In 1520 Jago Lopez da Sequeiro sailed for the Red Sea, with a fleet of twenty-four ships. Coming to the island of Mazua, he found it forsaken by the inhabitants, who had fled over to Arquico, a port belonging to the Emperor of Ethiopia, the far-famed Prester John, whose country was now first discovered by sea. At this time it was a vast monarchy, and extended along the shores of the Red Sea above one hundred and twenty leagues.

In following years the Portuguese made some progress into the country, five hundred of them being sent under the command of Don Christofero da Gama, to assist the Emperor against his rebellious subjects and his enemies the Turks.

The Moluccas, five in number, named Tirnate, Tidore, Mousel, Machien, and Bacham, were discovered by Antonio da Abreu.

In 1521 Antonio da Brito was sent from Malacca to take possession of them. The Portuguese were, however, ultimately driven out by the Dutch, who hold them to the present day. In the year 1524 Dom Vasco da Gama was again sent out as Viceroy of India, being the second person who had held that important post. He now possessed the title of Conde da Vidigueira and Admiral of the Indian Seas. He was accompanied by his two sons, Dom Estevan and Dom Paulo da Gama, on board the Saint Catarina, with numerous officials, and everything calculated to maintain his state, besides a guard of two hundred men with gilt pikes, clothed with his livery. He kept also a magnificent table, at which all his officers dined with him. He ruled the country with a stern and inflexible justice, which was much required, as abuses of all kinds had sprung up; and so, although he was much feared, he was greatly respected. Leaving Goa, he went to Cochin, a city of considerable size, where many Portuguese had established themselves. Here he was shortly afterwards seized with a mortal malady, of which he died a few minutes past midnight on the 24th of December, 1524, when he was succeeded in his vice-royalty by his son, Dom Estevan.

His remains were sent to Portugal in 1538, and buried in a tomb at Vidigueira, from which town he took his title. It would have been fortunate for the honour of Portugal had all her Viceroys of India possessed the same sense of duty as that which animated the renowned Vasco da Gama.



Chapter Thirteen.

Voyage Of Fernando Magalhaens -- The Discoverer Of The Straits Of Magellan -- Round The World A.D. 1519-20.

Rivalry between the crowns of Castile and Portugal -- Magalhaens, a Portuguese, offers his services to the Emperor Charles the Fifth of Spain, to find a passage through America into the Pacific -- Associated with Ruy Falero -- Offer accepted -- The squadron, consisting of the Trinidad and four other ships, leaves Seville the 10th of August, 1519 -- Long detained by calms -- Enters harbour in the Brazils -- Proceeds farther south -- Winter season -- Enters Port Saint Julien -- Visited by a gigantic native dressed in skins -- Terror at seeing himself in a mirror --  Brings off a guanaco -- Two natives captured -- Attempt to take two more defeated -- Natives called Patagons -- Possession of the country taken for the crown of Spain -- Mutiny discovered -- Ringleaders executed -- One of the squadron wrecked -- Squadron sails south -- Entrance to the straits discovered -- Ships advance through them -- The crews, alarmed, desire to return -- Two ships missing -- Smoke seen -- Land to south called Tierra del Fuego -- One of the ships deserts -- Cape Deseado reached -- The Pacific appears -- Squadron steers north-west -- Two small islands seen -- Fearful sufferings from hunger -- The crews attacked by scurvy -- The Ladrones reached, so-called from thievish natives -- Some natives killed -- Island of Good Signs -- Arrive at the Philippines -- Natives friendly -- Anchor off the Island of Mazaqua -- The Rajah Colamba -- The Admiral plants a banner with a cross, and invites the natives to worship it -- Two officers dine with the Rajah, who gets tipsy -- The ships sail -- The Rajah accompanies them -- Reach Zebut -- Tribute demanded by the Rajah -- Refused -- How Magalhaens converted the Rajah and all his people to the Romish faith.

Jealous rivalry for some time existed between the crowns of Castile and Portugal, to obtain possession of the rich countries lately discovered by their subjects in the Eastern seas and Pacific. The Pope, who claimed to be the Lord Paramount of the whole world, had munificently bestowed all the lands in the east on the crown of Portugal, and those in the west on that of Spain. Yet these gifts rather increased than diminished the contention existing between the two countries. Each was ready to undertake any enterprise which might injure the other.

Fernando De Magalhaens.

Of this ill feeling several adventurers took advantage, and if their offers of service were not accepted at one Court, they went over to the other to seek employment. Among them was Fernando Magalhaens, a Portuguese gentleman of good family, who had considerable experience in nautical affairs, having performed a voyage to India and as far as the Straits of Malacca. He was also formed by nature for command, possessing a courage in danger which nothing could appal, at the same time a calm and amiable temper, which won the regard of all those with whom he was brought in contact. His personal appearance, notwithstanding, was rather mean, as he was short in stature, and was lame from a wound which he had received in battle with the Moors. He had, however, a quick and ready mind, and never wanting in self-possession, was very fertile in expedients. The pride of the Spanish officers, and the national jealousy they felt, made them, however, murmur sometimes against his authority. He had eloquence to support his views, and indomitable perseverance to carry them out.

After serving in India under the famous Albuquerque, he offered his services to Portugal to lead an expedition to the west; but on meeting with a rebuff, he went to Spain. Here he formed the acquaintance of a talented astronomer, Ruy Falero, and soon afterwards they together proceeded to Cardinal Ximenez, to propose leading an expedition westward from the Atlantic into the newly-discovered South Sea. Their proposals being favourably listened to by the Emperor Charles the Fifth, were accepted, and they were furnished by his orders with five ships, manned by two hundred and thirty-four men, having provisions for two years. To the adventurers was granted a twentieth part of the clear profit, and the governorship of any islands they might discover was to be vested in them and their heirs, who were to bear the title of Adelantado.

The squadron, which was fitted out at Seville, consisted of the Trinidad, the Admiral's ship, of which Estevan Gomez, a Portuguese, went as pilot; the Saint Vitoria, commanded by Don Luis de Mendoza; the Saint Antonio, Don Juan de Carthagena; the Santiago, Don Juan Serrano; and the Conception, Don Caspar de Quixada.

The Admiral Magalhaens depended chiefly on the naval skill of thirty of his Portuguese countrymen whom he took with him, as he did likewise on that of Serrano, who had served for many years in India, and for some time at the Moluccas, which islands they hoped to reach from the eastward, instead of their being approached, as before, from the west.

The ships being ready, the squadron set sail on the 10th of August, 1519, and steering south, they arrived on the 3rd of October off the Cape de Verde Islands. Getting into the region of calms, they were detained for the long space of seventy days without making any progress; but at last a breeze springing up, they got to the south of the line, then steered a course which brought them about twenty degrees south in sight of the coast of Brazil. Putting into harbour, they obtained an abundant supply of fruits, sugar-canes, and animals of various kinds, differing greatly in appearance from those of Europe. Proceeding about two and a half leagues farther south, they again came to an anchor, at the mouth of a large fresh water river, probably that of the Rio de la Plata, as no other of the size mentioned exists in the south of the continent.

Here, soon after they arrived, a number of persons of wild and furious aspect and prodigious stature, making strange noises, rather resembling the bellowing of bulls than the voices of human beings, came down to the beach. Notwithstanding their enormous size, these people when they ran were so nimble, that none of the Spaniards or Portuguese could overtake them.

They had not, however, much intercourse with these savages; they here, however, obtained some pearls from oyster-shells which they fished up. Proceeding south, they in a short time came off two islands, so thickly covered with seals and penguins that they might easily, in the course of a few hours, have laden all their ships with them. The penguins were black, heavy-looking, unwieldy fowl, extremely fat, covered with a sort of down instead of feathers, having bills like those of ravens. Fish appeared to be their only food.

Continuing south until they reached latitude 49 degrees 30 minutes, the weather becoming very tempestuous, with a contrary wind, they put into harbour, hoping that the wind would soon change, when they might continue their course. In this, however, they were disappointed. Day after day went by, and the weather only grew worse and worse. It was evidently the winter of that region, though on the other side of the line it was summer. This caused no small astonishment to the crews. They went on shore, but finding no inhabitants, believed that they had arrived at some desert region of the world. The wind blew fearfully hard, with sleet and rain, and being ill provided to meet the inclemency of the season, they preferred living on board.

One day they had landed for the sake of exercise, when, to their surprise, they saw a human being approaching them. He was a big fellow, and strongly built, his body painted all over, with a stag's horn on each cheek and large circles round his eyes. The natural colour of his skin, as far as could be perceived, was yellow, and his hair was of a light tint. His only garment was the skin of a beast roughly sewn together, covering his whole body and limbs from head to foot. In his hand he carried a stout bow, and his arrows, instead of having iron heads, were tipped with sharp stones. As he advanced he began singing and dancing, and as he got nearer he stood for some time throwing dust upon his head. The Spaniards imitating him, he came close up to them without any signs of fear. Being invited to go on board the ships, he willingly stepped into a boat. The Spanish chronicler declares that so big was he, that the tallest of their number only reached up to his waist; but as no persons of a stature so gigantic have been seen in the country since, this statement must be doubted. The Admiral welcomed him on board, and directed that meat and drink should be given him, of which he willingly partook, and seemed to enjoy himself. Various toys were shown him, and among them was a mirror, in which, happening to see himself, he was so frightened that, starting back, he capsized two of the crew, and did not easily recover his composure.

His dress, which was composed of several skins, was wrapped round his body from his head to his ankles. On his feet he wore shoes or boots of the same material as his robe, so roughly made as to be almost round, from which circumstance the Spaniards called him Patagon, or Big-footed, a name they applied to all the people of that country.

He was so well treated that on returning on shore he induced several of his countrymen to visit the ships, and one of them especially behaved with so much good humour, and was so completely at his ease, that he won the regard of the voyagers. To show his gratitude, he brought them off an animal, from the skin of which, he let them understand, the robe he wore was composed. The voyagers had never seen any creature like it before, and described it as a beast which was neither mule, horse, nor camel, but partaking of all three, having the ears of a mule, the tail of a horse, and the body shaped like a camel. He was probably a guanaco or llama, commonly known as the Peruvian sheep. The Admiral, wishing to make prisoners of some of these big fellows, gave orders to his crew to secure them. Accordingly, while the poor savages were being amused with toys put into their hands, which they grasped eagerly, the Spaniards put iron shackles on the legs of two of them, persuading the men that they were fine ornaments, like the rest of the things shown them. They appeared highly pleased with the jingling sound they produced when struck together, until they suddenly found themselves hampered and betrayed, on which they began bellowing like bulls, and shouting to their god -- Setebos -- for assistance. From this Shakespeare has undoubtedly taken the name of the demon Setebos, introduced in the play of the "Tempest." This act of treachery was not calculated to raise the Spaniards in the opinion of the natives. One of the prisoners remained on board the Admiral's ship, while his companion was carried to another for safe keeping.

In spite of this they did not object to the strangers coming among them, although they kept their women out of the way. They were all dressed like those who came on board, in the skins of beasts, and their hair was short or tied up by a string. They had apparently no fixed dwellings, but lived in huts covered with skins and supported by poles, so that they could easily be moved. They were not seen to cook their food, but ate meat raw, with a sweet root called capar, which name they applied to the ship's biscuit offered them.

The only remedies they were seen to use when sick was bleeding and vomiting. The former was performed by giving a chop with an edge tool to the part afflicted, while the latter was produced by thrusting an arrow down the throat of the patient.

The voyagers, ignorant and superstitious themselves, declared that they saw among the savages on shore all sorts of strange creatures of horrible forms, such as horned demons, with long shaggy hair, throwing out fire before and behind, which especially made their appearance when the natives were dying.

The Captain had a great wish to secure some females as companions to the men, that a race of giants might be introduced into Europe; but though the ladies were far from attractive, their husbands exhibited great jealousy, and would not allow them to appear. It was resolved, therefore, to capture two of their principal men, that they might be exchanged for women.

After a time the natives, having overcome their fears, again mixed freely with their visitors. On one occasion a number of Spaniards had gone on shore, when two natives came among them, upon whom they threw themselves, nine Spaniards seizing one man, while a number of others brought his companion to the ground. Some of the Spaniards having ropes ready, had begun to bind the hands of one of their captives, but he struggled so violently, at the same time shouting out for assistance, that he managed to break loose from them, and, striking out right and left, sent them flying in all directions; then bursting away, he took to flight, the other soon afterwards following his example. One of the Spaniards pursuing was shot by an arrow. The rest fired at the fugitives, but could not hit them, for instead of running along in a straight line, they kept leaping from side to side at a rate equal to that of a horse at full gallop.

From the name of Patagons or Patagonians, which the natives have ever since borne, their country was called Patagonia, and that of Saint Julien was given to the port in which the squadron had sought refuge. The Admiral now took solemn possession of the country around for the crown of Spain, erecting on the shore a cross, the sign of sovereignty. He was sorely troubled, however, by discovering that a mutiny had been projected by many of the crew, headed by two of the principal officers, Don Luis Mendoza and Don Juan de Carthagena, with others of inferior rank. Should he put to sea, he had reason to believe that they would run off with some of the ships. He therefore waited in port, hoping to reduce them to obedience. Fortunately, the greater number of officers and men remained faithful. The Admiral, concealing the knowledge he had obtained of their treachery, was able at length to seize the ringleaders.

This done, having summoned a council of his principal officers, the mutineers were tried and condemned, Mendoza to death, and Carthagena, with others less guilty, to be left in the country among the savages. No time was lost in carrying this stern decree into execution. A stout gallows was erected on the shore, on which, notwithstanding his rank, Don Luis was hung, while Don Juan de Carthagena, a priest, and others, were landed and driven among the natives, to endure whatever fate was in store for them.

Having re-established his authority, the Admiral sent the Saint Iago on an exploring cruise, when she discovered a river, to which the name of Santa Cruz was given, it being the anniversary, in the Romish calendar, of the finding of the holy cross. The vessel having advanced about three leagues farther, a storm coming on, she was wrecked; but her crew escaped to the shore, and after enduring great hardships they got back to the harbour of Saint Julien, where they rejoined their companions, and were distributed among the other ships.

The bad weather and the quelling of the mutiny kept the squadron at the port of Saint Julien for five months. At the end of this time the Admiral set sail, and the unfortunate Patagonians who had been entrapped were carried off, the equally unfortunate Spaniards being left on shore. Sailing southward, the explorers at length reached the latitude of 51 degrees 40 minutes, where, finding a convenient port, and plenty of fuel, water, and fish, they remained two months longer. Magalhaens carefully examined every inlet and bay as he proceeded, hoping to find a passage through the continent into the South Sea, of the existence of which passage he was fully persuaded. He was not aware how close he had been to it in the last harbour where he had taken refuge.

On reaching latitude 52 degrees, an opening appearing in the rocky mountainous-looking coast, the squadron sailed into it, having on one side a cape, to which the Admiral gave the name of Cabo de los Virgines, because it was discovered on the feast of Saint Ursula and the Eleven Thousand Virgins. At first many supposed that it was merely a deep bay or gulf, but as the ships proceeded on, the hopes of the Admiral that he had at length discovered the long-sought-for channel increased. The wind being fair, onwards they sailed, though when night came down upon them they were compelled to anchor.

At this juncture the pilot Estevan Gomez proposed, as it was doubtful whether they could get through, and as their provisions were running short and their ships were unseaworthy, that they should return to Spain. The Admiral listened to all that was said in silence, and then declared that rather than fail in fulfilling his promise to the King of Spain, he would endure far greater hardships than they had yet suffered, and would eat the skins on the ship's yards and rigging; and he forbade any one, on pain of death, to speak of turning back on account of want of provisions, or their longing for home.

Anxiously they waited for the return of day, when the light would enable them to see their way. The channel, as they proceeded from east to west, varied greatly in its breadth, sometimes being several leagues wide, and in others no more than half a league across. The land on both sides was high, rugged, and uneven, the mountains capped with snow, in some places barren, and in others covered with woods. Having sailed on upwards of fifty leagues, a broad channel was seen opening out before them. Two ships were sent to explore it, while the Admiral and others came to an anchor. During their absence a violent storm arose, and great fears were entertained that the ships were lost. For two days the Admiral waited for their re-appearance, and, at length, a cloud of smoke being seen rising to the southward, it was supposed that it was produced from fires kindled by those of the ship wrecked crews who had escaped.

Now, more than ever, the people believed that the voyage had ended, and were giving way to despair, when the two ships were seen approaching under full sail, with flags flying. As they drew near the crew shouted with joy and fired salutes from their guns. The captains of the exploring vessels reported that a passage had been seen ahead, but that they deemed it wise to return and announce their discovery. From the circumstance of the smoke rising in the south, to the country on which it was seen was given the name of "Tierra del Fuego," or the Land of Fire.

On this the squadron again got under weigh and sailed forward; but another passage appearing, opening out to the south-east, the two ships which had been before sent away were again dispatched to ascertain in what direction it led. One of them returned, but the crew of the other, instigated by the traitor Estevan Gomez, finding themselves away from the Admiral, rose on their captain and officers, and, confining them below, insisted on returning homewards. In vain the Admiral looked out, expecting her to rejoin him. Day after day the rest of the squadron pressed on, their gallant commander anticipating the realisation of his long-cherished hopes. We may picture him, as he stood on the forecastle of the Trinidada, leading the way, eagerly looking out ahead. How anxious he must have felt when the channel narrowed, and it became possible that some rocky barrier might impede his progress! Then, as he saw it again stretching out into a broad, lake-like expanse, how he must have rejoiced, while seamen in the chains on either side kept heaving the lead and announcing the depth of water. On and on the explorers pushed their way under all sail. If they saw the natives in their tiny canoes, darting out from behind some rocky point, they were too eager to stop and communicate with them.

Above their heads rose the lofty snow-capped mountains, their outlines reflected in the calm waters, often producing scenes of much grandeur, though the barren and rugged rocks offered no temptation to the voyagers to land.

A hundred leagues had been passed over, and, unless the land should extend much farther west, according to the theory held by the Admiral, the termination of the channel must be reached. What must have been his joy, when about ten leagues more had been made good, on the 28th of November, 1520, as rounding a point to which he gave the name of Cape Deseado, he saw the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean spreading out to the westward. From the topmast-head not a speck of land could be seen, to denote that there was the slightest impediment to his further progress into the great South Sea.

He had now practically demonstrated that it was possible to sail to the east by way of the west. To the long-sought-for straits Magalhaens ultimately gave the appellation of the Straits of the Patagonians; but it has more properly ever since been called after his name, corrupted by the English into Magellan.

Having waited at the entrance of the straits for the missing ship till the time appointed for her rejoining had passed, the three remaining vessels proceeded on their voyage. The cold being severe, the Admiral considered it desirable to steer towards the Line, and accordingly shaped a north-westerly course.

On the 24th of January, 1521, a small island was discovered, to which the name of Saint Pablo was given, in memory of the hapless Patagonian, who, after being baptised, had shortly before died. A few days afterwards another small island was sighted, and called Tiburones, or Shark's Island. In this manner he proceeded for three months and twenty days, having sighted only the two small islands already mentioned. The crew by this time had exhausted all their provisions, including even their bread. The fresh water had become so bad that it could be with difficulty swallowed, while they at length had nothing left to eat but pieces of skin and bits of feather. In order to enable them to chew these unsavoury morsels, they were first steeped in hot water for some days, and then cooked with any fat or grease which remained. Owing to the impure and scanty means of subsistence many died, and those who remained became sickly, weak, and low spirited. The gums of many of them grew over their teeth on both sides, so that they were unable to masticate the pieces of skin, and were thus miserably starved to death. The sea, however, continued smooth and the wind fair, and they were blown gently along at a good rate. In consequence of the calmness of the water, the Admiral gave the sea over which he was sailing the name of the Pacific Ocean, which it has ever since retained, although considered by many, from their different experience, very inappropriate, as at certain periods severe storms prevail there, as in other parts of the world.

In a short time nineteen men had died, and thirty were so weak that they were unable to do duty. After sailing on all this time, they were anxiously looking out for islands where they could obtain fresh provisions, but, except the two barren rocks they passed, none were seen.

The needles of their compasses varied so much, and moved so irregularly, that they were often compelled to quicken them with a touch of the loadstone.

After crossing the equator and steering west, they at length arrived, on the 6th of March, at a cluster of three fertile inhabited islands in thirteen or fourteen degrees north latitude, just three months and twenty days from the time of leaving the Straits.

Here they anchored. No sooner did the natives perceive them, than they came off in their canoes, bringing cocoa-nuts, yams, and rice. They were well-formed men, of an olive-brown colour, their teeth stained black and red. Some of them wore long beards, and the hair of their heads hung down to their waists. They were perfectly naked, their bodies anointed with cocoa-nut oil, some of them wearing head-dresses made from the leaves of the palm-tree. The women appeared to have some idea of modesty, and wore coverings of cloth made from the bark of a tree. Their hair was black and thick, reaching almost to the ground. They appeared to be very industrious, and were seen employed in making nets and mats from fibre. Their houses were built of timber, thatched with large leaves, and divided into several apartments, the beds in which were of palm mats piled one above another. Their only weapons were clubs and long poles tipped with horn. Their canoes were formed of planks sewn together with fibre, the stem and stern alike, and were painted either black, white, or red. The sails, which were balanced by outriggers, were made of broad leaves sewn together, and the rudder was formed of a broad board at the end of a pole.

When the Spaniards went on shore, the natives received them in a friendly way, but soon showed that they were of an especially thievish disposition, pilfering everything on which they could lay hands, either from those who landed, or when they themselves went on board the vessels.

From this circumstance Magalhaens bestowed on the islands the name of the Ladrones, or thieves. The voyagers, indeed, found it impossible to enjoy any quiet, either while they were ashore or on land, as the natives stood hovering about to pick up whatever they could find.

At length they stole one of the boats from the stern of the Admiral's ship, on which, to punish them, he landed with a party of ninety men, and marching up the country, set fire to one of their villages, which being built of wood thatched with leaves, burnt rapidly. He also killed some of the natives, who, when they were wounded, drew out the arrows, and gazed at them with astonishment, as if they had never before seen such weapons. When the Spaniards retired, after their cruel exploit, the natives followed them in wellnigh a hundred canoes, as if disposed to renew the traffic; but instead of doing so, as they got near, uttering shouts and shrieks, they threw showers of stones on board the ships, and then took rapidly to flight.

Having refreshed themselves, and finding no advantage could be gained by a longer stay at the Ladrones, the Spaniards set sail. They touched at a beautiful uninhabited island, where they found springs of clear water and abundance of fruit-trees, and to this the Admiral gave the name of the Island of Good Signs.

While the ships lay at anchor, canoes from other islands, seen in the distance, came towards them, bringing presents of fish, cocoa-nuts, cocoa-nut wine, and other provisions. Though nearly naked, they were remarkably well behaved, and wore ornaments of gold, and cotton head-dresses. Their bodies were tatooed and perfumed with aromatic oils. They used harpoons and fishing -- nets, and had swords, lances, clubs, and shields.

When the Spaniards went on shore they found that the island was cultivated, and that spices were grown, of which they saw considerable stores. The whole group was at first called the Archipelago of Saint Lazarus, but it is now known as a portion of the Philippines. The island where the squadron anchored was called Humuna. The wine, it was found, was the sap of a tree, which was drawn out by cutting off a branch, into which a large reed was fixed, and by its means the sap, of a light amber colour, with a tart taste, dropped out, when it was considered at once fit for drinking.

The fruit, with which many of the voyagers now first became acquainted, was described as big as a man's head, with two rinds, the outermost being green, two fingers thick, and full of strings and shreds. Within this was a shell of considerable thickness and very hard, the kernel being white and of the thickness of a finger, with a pleasant taste like that of almonds. In the midst was a hollow full of pure limpid water, of a very cordial and refreshing nature. When the natives wish to make oil of it, they leave the root to steep in water until it putrifies. They then set it over a fire, and boil it until the oil rises to the surface.

Their visitors came from the island of Zulvan, where they produced cinnamon, spices, cloves, nutmegs, ginger, and mace, which they brought off in their canoes. They exhibited also numerous articles made of gold. They had earrings of gold, and had jewels fastened with pieces of gold to their arms, besides which they possessed daggers, knives, and lances ornamented with the same metal. They were broad-shouldered, well-made men, of olive colour, their naked bodies being well greased and anointed with oil.

On the 25th of March the squadron left Humuna, and steering between numerous islands, again brought up off the island of Mazagua. The Admiral having on board a slave, a native of Sumatra, took him to act as interpreter in his intercourse with the chief or Rajah of the island.

Everything was done to impress the Rajah with the power of the Europeans, and the dignity of the King their master. The Rajah was a fine-looking man, with long hair, of an olive complexion, and his body perfumed with sweet oil. He had gold rings in his ears, three on every finger, and on his head he wore a fine silk turban, while a piece of cotton, embroidered with silk and gold, covered his body to the knees. At his side he carried a long dagger, with a gold handle and a scabbard of fine carved wood. He and his Court were constantly chewing the areca-nut.

In order to impress the Rajah Colambu, as the prince was called, with the power and superiority of Europeans, the Admiral dressed up one of his sailors in complete armour, and directed three others to cut at him with swords, and endeavour to pierce him with their poniards. The Rajah, on seeing that he was unharmed, was much astonished, and remarked that one warrior so protected might contend with a hundred foes.

"Yes," replied the Admiral, through his interpreter, "and each of my three vessels has two hundred armed in the same manner."

The natives appeared to have no religious rites, but only lifted up their faces, their hands joined together, towards heaven when they called upon their god Abba.

Under the idea of inducing the natives to become Christians, the Admiral landed on Easter Day, with a banner, on which was portrayed a cross, a crown of thorns, and nails. He told all his men to reverence it, and informed the Rajah that it should be set up on some high mountain, not only as a memorial of the good treatment the Christians had received, but for his own security, since if they devoutly prayed to it, they would be protected from lightning and thunder. Some of the Spaniards then received the communion, and after discharging their muskets, to the great astonishment of the savages, returned to their ships.

The Rajah promised to do as the Admiral wished, knowing no better. After this a priest, the chronicler of the voyage, and a companion, went on shore to partake of a feast which the Rajah had prepared, and which was served in porcelain vessels. His manner of eating and drinking was to take alternately a mouthful of meat and a spoonful of wine, lifting up his hands to heaven before he helped himself, when he suddenly extended his left fist in a way which made the priest expect that he was going to receive a buffet in the face. Among the luxuries on the table were candles, composed of gums, rolled up in palm-leaves. The Rajah, who had on the previous day attended Mass and nominally professed himself a Christian, became so tipsy that he was unable to attend to any of the duties of the state.

On his recovery he requested that the Admiral would allow his crews to assist in gathering in his harvest, which friendly office they performed with much satisfaction. This done, the ships again sailed, accompanied by the Rajah in his big canoe; but she being unable to keep up with the squadron, he and his people were taken on board, and after passing by several other islands, the ships arrived on the 7th of April, about noon, at Zebut, the principal port of the Philippine Islands.

In order to impress the Rajah of this place and his people -- two thousand of whom, armed with spears and shields, were collected at the water's edge gazing at a sight so novel to them -- with the greatness and power of the Spaniards, the ships were decked with banners and a salute fired from all the great guns, which caused no small amount of consternation among the spectators.

To allay their fears, an envoy, accompanied by the slave from Sumatra, called Enrique, to act as interpreter, was sent on shore, who informed the Rajah that it was the custom for Spaniards to discharge their cannon whenever they came into great ports, and that it was done in respect to him. The envoy also expressed the high consideration in which the King of Spain, the greatest monarch on the earth, and his Captain-General Magalhaens, held the Rajah of Zebut, adding that the ships had come, on their way to the Moluccas, to obtain provisions and articles of merchandise. The Rajah, in return, bade them welcome, but said that it was customary for all ships to pay him tribute, and that he expected the like acknowledgment from them.

This the envoy positively refused, informing him that the Captain-General was the servant of so great a king that he never had yet, nor ever would, make an acknowledgment of the sort to any prince in the world, and that if he would not receive them peaceably, he would soon have his hands full of war.

The Rajah, advised by a Moor who was at his Court, and by the Rajah Mazagua, the next day was ready rather to pay tribute himself than excite the hostility of his visitors. However, they did not require tribute, and only wanted liberty to trade, which was cheerfully granted.

The next day the two Rajahs of Mazagua and Zebut came on board, when, after some conferences had been held, the Admiral persuaded them to embrace the Christian faith. This they forthwith did, being baptised, together with several of the ladies of their families.

The Rajah of Zebut received the name of Carlos, after the Emperor, and his son that of Fernando. The Rajah of Mazagua was called Juan, and a Moorish Christian received the name of Christopher.

Besides the princes and their Court, five hundred persons of inferior rank were also baptised; so that Magalhaens congratulated himself on the wonderful success of his first attempt at converting the heathen. He then told them that, as they had become Christians, they must do away with their idols; and all to be found being forthwith broken to pieces, crosses were erected in their places. As he had previously done, the Admiral urged them to pray before the crosses devoutly, morning and evening.

The Queen, with forty of her ladies, and her daughter, the wife of the heir apparent, was also baptised. The latter was young and handsome, and wore a robe of white cloth, her head being adorned with a tiara of date-leaves.

After the ceremony Mass was performed, which the Queen attended. She was habited in a garment like that of her daughter, and over her head and shoulders she wore a silken veil striped with gold. Three young girls walked before her, each carrying one of the royal hats.

Having bowed to the altar, the Queen seated herself on a cushion of embroidered silk, when she and her attendants were sprinkled by the Admiral with rose-water, -- a scent in which the women of the country greatly delighted.

The Admiral obtained still further credit, and gained over more proselytes, by a cure which he was said to have effected on the brother of the Rajah of Zebut. The Prince complaining of illness, the Admiral assured him that if he would be baptised and break all his idols, he would to a certainty be cured, pledging his word for the result. The rite was performed, the Admiral taking care to administer certain medicines for the space of five days, at the end of which time the prince acknowledged that he was perfectly well.

Thus, in less than fourteen days after the arrival of the squadron, the whole of the inhabitants of Zebut and the neighbouring regions had been converted to the new faith adopted by the Rajah and his nobles, with the exception of one village of idolaters, which still stoutly held out against it. To convert them more readily, the Admiral with a party of men attacked the village, which they burnt to ashes, and then erected the cross on its ruins.



Chapter Fourteen.

Voyage Of Magalhaens, Continued -- A.D. 1521-2.

The Rajahs of Zebut and Mazagua pay tribute -- Magalhaens attacks the Rajah of Matan -- Sad death of the Admiral -- Treachery of the Rajah of Zebut -- Massacre of Spanish officers -- Don Juan Serrano cowardly deserted -- Ships sail away -- Reach Bohol -- The Conception burnt -- Touch at Mindanao and Cagayan Sooloo -- Hear of Borneo -- Sufferings from hunger --  Friendly reception at Puluan -- Provisions obtained -- Arrak first met with -- Cross to Borneo, and anchor off a large city -- The Rajah treats the Spaniards handsomely -- Wealth of the Rajah -- Customs of the people --  Carvalho deposed, and Espinosa chosen Captain, with Sebastian del Cano under him -- Reach Cimbuhon -- Ships careened -- Curious birds and insects --  The Moluccas reached -- Anchor at Tidor -- Spices obtained -- The Trinidad abandoned -- The Vittoria alone leaves the Moluccas -- Portuguese vessels robbed -- The Cape of Good Hope rounded -- Dreadful sufferings from hunger --  Many die -- Put into harbour of Santiago in the Cape de Verdes -- Portuguese discover where they have been -- Attempt to capture the ship -- Del Cano, now Captain, escapes -- The Vittoria arrives in the harbour of Saint Lucar, 6th of September, 1522 -- Del Cano rewarded with patent of nobility -- The Vittoria afterwards lost -- The name of Magalhaens or Magellan justly given to the Straits he discovered.

So submissive had the Rajahs of Mazagua and Zebut become, that they now willingly paid tribute to the Spaniards, supplying them abundantly with provisions, and treating them with the greatest hospitality whenever they came on shore. The satisfaction of the Admiral was still further increased by hearing that the Moluccas, of which he had come in search, were to be found at no great distance to the southward.

Not far from Zebut lies the island of Matan, the Rajah of which, though willing to pay every courtesy to the strangers, declined to acknowledge the sovereignty of the Emperor, or to pay him tribute.

This so incensed the Admiral, that he resolved forthwith to reduce the refractory Rajah to obedience, notwithstanding that he was warned of the power of his foe, who possessed an army of six or seven thousand men, and although naked like the rest of the inhabitants, were furnished with bows, arrows, darts, and javelins.

Juan Serrano and other officers implored him not to go, but he persisted in his design, laughing at the notion that naked savages could contend with Spaniards wearing coats of mail and helmets. The Admiral set out with fifty of his men thus caparisoned, accompanied by his ally, the Rajah of Zebut, whose services, however, he declined, bidding him wait in his boats to witness the fight and the certain defeat of their foes. On reaching the shore, the Admiral landed, on the 27th of April, 1521, and at once, with his muskets and crossbows, attacked the enemy, who were drawn up to receive him. The natives were brave fellows, and though some fell, others came on, soon learning to despise the slight effect produced by the bolts of the crossbows and the shots from the ill-constructed firearms of their invaders.

Perceiving that the Spaniards' heads were cased in iron, but that the lower part of their bodies were exposed, they took aim at their legs, and many were thus severely wounded. The Admiral, seeing a village near at hand, and fancying that by destroying it the enemy would be overawed, sent a part of his men to burn it down. This they did, but being set upon by an overwhelming force, two were killed, while the rest were compelled to retreat.

In the meantime, another body of savages attacking the Admiral and his remaining followers -- now reduced to seven or eight men -- he himself was wounded in the leg by an arrow, and he was repeatedly struck on the head by stones. Twice his helmet was knocked off, and his temple was wounded by a lance thrust between the bars of his visor. At length his sword-arm was disabled, and he could no longer defend himself. He called on his men to retreat, and, fighting round him, they made their way to the shore, hoping to get on board the boats, which were still at some distance. In vain the boats rowed in to his rescue. He was already in deep water, when, wounded in the leg, he fell on his face. Recovering himself, he turned several times as if imploring the assistance of his companions; but, terror-stricken, they were endeavouring to reach the boats, and a crowd of savages rushing on, quickly dispatched him, and dragged off his dead body. The Rajah of Zebut coming up -- for the fight had taken place some distance from the boats -- rescued the survivors. Of the whole party who had landed, eight were killed with their leader, and twenty-two were wounded. The result of the battle had an effect very disastrous to the Spaniards on the minds of their converts, whom they at first were inclined to look upon as superior beings, but now learned to despise.

Thus ignominiously perished, on the very eve of success, the justly celebrated mariner, Fernando de Magalhaens, ever to be remembered as the discoverer of the passage between the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans, and who, had he lived, would have been the first circumnavigator of the globe. He must not be judged by the present standard. His religion was bigotry and gross idolatry, and his last act, for which he paid the penalty of his life, was utterly unjustifiable.

Don Juan Serrano, having become leader of the expedition, in vain endeavoured to recover the body of the Admiral by making the most tempting offers to the Rajah of Matan, who was, however, too highly pleased with the trophy of victory he had obtained to restore it. It was no wonder, also, that the new religion at once fell into contempt among the recent converts, while the Rajah of Zebut was anxious to make friends with his rival of Matan.

Instigated by the interpreter Enrique, the Rajah of Zebut formed a plan for treacherously destroying the Spaniards, hoping thus to get possession of their ships and the rich cargoes they contained.

Concealing his designs under the guise of friendship, he invited all the officers, and as many of the people as could come, to a banquet which he had prepared for them.

Fancying that they should receive a valuable present of jewels, which he had expressed an intention of sending to the Emperor, they accepted the invitation. A party of thirty-four accordingly landed, but as they were proceeding to the Rajah's palace, two of their number, Juan Carvalho and Sebastian del Cano, pilots, suspecting from certain signs that something was amiss, returned to the boats and pulled back to the ships.

Scarcely had they got on board when fearful shrieks and shouts and clashing of arms were heard, as if men were engaged in desperate fight, and they saw several of their companions come rushing down towards the shore.

They immediately brought the broadsides of the ships to bear on the town, and began firing their guns in the hopes of driving back the savages. The fugitives were quickly overtaken. Some were struck down; others were seized, among whom was Don Juan Serrano. He was dragged, bound hand and foot, to the water's edge. He shouted to his countrymen to desist from firing and to rescue him. The natives told him that he should be delivered up if the Spaniards would supply them with artillery and ammunition. This they would have done, but the cunning savages first wished to get the guns into their hands, hoping afterwards to obtain possession of the ships.

Carvalho and the remainder of the crews suspecting this, weighed their anchors ready to put to sea. Serrano, on observing what they were about, threw himself on his knees, entreating them not to leave him in the hands of the treacherous savages. Finding, on mustering their forces, that only eighty men now remained, and fearing that should they continue longer they themselves would lose their lives, they refused to listen to his entreaties, and loosing the sails, they stood away from the shore, thus leaving to a cruel fate their talented captain, the best seaman among them, who, had he been saved, would undoubtedly have proved of the greatest advantage to the expedition. What ultimately became of him was never known. Many years afterwards, it was reported that eight Spaniards had been sold as slaves by the Rajah of Zebut to the Chinese. The two ships, now commanded by Carvalho, proceeded on their way to the Moluccas. On reaching the island of Bohol, as their numbers had been greatly reduced by sickness and the loss of men at Matan and Zebut, they shifted the guns and stores of the Conception into the two other ships, and then burned her.

Touching at the island of Mindanao, they met with a friendly reception from the Rajah. It was found to abound in rice, sugar, ginger, hogs, hens, and other animals. They next touched at Cagayan Sooloo, where from some of the natives they heard of the large island of Borneo existing to the west. The inhabitants appeared to possess much gold, and they used poisoned arrows, which they darted by the force of their breath through hollow reeds. At their sides they wore daggers ornamented with precious stones. Magnificent trees were seen on shore, but no provisions, so greatly required, could be obtained. In consequence of this, they were so nearly starved that many of the men proposed landing on one of the islands and establishing themselves there for life.

On reaching Puluan, however, and finding provisions abundant, they resolved to continue their voyage. Besides the articles they found at Mindanao, it produced large figs, sweet potatoes, cocoa-nuts, and sugar-canes.

The Rajah, as a token of peace, drew some blood out of his left arm, and marked his body, face, and the top of his tongue with it. The Spaniards, to win his regard, imitated his example. The people went perfectly naked, and occupied themselves chiefly in cock-fighting.

The voyagers here first met with arrak, which the natives distil from rice. Having obtained a pilot, the Spaniards crossed over to the large island of Borneo, and on the 8th of July they came to an anchor off a city which was said to contain twenty-five thousand houses. They were built within high water mark, and raised on posts. When the tide was full, the people communicated by boats going about from house to house.

Soon after they dropped anchor, the Rajah, who was a Moor, of considerable power, sent handsome presents on board, and invited the Captains to visit him.

On landing, the Spaniards found two elephants, covered with silk trappings, ready to conduct them to his palace. In front of it a feast had been prepared, consisting of meat, fowl, and fish, placed on the floor, round which they sat on mats. The natives, after each mouthful, sipped arrak from porcelain cups, and used golden spoons to eat their rice. The feast being over, it was announced to the Captains that the Rajah was ready for them. On their way they passed through a large saloon, in which were a number of courtiers, and from thence into an anteroom, where three hundred guards, armed with poniards, were drawn up. At the farther end of the apartment was a curtain of brocaded silk, and on this being pulled aside, the Rajah, a stout man of about forty, was seen seated at a table, with a little child by his side, and chewing betel, while behind him stood his female attendants, who were supposed to be the daughters of the chief men and to govern his household.

As the courtiers -- who were naked, with the exception of a piece of ornamented cloth round their waists -- approached, they raised their hands, clasped, three times over their heads; then, lifting up their feet one after the other, they kissed their hands before speaking. They wore numerous rings on their fingers, and daggers with gold hilts set with gems. The Rajah, as the gifts of the Spaniards were presented to him, bowed slightly, and returned others of brocade and cloth of gold and silver. While in his presence the explorers observed the way in which suitors made their petitions, none being allowed to address him personally.

The suitor, having arrived at an outer chamber, presented his petition to a courtier, who repeated it to one of higher rank, and he again passed it on to a person of still greater importance, who then whispered it through a hollow cane fixed in the wall, reaching the inner chamber, into the ear of the chief officer of state, by whom it was conveyed to the Rajah himself.

The Captain heard that the Rajah possessed two pearls the size of hens' eggs, and that when placed on a polished table they kept continually moving.

The ceremony of introduction being over, and permission to trade being granted, the curtain was again drawn aside to allow of their exit, and the Captains retired. So great was the confidence established that they remained in the palace during the night. Their sleeping-apartment was lighted by two wax candles in silver candlesticks, and two large lamps, with four lights to each, were kept burning all night, being attended by two men to trim them.

The people were skilful in the manufacture of porcelain, of which they exported large quantities. Their vessels were also ingeniously formed; those belonging to the Rajah had their prows carved and richly gilt. The country produced camphor, cinnamon, sugar-cane, ginger, oranges, lemons, melons, and many other fruits, with abundance of beasts and birds.

Having regained their ships, notwithstanding the polite treatment they had received, under the pretence that they were about to be attacked by some junks, the Spaniards seized several in the harbour, which they knew were richly-laden, and kidnapped a number of wealthy persons on board them.

Leaving Borneo, the two ships proceeded to the island of Cimbuhon. On their way the crews insisted on deposing the pilot, Cavalho, who had never been liked, and in his stead they chose Espinosa as Captain-General, with Sebastian del Cano under him.

Finding a commodious port, with abundance of fresh water and fuel, they hove down their ships and caulked them. This occupied them forty days. To obtain suitable wood for repairs, they had to search for it in the forests, and drag it with infinite labour from among the prickly bushes, their feet suffering greatly, as their shoes had worn out.

It was here that the priest Pigafelta found what he fancied was an animated leaf. He was watching a tree resembling that of a mulberry, when several leaves fell off. The moment they were touched they sprang away. He kept, he says, one of these animated leaves in a dish for eight days. They were, in reality, not leaves, but insects, which, from their resembling leaves, are enabled to escape the attacks of other creatures; indeed, they were the well-known leaf-insect of the mantis species.

The island abounded with cassowaries, the East Indian ostrich, and wild hogs. They also captured a fish with a head resembling that of a hog, having two horns and something like a saddle on its back. After leaving this place, they encountered a tremendous storm, when, in their alarm, they vowed to set free a slave, in honour of their three saints, Saint Elmo, Saint Nicolas, and Saint Clare.

Anxiously they looked for the sign of the assistance they sought, when at length, to their joy, they observed the desired lights flickering at their mast-heads, which continued shining for two hours, when the storm abated. They were thus convinced that Saint Elmo, the friend to mariners, had come to their assistance, accompanied by the other two saints.

At the next island, Sarraugan, where they touched, they seized two natives, whom they compelled to go as their pilots to the long-sought-for Moluccas. The Portuguese had reported that the sea was too shallow to be navigated, but on sounding they found it upwards of fifty fathoms. They well knew, indeed, that their rivals had an object in describing it as dangerous.

At length, on the 8th of November, at sunrise, they entered the harbour of Tidore, one of the Moluccas. The Mohammedan ruler of the island, Almanzor, at once came on board to welcome them, assuring them of his affection for his brother the King of Spain, and inviting them to establish a factory on shore.

Here the spices they sought for were given in exchange for red cloth, drinking-glasses, knives, and axes. The houses, like those of Borneo, were built on piles, and fenced round with cane hedges. Provisions of all sorts were brought off to the ships, and water, which, though it rushed out of the mountains very hot, became perfectly cool when exposed to the air.

The Rajah of the neighbouring island of Bachian sent a present to the King of Spain, -- a couple of birds about the size of turtle-doves, with small heads, long bills, and two long feathers at their sides, their bodies being of a tawny colour. The Moors told them that the birds never fly, but are blown by the wind from heaven. They were, indeed, the first specimens they had seen of the now well-known birds of Paradise, of which there are numerous species. The population generally were heathens, the Moors having gained an ascendancy in the islands only forty years before.

When about to sail, the Trinidad was found so leaky that she was left behind, and the Vittoria proceeded alone on her voyage, with a crew of forty-seven Europeans, thirteen Indians, and some pilots from the Moluccas.

In her progress her captain did not scruple to rob any Portuguese or native traders he met with, taking whatever he wanted. They touched at various islands, where they obtained sandal-wood, ginger, and different sorts of fruit.

Passing to the north of Java, they ran through the channel between that island and Sumatra, taking care to avoid the Straits of Malacca, on the north shore of which the Portuguese had a settlement. They now steered directly for the Cape of Good Hope. As they approached Madagascar, in consequence of the want of provisions, a mutiny broke out, some of the men wishing to put into Mozambique to repair the ship and obtain food; but as it was known that the Portuguese were there also, who would perhaps make them prisoners and take possession of their ship, the captain, supported by most of the officers, refused to listen to their complaints, and steered a course so as to round the Cape. By this time twenty-one men of those who had left Tidore had died. They passed the Cape of Good Hope on the 6th of May, 1522. They were now suffering greatly both from sickness and starvation, and, after two months, at length sighting the Cape de Verde Islands, when nature being unable longer to hold out, rather than risk death from famine, they put into the harbour of Santiago, and threw themselves on the mercy of their rivals. To their surprise, they found that although, according to their reckoning, it was Wednesday, the 9th of July, it was in reality Thursday, the 10th, showing that they had lost a day. This was in consequence of their having sailed west with the sun. Had they gone round in the opposite direction, they would, in the same way, have gained a day. The Spaniards had no difficulty in obtaining provisions, and a supply of food was got on board.

The men had been strictly enjoined not to say where they came from, but one of them, who with twelve more had gone ashore, offered some spices in exchange for food and drink, when it was suspected that they had visited the Moluccas. On this the Portuguese immediately seized them; but, by some means, Sebastian del Cano, who was now captain, observing the preparations for attacking his vessel, ordered the cable to be cut, and, all sail being made, he carried the Vittoria out of the harbour in safety.

He now, with his diminished crew, continued his progress to the northward. After a farther voyage of nearly two months, the successful commander, who was to reap the chief benefits of the voyage, brought the Vittoria safe into the harbour of Saint Lucar on the 6th of September, 1522; the whole circumnavigation having occupied nearly three years, during which fourteen thousand six hundred leagues of sea had been traversed. On the 8th he took the vessel up the river to Seville. The eighteen survivors of the crew of sixty who sailed from the Moluccas, landing, walked barefooted in their shirts, carrying tapers in their hands, to offer thanks for their safe return.

Sebastian del Cano, escaping the fate which befell so many Spanish navigators, was handsomely received and rewarded, letters patent of nobility being bestowed upon him, with a globe for a crest, having the motto, "Primus me circum dedisti" -- "You first encompassed me."

The vessel herself, after becoming the theme of poets and historians, who declared that she deserved a shrine of gold, was ignominiously lost on her passage from Saint Domingo.

Putting aside the conduct on many occasions of the explorers, we must give due praise to the leader of the expedition who conducted it so nearly to a successful termination. By it was demonstrated without doubt the spherical form of the earth. The passage from the Atlantic to the Pacific was discovered, with numerous hitherto unknown islands, and the way thus opened to the several voyagers who subsequently sailed forth to explore the wide expanse of the Pacific Ocean.



Chapter Fifteen.

Voyage Of Sir Francis Drake Round The World -- A.D. 1577.

Drake introduced to Queen Elizabeth -- Describes his birth, education, early voyages, adventures with Hawkins, capture of treasure, and first sight of the South Sea -- Exploit and death of Oxenham -- Drake's liberality -- His plan unfolded -- The Queen's sanction -- A squadron of five vessels equipped -- Sails on 15th of November, 1577 -- Puts into Mogador --  visited by Moorish chiefs -- A seaman carried off by the Moors -- Small prizes taken -- Drake's generosity -- Touches at the Cape de Verdes -- The inhabitants fly -- Expedition on shore -- No provisions to be obtained -- A Portugal ship taken, and the pilot, Nuno da Silva, detained -- The Portugals liberated, and a pinnace given them -- Captain Doughty's misconduct -- The coast of Brazil sighted -- Native alarm fires seen -- A tempest -- The Christopher separates -- Squadron enters Rio de la Plata --  The Christopher returns -- Sails along the coast -- Another storm -- Caunter lost sight of -- Approach of winter -- The Admiral in danger -- Rescued by Captain Thomas of the Marigold -- Lands -- Natives fly -- Their huts visited -- Mode of catching ostriches -- The squadron collected -- The Elizabeth broken up -- Natives appear -- Friendly intercourse -- The Christopher run on shore -- The Mary recovered -- Squadron anchors in Port Saint Julien.

One morning, in the early part of the year 1577, Queen Elizabeth was seated in the private audience-chamber of her palace, attended by her ladies in waiting and two or three courtiers, who stood round in graceful attitudes, eager to catch her words, and equally ready to make suitable replies to the remarks of her Majesty, when a page entered and announced her Vice-Chamberlain, Sir Christopher Hatton, attended by a sea captain -- Master Francis Drake -- whom he craved permission to introduce.

"Admit them," said the Queen. "I have long desired to hear from Captain Drake's own lips an account of his adventures."

In a brief space of time the Vice-Chamberlain entered, followed by a person who in appearance differed much from the gaily habited courtiers in attendance on her Majesty. He was a man apparently between thirty and forty years of age, with the air and carriage of a seaman. His figure, somewhat below the middle height, was exquisitely proportioned; his chest broad, and his head round and well formed. Though sunburnt, his complexion was naturally fair and sanguine, his countenance open and cheerful, his hair of a brown colour, and his beard full and carefully trimmed. His large and lively eyes beamed with intelligence, and his mouth was firm set, while his whole countenance showed a quick and resolute character.

Bowing low as he entered, he was introduced in due form. He replied in a free and unembarrassed manner to the questions the Queen put to him.

"I have been well informed, Captain Drake, of the good service you have rendered to the Earl of Essex with your three frigates in subduing the rebellion in Ireland; but I desire to know more of your earlier exploits in the West Indies, and I shall be pleased to be informed of your birth and parentage."

Exhibiting due modesty in all he said, Captain Drake replied that he had been at sea from his boyhood. He was the eldest among twelve sons of Master Edward Drake, Vicar of Upnor, and was born in the year 1544 in a cottage near Tavistock, on the banks of the Tavey. From his earliest days, having constantly seen the royal ships anchored in the Medway, his desire had been to follow the sea; and to gratify his wishes, when he was of an age to leave home his father placed him with the master of a bark, in which he used to trade along the shore, and sometimes to carry merchandise into Zealand and France. His master dying, left him his bark as a mark of his good-will, and when but eighteen he became purser of a vessel frequenting the ports of Biscay. He shortly afterwards entered a ship commanded by Master John Hawkins, engaged in the slave trade. Having obtained a cargo partly by the sword and partly by other means at Sierra Leone, they were conveyed across the Atlantic to the island of Hispaniola.

Having made a voyage or two with Master Hawkins, he obtained the command of the Judith, a bark of fifty tons, one of a squadron under the same Admiral.

The ships having taken in their cargoes of slaves as usual, Master Hawkins sailed for the Canaries and the Spanish Main, that he might exchange his freight for silver, sugar, and other commodities most valued at home. On passing the town of Rio de la Hacha, Master Hawkins stormed it, because the Governor refused to trade with him.

"Such an act was not in accordance with our will," observed the Queen. "But go on, Master Drake."

"Reaching the Gulf of Mexico, the squadron was compelled to seek shelter in the port of San Juan del Ulloa. At first the Spaniards believed that we were part of a fleet they were expecting, and were in great consternation when, coming on board, they discovered their mistake. Our commander assured them that our sole desire was to seek shelter from stress of weather, and procure provisions and merchandise, for which he would pay, but he deemed it prudent to detain two persons of consequence as hostages. His proposals were accepted. Near us lay twelve merchant ships, laden with two hundred thousand pounds' worth of goods; but, though we might easily have mastered them, the Admiral, knowing that it would displease your Majesty, refrained from doing so.

"While waiting for the answer from the Viceroy of Mexico, the expected Spanish fleet arrived with a cargo valued at one million eight hundred thousand pounds. We were sorely tempted, it must be confessed, to go out and attack them, and we knew that if they were admitted our safety would be jeopardised, as the haven is confined and the town populous.

"At length the Viceroy agreed to the terms proposed by Master Hawkins, and we in a friendly way exchanged visits with the officers of the newly arrived fleet. Thus lulled into security, we did not dream of the vile treachery the Spaniards were preparing, until we observed an unusual bustle on board their vessels, and soldiers in great numbers gathering on shore. Master Hawkins was at dinner in his cabin on board the Minion, when a Spaniard, Villa Nueva by name, -- but an old villain he was by nature, your Majesty will allow, -- attempted to plunge a dagger, which he had concealed in his sleeve, into the Admiral's breast. But Master Hawkins was too quick for him, and, having him bound, sprang on deck, where he saw the Spaniards from their admiral's ship, which lay close to the Minion, about to board her.

"On this, shouting 'God and Saint George! Upon those traitorous villains, and rescue the Minion!' he and his men drove back the Spaniards and set their ship on fire.

"He then made sail and stood for the mouth of the harbour, though surrounded by foes. I, on board my little bark, the Judith, followed his example, firing at the treacherous Spaniards, who in their ships and boats endeavoured to overwhelm us. They succeeded too well with the rest of the squadron, all of which were captured and their crews butchered. This foul deed was done, although we had in no way offended the Spaniards. Your Majesty will doubtless see that we have just cause to retaliate on those wretches for their unexampled treacherous cruelties towards your Majesty's faithful subjects.

"On my arrival in England, feeling sure that I was acting justly, I fitted out two ships, the Dragon and Swan, with which I sailed to the Spanish Main; and in the following year I again went out in the Swan, more to obtain information of those seas than to make reprisals, although I captured not a few goodly barks laden with merchandise.

"In 1572 I again sailed in command of the Pacha, of seventy tons, and the Swan, of twenty-five tons, of which my brother John, who had taken to the sea, was captain. Reaching the coast of America, we were joined by another bark, belonging to the Isle of Wight; and now, having obtained the friendship of a tribe of natives, the Cimarrones, we considered ourselves sufficiently strong to attack the town of Nombre de Dios, where we expected to obtain a rich booty; but, disappointed in this, led by one of our dark-skinned allies, we resolved to intercept the mules bringing treasure from Panama to the aforesaid place. We therefore left our squadron in the Sound of Darien, and marched overland. Though again at first disappointed, we at length fell in with a train of fifty mules laden with gold and silver, of which we took possession. It was on this journey that the chief of the Cimarrones, taking me by the hand, led me to the top of a high tree in which steps had been cut, and where twelve men might sit with ease. Thence I could see, at the same time, the Atlantic, from whence we came, and that Southern Ocean so greatly desired, on the other hand; for on both sides, the trees having been cut down, nothing impeded our view. On this, calling up my men, and among them my trusty follower John Oxenham, I prayed Almighty God of His goodness to give me life and leave to sail once in an English ship on that sea. On this, John Oxenham swore that, unless I should beat him from my company, he would, by God's grace, follow me. As I was narrating to your Majesty, we secured the gold and part of the silver; but, as we could not carry the remainder across the mountains, it was concealed until an opportunity might occur for our removing it. By a sad mishap, one of our seamen fell into the hands of the Spaniards, and when I sent a party to recover the treasure, it had been carried off; the poor fellow, as we found, having been put to the torture to reveal its hiding-place. On our march back we surprised and burnt Venta Cruz, and obtained more booty, returning to our ships just in time to escape a large body of Spaniards, who had been assembled to attack us.

"We safely reached Plymouth on Sunday the 9th of August, 1573, when the people in the church, hearing of our arrival, rushed out to welcome us, leaving few to hear the preacher finish his discourse.

"Though not relating to myself, I must tell your Majesty how my faithful friend John Oxenham sailed away forthwith, accompanied by carpenters and other artificers, determined to do that which never man had before enterprised. Crossing the Isthmus of Darien, he built a pinnace, in which he embarked on the South Sea. Having taken two prizes, he was returning with his booty across the isthmus to his ship, when he was assailed by overwhelming numbers of the Spaniards and made prisoner. Of his sad fate I have gained tidings. He was carried to Lima, and there, according to the vile custom of those foes of the human race, cruelly tortured and put to death. It makes the heart of a man burn within him to avenge such treatment of your Majesty's subjects."

The Queen did not reply, but she had no desire to check the ardour of the brave captain.

"Master Drake has not mentioned to your Majesty a circumstance of which I have been told," observed Sir Christopher Hatton. "Before coming away, he presented his cutlass to the chief of the Cimarrones, who had shown a great longing for it; and when in exchange the cacique gave him four large wedges of gold, Master Drake, declining to appropriate them, threw them into the common stock, observing he thought it just that such as bore the charge of so uncertain a voyage on his credit, should share the utmost advantage that the voyage produced; and good fortune deservedly attended him to the end of his enterprise."

"On what matter have you desired this interview, Captain Drake?" asked the Queen.

"It is one which, for obvious reasons, Master Drake desires should not be made public," observed Sir Christopher Hatton.

On this her Majesty signed to her courtiers to retire out of earshot, and then ordered Drake to speak. He accordingly, craving her Majesty's sanction, and pointing out its importance, and the gold and advantage which her kingdom might derive from its prosperous issue, unfolded his design. His ambition was, he said, to conduct a fleet of stout ships, well armed, through the straits which the Portuguese Magalhaens had discovered more than half a century before, into that Pacific Ocean which he had navigated from east to west, and on which John Oxenham's bark had floated, and he himself had besought Almighty God that he too might sail in an English ship. He spoke not at the time of attacking the Spaniards wherever he should meet them, and depriving them of the wealth they had procured by the death of the thousands of helpless Indians they had enslaved, knowing that her Majesty, since she was at peace with Spain, could not openly approve of such a proceeding.

What more was said need not be repeated; but as he took his parting farewell of the Queen, her Majesty presented him with a sword, saying, "We do account that he which striketh at thee, Drake, striketh at us."

With this verbal warrant, the brave Captain lost no time in making energetic preparations for his projected voyage. He found no lack of followers eager to share his fortunes; but, according to the best of his judgment, he chose men of experience and tried bravery, on whom he could depend. He gave out that the squadron was intended for a trading voyage to Alexandria, though neither his officers nor the ever-watchful Spaniards were deceived by those pretexts.

Five ships were procured, and, being rapidly fitted out, were supplied with all necessary stores and munitions. Drake himself superintended everything, down to the minutest point, so that nothing required might be wanting. It was to this, as well as to the interest he took in his men, and to his superior seamanship and enterprise, that much of his success was owing.

His squadron consisted of five vessels, -- the Pelican, of a hundred tons burden, in which he himself sailed; the second being the Elizabeth, vice-admiral, burden eighty tons, Captain John Winter; the third the Marigold, a bark of thirty tons, Captain John Thomas; the fourth the Swan, a fly-boat of fifty tons, Captain John Chester; the fifth the Christopher, a pinnace of fifteen tons, Captain Thomas Moon. These ships were manned with a hundred and sixty-four able seamen, officers, and others, and among other things carried were several pinnaces, ready framed in pieces, to be set up in smooth water as might be required. He had a band of musicians, his cabins were richly furnished, and the services for the table, and many utensils even belonging to the cook room, were of silver. All things being ready, the Admiral and his officers went on board, and set sail from Plymouth Sound at five o'clock in the afternoon of the 15th of November, 1577.

When off the Lizard, meeting with a heavy south-westerly gale, they were driven back, the Pelican and Marigold having to cut away their mainmasts, to Falmouth, where they remained until the 13th of the next month, when, all their damages being repaired, they once more put to sea.

All on board were eager to know their destination. When out of sight of land, the Admiral, should the ships be separated, appointed Mogador as a rendezvous, and it was thus guessed that they were not bound up the Straits of Gibraltar.

Sighting the Barbary coast on the 25th of December, the squadron entered the harbour of Mogador, in the dominions of the King of Fez, on the 27th. While some of the people were employed in setting up a pinnace, several natives appeared, among whom were two Moorish chiefs, requesting to be taken on board to the Admiral. A boat was accordingly dispatched, and the two Moors were brought off, an Englishman being left as a hostage. The Moors were courteously entertained. When wine was presented to them, they declined drinking it in public, but had no objection to swallow a good quantity when they could do so unobserved.

On their return the hostage was restored. The next day some men and camels came down to the beach, apparently wishing to trade, as they exhibited various commodities. On this a boat from one of the ships, unknown to the Admiral, was sent to meet them, when one of the men in her, John Fry by name, wishing to become a hostage, that he might hear them speak and observe their manners, leapt hurriedly on shore, and ran on some way from the boat. Before he was aware of his danger, he was seized by the Moors, who, lifting him up on one of the camels, set off with him at a rapid rate. As the rest of the crew were about to land, a large number of the natives sprang out from behind the rocks, and compelled the English seamen to retreat. It was afterwards found that the man had been carried off by the orders of the King of Fez, who wished to gain information regarding an expected invasion of his territory by the Portuguese.

Drake, on hearing what had occurred, landed a party of men and marched some distance into the interior, but the Moors kept out of his way, so that he was compelled to return without gaining information; and, supposing that Fry was lost, he ordered the squadron to put to sea. Fry meanwhile was kindly treated by the King of Fez, who, finding that no information could be got from him, sent him back to the coast, where, to his grief, he found that the fleet had sailed. He, however, before long got home in an English merchant vessel.

Running down the African coast, they took three Spanish fishing-boats called caunters, and shortly afterwards two caravels, when at length they caught sight of the Southern Cross. Passing Cape Barbas, they sighted a Spanish ship at anchor. She was captured with only two people on board, the rest having fled on shore. In a harbour, three leagues within the cape, the ships brought up, and there remained several days, obtaining fresh water and provisions, as well as all sorts of fish in abundance.

The people here appeared to be suffering from famine, and a wretched woman, with a babe in her arms, was brought down to the beach to be sold as a slave; but Drake indignantly refused to purchase her, saying that he did not trade in human beings. Other people brought leather bags to buy water. Drake gave them water, but declined receiving payment in return. Having refitted the ships and discharged all the Spanish prizes, except one caunter, in exchange for which the Christopher was given to the owner, and one caravel, the squadron proceeded to the Cape de Verde Islands, and put into the harbour of Saint Mary's. Here, when the inhabitants, who were subjects of the King of Portugal, saw them coming on shore, they fled to the mountains, and no provisions or fresh water could be purchased.

A party, under Captain Winter and Mr Thomas Doughty, was sent on shore to try and obtain what was required. They saw large herds of goats; wild hens, and salt which had been gathered in great quantities from the rocks. The country was fertile, covered with trees and vines, bearing delicious grapes, with which the seamen refreshed themselves. There were many other fruit-trees, some bearing plantains, a pleasant and wholesome fruit, others figs, with ripe fruit on them. Sailing from Saint Mary's on the 30th of January, they the next day passed the island of Saint Jago, beyond which lies the burning island called by the Portuguese Fogo. To the south-west of this island they took a Portugal ship laden with wine, linen and woollen cloths, and other necessaries, bound for the Brazils, and having many gentlemen and merchants on board her. The command of this prize was given to Thomas Doughty, who was an old friend of Drake's, and much trusted by him.

The ships passed by several towns, the people in which fired off their great guns to signify that they were prepared for an assault. The pilot of the Portuguese ship, Nuna da Silva, being found to be an expert mariner, well acquainted with the coast of Brazil, was taken on board the admiral.

Passing Fogo, the squadron brought to off the fertile island of Brava. Here the only inhabitant to be found was a monk, who had built himself a rude dwelling; but on seeing the English landing, he fled, leaving behind him the relics of his false worship -- a cross with a crucifix, an altar with its superior altar, and idols of wood of rude workmanship.

Here the Portugals taken near Saint Jago were dismissed; the Christopher, pinnace, being given them in exchange for their own ship, and wine, bread, and fish for their provision, excepting Nuna da Silva, who, when he heard that the fleet was bound for the South Sea, willingly remained with Drake.

Only a small supply of water being taken on board, the fleet sailed from Brava on the 2nd of February, steering a course for the Straits of Magellan. Passing the equator on the 17th, they sailed for sixty-three days out of sight of land.

Drake was not without his troubles: it having been found that Captain Doughty had appropriated to his own use certain presents made by the prisoners, he was superseded by Thomas Drake, the Admiral's brother. This disgrace appears to have rankled in Mr Doughty's heart, and caused him to feel a bitter animosity against his former friend and commander. During this long passage the squadron sometimes met with adverse winds and violent storms, when lightnings flashed and terrific claps of thunder rattled above their heads; at others they were long becalmed, suffering from the effects of the sweltering heat of the torrid zone. They were depressed, and would have suffered greatly from the want of water, had they not been able to supply themselves, both before and after crossing the Line, by means of the heavy showers which every day fell, the water being collected in sails and sheets.

When in the tropics they saw, for the first time, shoals of flying-fish of the size of pilchards, chased by bonitos and dolphins, or "dorados," as the Spaniards called them. Also, as they watched the flying-fish trying to escape from their foes in the water, they observed huge birds pounce down and seize the helpless fugitives. Cuttle-fish likewise -- strange, black creatures -- leapt on board the ships in considerable numbers. These and other novel sights did not fail to interest them. On the 5th of April they sighted the coast of Brazil, where the land was low, and, sounding, they found only twelve fathoms three leagues off the shore. Huge fires were observed, kindled by the inhabitants. The Portuguese had before this landed on the coast, and reduced the natives to a miserable stage of bondage, compelling them by their cruelty to fly from the fertile parts of the country into the more unfruitful districts.

Drake wished to go on shore, but, finding no harbour, the squadron coasted along until the 7th of April, when a terrible storm of wind from the southward rose, during which the Christopher was separated from the rest of the fleet. She was the caunter taken at Blanco, on which the name of Christopher was bestowed when the vessel originally so-called was given to the prisoners. After the squall, which lasted only three hours, the squadron continued beating to the southward, until they got off the Rio de la Plata, up which they ran until they came to an anchor under Cape Joy. Drake so-called it from the satisfaction he felt at seeing the Christopher come in two days after they had anchored, he having thoughtfully appointed it as a rendezvous, should any of the vessels be separated.

Among the principal of his subordinate objects was to keep the fleet together, to obtain good drinking-water and fresh provisions as often as possible. They found the climate delicious, and saw a number of large deer. Considerably higher up the river they anchored near some rocks, where they killed a large number of seals, or sea-wolves, as the Spaniards called them. They found their flesh wholesome and pleasant, and salted a number for their further use.

Having spent a fortnight in the River Plate, they again put to sea, when shortly afterwards the fly-boat Swan was lost sight of. In order to save the inconvenience of so many vessels to look after, Drake determined to lessen their number, that the crews of those remaining might be strengthened and have less duty to perform. Winter was coming on, and, in order to prepare for it, a convenient harbour was searched for. While examining the coast, on May 8th, during another storm, the caunter was again separated from the fleet. The ships being much tossed about, they stood in with the intention of coming to an anchor near a headland, off which many rocks were observed. Drake, who never trusted to other men when he could perform the work himself, despising danger and toil, had a boat lowered, and rowed in himself to examine the bay.

Approaching the shore, a native was seen singing and dancing, and shaking a rattle, expecting him to land. Suddenly the wind still further increased, while a thick fog coming on, the Admiral lost sight of his ships. He immediately pulled off to try and regain them, but would very probably have been lost in the heavy sea running, had not Captain Thomas of the Marigold, at great risk, stood in, and having taken him on board, bravely rode out the gale.

Next morning the weather cleared, but the rest of the ships were nowhere visible; the Admiral, therefore, landing, lighted up large signal-fires in the hopes of their being seen by the ships. The natives had fled up the country for fear of the strangers. The seamen found, however, in their huts near the shore the flesh of upwards of fifty ostriches cured, as well of that of other birds, the size of the former being equal to legs of mutton. They discovered also the device by which the ostriches were captured. This consisted of the head, neck, and plumage of the bird fixed to the end of a pole, with large feathers sticking out behind sufficient to conceal a man's body. With these the ostriches were stalked and driven either into some neck of land, or against large and strong nets, with the assistance of dogs.

The dispersed ships, seeing the fires, shortly came to an anchor, excepting the Swan and the Mary, the Portugal prize, which had parted company. This not being a convenient place, the squadron sailed on the 15th of May, and on the 17th anchored in a sheltered bay, where they remained fifteen days. Having made various necessary arrangements, the Admiral sailed northwards to look out for the Swan, and dispatched Captain Winter in the Elizabeth for the same object. She was fortunately soon discovered, and being brought back, was unladen and run on shore, when she was broken up, her ironwork and planking being distributed among the ships, the latter to be used as fuel and other purposes.

While the crews were thus employed, the natives made their appearance on the top of a hill, leaping, dancing, and holding up their hands, and crying out in a curious fashion. With the exception of a skin of fur cast about their shoulders, they were naked. Their bodies were painted, and the chiefs wore feathers in their hair, which looked at a distance like horns.

The Admiral on this sent a boat on shore with knives, bells, beads, and other things, which he thought would please them. Seeing the strangers, two of the natives came rushing down at a great rate, but stopped short when still at some distance. On the English retiring, they, however, advanced and took the articles which had been placed on sticks so that they could be seen, leaving instead plumes of feathers, and bones shaped like large toothpicks.

Their confidence was soon gained, and numbers coming down, mixed freely among their visitors. They appeared to be a mild, well-disposed people, and learned to place implicit confidence in the Admiral, who won the affection of the chief by bestowing upon him the cap he usually wore. The savage, as a curious mark of his affection, wounded himself with an arrow in the leg, letting the blood stream on the ground.

These natives were well-made, good-looking, and remarkably active and swift of foot. They obtained from the birds and seals frequenting the shore an abundance of food, which, it appeared, they ate raw. They were all armed with short bows, and arrows of reed headed with flints. The English here killed large numbers of birds, which were so tame that they perched on the men's heads and shoulders, and in a bay near at hand they took upwards of two hundred seals in the space of an hour.

Having repaired and provisioned the ships, on the 3rd of June they set sail, steering southward, but anchored again in two days in a bay, where the caunter Christopher was run on shore and her cargo removed.

Again they proceeded, after anchoring a short time, until they brought up once more in another bay in 15 degrees 20 minutes, short only one degree off the mouth of the straits.

Here the Admiral, anxious to find the long-missing Mary, which had on board their chief store of wine, determined to sail back again until they reached the latitude where she had been lost. A bright look-out was kept for her, and happily, on the evening of the 19th of June, when the squadron was within a few leagues of Port Saint Julien, the missing ship was sighted. They were greatly rejoiced at this; but she was found to be so much out of order, and her crew had suffered so many privations, that the Admiral thought it well to put into that harbour, which was to prove a place fatal to several of their number.



Chapter Sixteen.

Voyage Of Sir Francis Drake, Continued -- A.D. 1578.

Squadron at Port Saint Julien -- Attacked by the natives -- Captain Winter, and Oliver the gunner, killed -- Doughty's conspiracy -- Trial -- Execution --  Squadron sails -- Enters the Straits of Magellan -- Name of the Dolphin changed to the Golden Hind -- Passage through the Straits -- Elizabeth Island -- Meets natives -- Enters the Southern Ocean -- Ships driven before a northerly gale -- The Marigold lost sight of -- After a month's buffeting, the two ships gain a harbour -- The Hind again driven to sea -- The Elizabeth deserts her -- A pinnace lately set up remains, but is finally lost -- The Hind alone regains a harbour -- Sails north -- Calls off Mucho Island -- Boat treacherously attacked by natives -- Drake wounded -- Refuses to retaliate -- Reaches the mainland -- Search for provisions -- Meets an Indian -- Treats him kindly -- His friends bring off provisions -- He pilots the Hind to Valparaiso -- Capture of a richly-laden vessel, and sack of the town -- Sail northward -- Put into a bay -- Boat's crew attacked by Spaniards -- Minjoy killed -- The pinnace set up -- Drake sails in her -- Driven back by foul winds -- Booty obtained from an Indian asleep and from a train of llamas -- Indians come off on balsas -- Two Spaniards, through fear, bring off provisions -- Llamas described -- Vessels at Arica and Arequipa plundered -- A vessel laden with linen captured -- Callao reached --  Drake hears of the Cacafuego -- Plunders several vessels -- Sails in pursuit of the Cacafuego -- Pursued.

The squadron came to an anchor in Port Saint Julien on the 20th of June, and, having arranged various matters, the next day but one the Admiral, accompanied by his brother, John Thomas, Robert Winter, Oliver the master gunner, John Brewer, and Thomas Hood, rowed up along the shore in search of a good place for watering.

Not far off on the shore was seen the remains of a gibbet, supposed to be that set up by Magalhaens for the execution of one of his rebellious captains. On landing, two huge natives, called by that navigator Patagons, came down and appeared to be friendly, being ready to receive whatever was offered to them. They took especial pleasure at seeing Mr Oliver, the master gunner, shoot with his bow, till they were joined by an ill-tempered-looking savage, who tried to draw them away. At this juncture a number more of big fellows, armed with bows, who had hitherto been concealed, crept up towards the English. While Mr Winter was also shooting with his bow, thinking to amuse them as Mr Oliver had done, the string broke. Not liking their gestures, the Admiral ordered his party to retreat, covering themselves with their targets, and remembering, probably, how Magalhaens had been slain, ordering them to break all the arrows aimed at them.

While Mr Winter was trying to repair his string, an arrow shot by one of the savages pierced his lungs, but he did not fall. On this the master gunner levelled his caliver -- a sort of blunderbuss -- but it missed fire, and before he could shoot it off two savages, taking sure aim at him, killed him on the spot.

Many other natives had by this time made their appearance, and were coming on with threatening gestures, when the Admiral, taking the gunner's piece, fired it at the native who had killed him, and as it had been loaded with bullets and small shot, it tore open his belly. The tremendous roars he uttered, equalling that of ten bulls together, so appalled his companions that they took to flight.

Drake, unwilling further to injure them, allowed them to escape, and had Captain Winter, to whom he was greatly attached, conveyed down to the boat, leaving the body of the gunner behind. Mr Winter, however, was too severely injured to recover, and died the following day on board his ship. That night a boat was again sent on shore with a number of men well armed. Here they discovered the body of the gunner lying where he had fallen, with his coat wrapped up to form a pillow, and an English arrow stuck in his right eye, showing, as it was conjectured, that the natives had no wish to be on hostile terms with their visitors. He and Mr Winter were buried together, close to the spot where the Spanish captain was supposed to have died.

Drake was greatly grieved at the loss of his friend Winter and his gunner, but he had a still greater anxiety on his mind from the reports he received of the conduct of one whom he had considered his friend, Mr Thomas Doughty. His conduct in appropriating the gifts made to him by the Portuguese prisoners was reprehensible, but it was now found that he was plotting a mutiny to kill the Admiral or to supersede him in the command, intending to carry off some of the squadron, and to sail on a different venture.

So strong was the evidence brought of the nefarious designs of Doughty, that the Admiral was compelled to summon together forty of the principal officers. By these, he sitting as president, Doughty was found guilty, and was condemned either to suffer death, to be left on shore among the savages, or to be sent home as a prisoner in one of the vessels, with a full statement of his trial, to be dealt with as her Majesty the Queen might think proper: the choice of which punishment he would suffer was offered him.

Rather than undergo the shame of being sent home, or to endure the wretched fate which would have been his lot among the savages -- some days being allowed him to decide -- he resolved, after fully acknowledging his guilt, notwithstanding the persuasions of his friends to the contrary, to select the first alternative offered, desiring only that he might take the communion with the Admiral, as a token that he died at peace with him and all men.

Strange as it may seem, the sacred ordinance having been celebrated by Mr Francis Fletcher, the preacher and pastor of the fleet, he dined at the same table as the Admiral, both appearing cheerful and drinking to each other as if only some journey had been in contemplation.

After dinner he was led forth, and entreating those around to pray for him, he kneeled down and bade the executioner perform his office.

The stern justice meted out on a gentlemen and an officer who had hitherto been highly esteemed, had no doubt a great effect in deterring others who might have contemplated any mutinous proceedings. He was taken on shore and buried where Don Luis de Mendoza was supposed to lie -- in a grave close to those of Mr Winter and the gunner.

This painful duty performed, and other matters arranged, the Mary, the Portuguese prize, being in a leaky state, she was run on shore near the island on which, for the two months of their stay, their tents had been pitched.

Here her planks were stripped off, and divided amongst the other three ships, which now constituted the whole squadron, besides the pinnaces which were still on board.

Having wooded, watered, and thoroughly repaired their vessels, the explorers sailed from this "Port Accursed," as some of the seamen called it, on the 17th of August, and again steered southward.

On the 20th they came off the Cabo de las Virgines, as the Spaniards called the entrance to the Magellan Straits. About four leagues off it had the appearance of black rocks full of grey stars, against which the sea beat like the spouting of whales. At this cape the Admiral ordered the ships to lower their topsails on the bunt, in homage to the Queen's Majesty; and he here changed the name of his ship, the Pelican, to that of the Golden Hind, in compliment to his patron Sir Christopher Hatton, whose coat of arms bore a golden hind. A sermon being preached by the chaplain, Master Fletcher, and prayer being offered up, the squadron entered the straits, passing along which, with land in sight on both sides, they in a short time made their way through a narrow channel, with a strong wind blowing astern. They then passed through a broad expanse. The following night they saw a lofty island to the southward, which appeared to burn like that of the island of Fogo. The tides as they passed on rose and fell regularly, the difference between high and low water being upwards of five fathoms.

On the 24th of August they came off a large and fruitful island, on which, the weather being fine, the Admiral and some of his officers landed, taking possession of it in the name of her Majesty, and calling it Elizabeth Island. Some other islands close to it abounded with strange -- looking birds, somewhat in size less than a goose, and although they could not fly, ran at a great rate. They were in reality penguins, which abounded in those regions. In one day they killed no less than three thousand. On another island they found the body of a man who had been long dead. From these islands onwards the passage was so crooked and narrow that they very frequently had to come to an anchor. They found numerous harbours and abundance of fresh water. The mountains here rose to a great height, their tops apparently lost in the sky, and covered with ice and snow. On the low grounds many fine trees were seen, with green grass and herbs, the temperature being very similar to that of England.

The inhabitants made fires as they passed along, but did not come off to them. As they drew near the western entrance of the straits, the passage appeared so narrow, with so many broad channels opening to the southward, that the Admiral doubted which to select. He, therefore, ordering the squadron to anchor, put off himself in a boat, and rowed forwards to survey the passage. Having found one of sufficient width, he turned back to rejoin the fleet. On his way he fell in with a canoe made of bark, and full of people. It was of a peculiarly elegant form, turning up both at the stem and stern in a semicircle, the workmanship being also excellent in the extreme. The people in it were of low stature, but of compact form, and had their faces painted. They were on their way to the island off which the ships lay at anchor. A visit was afterwards paid to them on shore. Their dwellings were of framework, covered with the skins of beasts. Their food appeared to be mussels and other shell-fish. All their houses were of bark neatly sewn together. Their knives were formed of mussel-shells of great size, and were so sharp that they could cut the hardest wood with them, as well as bone, out of which they made the fizgigs they used for killing fish.

On the 6th of September, to the joy of all on board, the three ships sailed proudly into the South Sea, having accomplished the whole passage in about a fortnight, which had occupied their predecessors -- Magalhaens, Loyasa, and Juan de Ladrilleros, who had come from the Pacific side --  several months.

The land to the south had been found to consist, not of a mainland, or even of one large island, but of numerous islands, with broad passages between them. In consequence of the cold weather which now came on, the Admiral intended to sail northward, to get as soon as possible into a warmer latitude; but, a furious north wind arising, the ships could in no way make head against it, and were driven farther and farther south and east.

Instead of finding it the Pacific Ocean, they, from their experience, considered that it should be called the Stormy Sea. Day after day the tempest blew with extraordinary violence. During that period, on the 15th of September, an eclipse of the moon occurred, which lasted for a considerable time, adding to the horrors of the storm. For many days they ran on under bare poles, being unable to face it. On the 30th of the same month, the Marigold, commanded by Captain John Thomas, who had rendered such service to the Admiral, and having many other of his friends on board, was separated from her consorts. It was hoped, however, that she might be able to rejoin them at their place of rendezvous, about the thirtieth degree of south latitude, on the coast of Peru.

For a whole month the two remaining ships, sorely battered by the tempest, were out of sight of land, which at length regaining, on the night of the 7th of October, they ran into a harbour to the southward. They had not, however, long dropped their anchors before both ships were again driven out to sea, and that of the Admiral left an anchor behind her, but a sloop which had been put up at the entrance of the straits soon regained the harbour. The Elizabeth was lost sight of, while the Golden Hind was driven far away to the southward, where she lay helplessly tossed about by the fury of the waves. Again, the storm abating, she made sail, and sighted the utmost cape or headland of those islands, about the fifty-sixth degree of south latitude, and since known as Cape Horn.

On the 28th of October the Golden Hind anchored within a creek of the same island. Though people were seen on shore, no communication was held with them. On the 30th of October, with a fair wind, Drake steered to the north-west, and then north, in order not to lose sight of the continent. The following day the explorers came off an island covered so thickly with birds that they were able to obtain a plentiful supply; indeed, the whole fleet might have been equally well furnished.

Coasting along in sight of land, they observed a lofty range of mountains, but the country appeared barren, without water or wood, except here and there, where Spanish settlements had been formed. There being no possibility of obtaining information of the missing ships, they again ran off towards an island called Mucho, on account of its large size. Here they came to an anchor on the 25th, and found it a fertile place, with an abundance of sheep, cattle, Indian corn, and potatoes. The inhabitants were Indians, who had been driven off by the cruelty of the Spaniards, and had here fortified themselves. On ascertaining that the visitors were English, they came with great courtesy, bringing with them various fruits and two fat sheep, which they presented to the Admiral. He, in return, gave them a variety of useful articles, at which they seemed greatly pleased, and signified that they would return with further provisions.

Next day, therefore, at an early hour, the Admiral, with a number of men, repaired to the beach, carrying articles for barter. He first put two men ashore, with casks to obtain water at a place which had been pointed out, but scarcely had they landed when they were treacherously set upon and killed. Shortly afterwards, five hundred savages, armed with bows and darts, springing up from behind the rocks where they had been concealed, let fly a shower of arrows. The boat being driven in by the force of the sea towards the beach, the crew had great difficulty in pulling off. The Admiral received two wounds, one under his right eye, and one on his head, nearly penetrating to the bone; the rest of the party being also severely injured in different parts of their bodies. Had they not succeeded in getting the boat off, the whole might have been massacred. The arrows were long reeds, with heads of stone, and their darts were of great length, with iron or bone tips.

Serious as were the wounds, none proved mortal, and although the chief surgeon was dead, and the other had gone off in the Elizabeth, so that they had only a lad, whose anxiety to do right was far greater than his skill, they all in a short time recovered. Drake, though he might have revenged himself on the ignorant savages for their unwarrantable attack, convinced that they were influenced from their hatred of the Spaniards, who had so cruelly ill-treated them, refrained from retaliating.

In the afternoon the Golden Hind again set sail, Drake being anxious to fall in with the missing ships as soon as possible, and to find some convenient harbour where fresh provisions and needed repose for the wounded men could be obtained.

On the 30th of November the Admiral put into a bay at about the thirty-second degree of south latitude, and forthwith sent a boat to discover what likelihood there was that the place would afford the things they stood in need of. After a long search, neither fresh provisions nor water could be found; but they saw on shore huge herds of buffalo, though no signs of inhabitants. On their return they fell in with an Indian canoe, which, with the person in it, they brought alongside. He was a fine-looking man, dressed in a white shirt reaching to his knees. His hair was long, but he had no beard; he appeared to be of a mild and amiable disposition, and very grateful for the things the Admiral gave him. He was a fair specimen of the gentle and harmless people whom the Spaniards were treating so barbarously.

The native's confidence having been thoroughly won, he was sent away in the Hind's boat, accompanied by his own canoe, that he might be landed wherever he chose. Being put on shore, he met several of his friends, to whom he described the kind treatment he had received, and they, accompanied by their chief or head man, in a short time came off to the ship, bringing hens, eggs, a fat hog, and other provisions. The Indian gave them to understand that they could not obtain a sufficient supply of necessaries at that place, but offered to pilot them to a harbour a short way to the southward, where they might procure all they required.

Instead, therefore, of landing and going in chase of the buffaloes, as they had proposed doing, they set sail under their new pilot, and in a short time came to an anchor in the harbour of Valparaiso, not far from the town of Santiago.

None of the missing ships were here to be seen, nor could tidings be obtained of them. They found, however, a large ship, which, as they sailed in, welcomed them by beat of drum, supposing that they were Spaniards. At once, therefore, pulling on board, they rudely undeceived the crew by clapping them all down below, with the exception of one man. He, managing to jump overboard, swam to shore and alarmed the inhabitants, who speedily took refuge inland, carrying all they had time to snatch up.

On examining their prize, the Grand Captain, they found that she was laden with eighteen hundred jars of wine, upwards of twenty five thousand pesos of gold, and a crucifix of gold set with emeralds. Going on shore, they found a further quantity of wine, and supplied themselves with bread and all other necessaries in great abundance of which they stood in need. They also plundered a church of its ornaments and relics, among which were two cruets, a silver chalice, and an altar-cloth. All these, according to the curious notions which governed the rovers, were bestowed, as his share of the booty, on Master Fletcher the chaplain, who did not consider that he was in any way bound to decline them.

Having carried off the pilot of the Grand Captain, who, being a Greek, was called Juan Greigo, as well as the ship herself, they set sail, and, piloted by the friendly native, steered northward, until they reached the place where they had taken him on board. He was here, being loaded with presents, set on shore, seeming very grateful for the way he had been treated.

As the Golden Hind sailed towards the Line, a sharp look-out was kept for the missing vessels, while at the same time a search was made for a convenient harbour into which they could run and refit the ship, as likewise set up one of the pinnaces. The Admiral was anxious to do this, as the boat was too small to carry sufficient men should they encounter any Spaniards, and the ship was too large to put into small harbours.

As soon as the pinnace was completed, he intended to sail to the southward and examine every creek and small bay on the way, so that should either of the missing vessels have run in for shelter, she might be discovered.

With this object, on the 19th of December the Golden Hind entered a bay not far from the southward of Coquimbo, then called Cyppo, and inhabited by Spaniards. Fourteen of the seamen having landed, they were observed by the people of the town, who speedily, to the number of three hundred -- of whom a hundred were mounted Spaniards, the others naked Indians, running like dogs at their heels, showing the miserable condition to which they were reduced -- came out to attack them.

They were descried in time by the English seamen, who, scrambling round the rocks, gained their boats. One man, however, Richard Minjoy, vowing that he would not be put to flight by a hundred despicable Spaniards, remained on the rocks, daring them to come on; but he had not long thus stood when an arrow pierced him, and the Indians being sent to drag him up to the beach, he was there cruelly beheaded by the Spaniards, who cut off his right hand and plucked out his heart, then setting up the body, made the Indians shoot at it. All this was done in the sight of the crew.

After this exhibition of their cruel vengeance the Spaniards retired, leaving the body to be devoured by the beasts of the field and fowls of the air; but the seamen, in spite of the risk they ran, went on shore and buried it.

This not being the sort of place the English were in search of, nor the treatment they desired, they speedily got under weigh, and came on the following day to a convenient harbour some distance to the northward of Cyppo. Here some time was spent in refitting the ship, and bringing her into better sailing trim, as also in building the pinnace.

As soon as the latter was finished, the Admiral, with a party of picked men, set sail to proceed to the southward; but a contrary wind springing up, he was compelled to return. In this bay vast quantities of fish resembling the gurnard were found, so that in two or three hours, with only four or five hooks and lines, sometimes four hundred were taken.

Sailing on the 19th, two days afterwards they reached an island off a high cape, where they found four Indians fishing from their canoes. These men undertook to pilot them to a place where fresh water was to be found.

The natives fulfilled their promise, but the amount of water was very insufficient for the requirements of the ship. While constantly looking out for fresh water, they discovered a Spaniard lying asleep, probably drunk, with a bag containing four thousand Spanish ducats. Without disturbing the poor man's slumbers, they relieved him of his charge, which they carried off.

Again landing, they met another Spaniard with an Indian boy, driving eight llamas, each laden with two leathern bags, and in each bag was found fifty pounds weight of refined silver. Unable to endure the thoughts of a Spanish gentleman turning carrier, they relieved him of his charge, themselves becoming drivers, but directing the animals towards their boats. The entire weight of the booty thus acquired was eight hundred pounds.

Proceeding northwards, they saw several Indian towns, the people from which came off in a curious kind of boat, bringing various sorts of fish, wishing to exchange them for knives, beads, and looking-glasses. Even the old men were as willing to accept such trifles as the young. They, like the rest of their countrymen, appeared to be of a mild and agreeable disposition.

The boats, if they could be so-called, were perfect novelties to the voyagers. They consisted of two large inflated skins fixed side by side, with a board on the top of them, on which the paddler sat, carrying his merchandise. They are known as balsas.

The Hind next came off the town of Normarena, governed by two Spaniards. Drake, wishing to obtain further refreshments, sent on shore to invite them to traffic. Rather from fear than love they consented, and among other things sent off several llamas, which were in height and length about the size of a small cow; but they must have been of great strength, for three full-grown men and a boy were seen seated on the back of one of them, their feet not reaching the ground. The sheep, as they were called, had necks like camels, but their heads much resembled those of ordinary sheep. Their wool was exceedingly fine. The Spaniards employed them to carry loads of silver from the mines. The voyagers heard that, throughout the province of Cuzco, so rich was the soil that every hundred pounds of earth yielded twenty-five pounds of pure silver. This, of course, was an absurdity; but so inflamed were their minds with ideas respecting the wealth of the country, that they were ready to believe anything told them.

From this place no harbour in which the missing vessels could have taken refuge was found, until the Golden Hind arrived off the town of Arica, on the 7th of February. The country around it appeared rich and fertile; the port was frequented by vessels from Lima and other parts of Peru, and was inhabited by Spaniards.

Here two vessels were found at anchor, the crews of which were on shore, and the voyagers visiting them discovered upwards of forty bars of silver, each weighing about twenty pounds. These they carried off, and, without communicating with the people on shore, proceeded on to Ylo. From thence, on their way to Lima, they met another bark at Arequipa, which had begun to load with gold and silver; but, hearing of their proceedings, the crew had re-landed her cargo.

Shortly afterwards they met another vessel laden with linen, and, thinking that it might be useful, they took her with them. As the Admiral was now preparing for more active proceedings, collecting the prizes, he hoisted their canvas, lashed their helms, and, the wind being off shore, sent them sailing away across the Pacific. Great must have been the astonishment of the natives of some distant islands, when these tenantless barks arrived off their shores. So rapid had been the progress of the Golden Hind, that on the 15th of February she entered Callao, the port of Lima, before news of her being on the coast had reached those who resided there.

They here found a fleet of thirty ships, among which the Golden Hind brought up, no one suspecting her character. Had they not been anxious about their missing vessels, they would have been tempted to take possession of the unarmed merchantmen.

Before their character was discovered, they visited several of the vessels in search of information, but they could hear nothing of their friends. They were told, however, that on the 3rd of February a large ship, called the Cacafuego, laden with a rich cargo of gold and silver, had sailed for Panama, from which point all goods were carried across the isthmus to the Atlantic shore, to be transmitted to Spain.

Having obtained all the information he required, Drake pulled round in a boat to the different ships, on board one of which, belonging to a certain Michael Angelo, one thousand five hundred bars of plate, besides a chest of silver royals, and silk, linen, and other things, were found. Of these the owners were quickly relieved. Several other ships were visited, and whatever articles of value were found on hoard them taken, though the whole did not amount to much. The crews being mostly on shore, no resistance was offered.

While thus employed they saw a stranger entering the port, but she got timely notice of how the English were engaged, and, nutting about, made her escape to sea. Not knowing, however, the direction they intended to sail, she stood northward, and only deferred for a time falling into the hands of her enemies, for she was soon afterwards captured.

The two largest ships were carried out of the harbour, where their mainmasts were cut away, while the cables of the smaller vessels were chopped through, so that they might drift wherever the tide might carry them.

These precautions were not unnecessary. Drake at once made chase after the rich prize he had heard of, but there was still the risk of his being overtaken. While yet in sight of the port, the Golden Hind lay becalmed, and from her deck two large vessels were seen standing off the land to attack her. The boats were lowered, and the crews pulled with might and main to keep ahead.

Nearer and nearer their enemies approached. The odds were fearfully against them. The English well knew that the Spanish ships would be crowded with men, who would, in overwhelming numbers, should they get alongside, endeavour to crush them. But their hearts did not fail. Cheering each other they rowed on, resolved if overtaken to fight to the last. Drake, however, had no idea of risking an action, for even though he might gain the victory, his ship and many of his people would be injured, and he would probably be compelled to abandon his undertaking.

As the voyagers watched the approaching foe, to their great joy they saw cats'-paws playing over the ocean; then their sails were filled by a breeze, which increased to a fresh gale, and away they flew on their desired course.

Still the Spanish ships followed, and the next morning appeared to be gaining on the Golden Hind. By noon, however, they were seen to haul their wind and turn back, the reason being that the Spaniards, in their hurry to get on board, had forgotten to bring with them any provisions, and, like other men, had no desire to fight on empty stomachs.



Chapter Seventeen.

Voyage Of Sir Francis Drake, Continued -- A.D. 1579.

The Golden Hind chases the Cacafuego -- Pursued by the Spaniards --  Captures several vessels -- The Line crossed -- When off Cape Francisco a sail seen ahead -- The Cacafuego heaves to -- Is captured and plundered --  Dismissed with a letter from Drake -- The Hind puts into Cano -- Other prizes taken -- Sails for Guatuico -- A council interrupted, and judge and prisoners carried off -- Booty obtained -- The pilot Da Silva and all prisoners set at liberty -- The Hind sails northward -- Bitter cold --  Driven to the southward -- Puts into the bay of San Francisco -- A fort built -- Natives appear -- Friendly behaviour -- Strange ceremonies -- Visit from the King, who makes his country over to her Majesty -- Drake horrified at the attempt of the natives to worship him -- They at length take their departure -- Drake's excursion into the country -- Sees deer --  Coneys -- Native huts -- Preparations for departure -- Grief of the natives --  The Golden Hind sails away -- The country named Albion.

Onward pressed the Golden Hind, her crew eager to overtake the richly-laden Cacafuego, or the Spitfire, as we will translate her name. Drake considered that she was likely to touch at other ports to take in more cargo, and, trusting to that circumstance and to her being occasionally becalmed, he confidently hoped to overtake her before she could reach Panama and land her cargo.

The sharpest of look-outs was kept ahead, and the seamen were constantly in the fore-top straining their eyes in expectation of catching sight of her white canvas. Every port was narrowly scanned on the chance of her having put in there. When the wind fell, the crew eagerly leapt into the boats to pull ahead. When there was a breeze every inch of canvas the ship could carry was spread to urge her along. The chase would prove a rich prize, for her cargo was worth many times more than that of all the vessels they had hitherto captured.

Drake was not aware all this time that he had enemies following astern, resolved to sink the Golden Hind, and hang the bold rover captain and every one of his pirate crew, for such they considered them, or, should they escape, purposing to lie in wait for them as they should attempt to pass again to the eastward through the Straits of Magellan.

A favouring breeze filling her sails, the Golden Hind pressed on. The ports of Paita, Saint Helena, and Guayaquil were successively passed; but, on the principle that a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, they hove to some time after leaving Callao to capture a ship they sighted on their way, the one which had before escaped.

Another they took in the port of Paita, partly laden with wine, and a third, laden with ships' stores, besides eighty pounds weight in gold. They made quick work of it, however, for they had just heard that a vastly superior force was on the look-out for them.

When near the Line they captured another vessel, belonging to Gabriel Alvarez. From him, as well as from the prisoners taken in the other ships, the information they had before received was confirmed, that the Cacafuego was but a short distance ahead of them. Their hopes, therefore, rose higher than ever. Drake, who was not less eager than his men to capture the rich argosy, to sharpen their eyesight promised to the first that should discover her the gold chain he wore round his neck.

It was the ist of March. The Line was passed. Far off, on the starboard bow, the lofty headland of Cape Francisco was seen, though dim and indistinct. All day long the seamen, with eager eyes, had been looking out ahead and on either side, hoping to espy the tiny speck of white just above the horizon. The day was clear, the sun shone brightly down from an unclouded sky, and the Golden Hind in hot haste sped on, her canvas spread wide on either side to catch the breeze. Midday was passed. In spite of the heat every one was on deck, the eyes of most of the ship's company, whether there or aloft, looking in the direction they were going.

Presently a shout rose from the summit of the highest mast, to which John Drake, a seaman, had climbed -- 

"A sail, a sail! right ahead!"

"Should the stranger prove to be the Cacafuego, the chain of gold shall be yours, John," replied the Admiral.

If human muscles could have urged on the Golden Hind at a greater speed than she was going, the men would have exerted their strength until they had dropped. They could do nothing, however, but stand on deck or cling to the masts and shrouds, looking at the distant sail with still more eagerness than before.

Gradually the topsails of the stranger rose above the horizon, then her courses or lower sails, then the hull itself came into view. As they examined her from the trucks to the water's edge, they were more and more convinced that she was the argosy of which they had been so long in chase. What was their astonishment, at length, to see her clew up her sails and heave to!

"Is she so strongly armed that she can venture to stop and fight us?" was the question.

No one had anticipated that she earned guns. Such had not been the practice of the Spaniards in those seas, for they had been fully convinced that no enemies could venture through the straits to wrest their ill-gotten treasures from their hands. Hitherto they had enjoyed the monopoly of tyrannising over the Indians, and of all the profitable commerce carried on along the coast. Drake had aroused them from their sleep of security.

The Golden Hind got nearer and nearer to the stranger. John Drake felt convinced that he had won the Admiral's chain. Presently the ship ahead was seen to put her helm up and make all sail, endeavouring to escape; but it was too late, -- already she was within range of the guns of the Golden Hind, which forthwith began pouring forth their shot, aimed not at her hull -- that was too precious to be injured -- but at her masts and spars. The English were rejoiced to see the efforts made by the Spanish captain to escape, for this convinced them that his cargo was a valuable one, or he would not have run the risk of losing his life or the lives of his men from the iron shot which came rattling on board. Another shout, triumphant and jubilant, rose from the deck of the Golden Hind. The mast of the chase was shot away, and the adventurers, soon getting up to her, made fast alongside.

She was indeed the Cacafuego. The captors eagerly pressed on board, the Spanish captain and his crew having no heart to oppose them. He confessed that, when he hove to, he had taken the Golden Hind for a Spanish ship, sent by the Viceroy with some special message for him to convey to Panama, and great had been his astonishment when he discovered her real character. The Admiral, setting all sail, carried his prize away from the land, out of the track of passing vessels or of the Spanish squadron sent in chase of him, that he might at his leisure transfer her cargo to the hold of the Golden Hind.

Unbounded was the delight of the seamen when they found that the riches she contained were fully equal to the amount they had been led to expect. At first, to be sure, they found chiefly fruit, conserves, meal, and sugar; but before long they ferreted out cases of jewels and precious stones, thirteen chests of silver royals, eighty pounds weight of gold twenty-six tons of uncoined silver, not to speak of two very beautiful silver-gilt drinking-bowls and like trifles; the whole valued at 360,000 pesos, or somewhere like 75,000 pounds, -- in these days equal to a million of money, not taking into account the precious stones and other booty. The bowls, with which Drake was mightily pleased, belonged to the pilot, and when the Admiral told him he must have one of them for a punch-bowl, to show his contempt and hatred of the English, he presented the other to the Admiral's steward. Nearly six days were spent in unloading the ship of her precious cargo, when she was allowed to proceed on her way to Panama; Drake having presented to the captain, Juan de Anton, some linen and other articles, and a letter addressed to Captain Winter and other officers of the squadron, requesting them, should they fall in with him, to give him double the value of anything they might receive, and treat him well.

The Golden Hind then stood off the coast, to avoid any Spanish vessels that might be on the look-out for her. Though still searching for the missing ships, the explorers had now very little hope of finding them.

Both officers and crew, indeed, began to pine for home, with a great desire also to carry the enormous wealth they had obtained with them. Drake's great object was now -- having repaired and stored the ship -- to go in search of a passage round the northern end of America into the Atlantic Ocean. That one existed he had ever believed, though he little thought of the icy barrier which blocked it up. His hope was that he should find it, and that then he and his companions should speedily with joy return to their longed-for homes.

He now shaped a course for the island of Cano, off the coast of Nicaragua. On his way he fell in with one more Spanish ship, laden with linens, silk, and china dishes, and a falcon of finely-wrought gold, on the breast of which was set a large emerald. Having taken only the more valuable portions of the cargo, the vessel was dismissed, an Indian and a pilot only being detained.

On the 16th of March they reached Cano, when they entered a fresh water river suitable for their object. While the Hind and the pinnace lay at anchor, about a mile from the shore, suddenly they found the vessels quiver and shake as if they had struck a rock. A terrible earthquake was taking place, the effects of which were felt even at that distance from the land.

They here obtained fresh water, wood, and an abundance of fish, besides monkeys and several animals killed on shore. While the ship was here, the pinnace, being dispatched on active duty, brought in a prize, laden with honey, butter, and other commodities, besides which were letters from the King of Spain to the Governor of the Philippines, and charts, or sea cards, as they were called. The latter afterwards proved of considerable value to the voyagers.

The Admiral, considering it prudent, with a long voyage in prospect, to thoroughly provision the ship, determined to put into some place where he might, either by fair means or by force, obtain a sufficient quantity of the articles he considered necessary. He therefore compelled the pilot who had last been taken to steer the ship to Guatulco. He reached that place in safety. As soon as they had dropped anchor, the boats were lowered and a well-armed party hastened on shore.

Marching up to the largest building, they found a council of the principal inhabitants, who altogether consisted only of seventeen Europeans, trying a number of Indians accused of forming a plot to burn the place. To the astonishment of the Spaniards, and to the no small joy probably of the accused Indians, all were hurried on board, when the judge was compelled, upon the threat of being carried off, to write to his fellow-townsmen, advising them to offer no resistance.

While he was thus kept as a hostage, the place was ransacked; but the only valuable booty collected was a bushel of silver reals. One of the party, however, Thomas Moon, observing a Spanish gentleman running off in great fright, pursued and took from him a chain of gold and some jewels.

The rovers obtained also numerous articles of provision, clothing, stores, and suchlike, which they much needed. They here landed the Portuguese pilot Nuna da Silva, whom they had brought from the Cape de Verdes, and likewise set at liberty all the other prisoners they had taken.

Having thus arranged their business on shore, on the 16th of April they set sail, standing out into the ocean. Obtaining a fair wind, they steered northward for one thousand four hundred leagues, until they reached the forty-second degree of north latitude. Here they found the cold so intense, that many of the crew suffered greatly. The air was biting in the extreme, and even the ropes of the ship on which the rain fell became covered with ice. This occurred not only at night, but during the day, when the sun was shining.

As they sailed two degrees farther north, the seamen could scarcely keep themselves warm with the thickest clothing they could put on. They found it difficult also, even with double the number of men, to work the ropes and trim the sails. The crew, not without reason, began to murmur, and declared that they should never be able to endure the cold. The Admiral, however, urged them to persevere. They were standing on when they found themselves close to a shore trending to the westward, and, compelled by a contrary wind, they put into a bay, where they brought up; but the anchorage appearing very insecure, they sailed out again. The Admiral would have continued on his course again in search of a passage, but a northerly wind springing up, drove the Golden Hind once more to the southward.

Though it was in the height of summer, the cold continued so bitter, that many would have taken to their beds had they not been compelled to attend to the working of the ship. During this time also the sky became so overcast with clouds and thick mists, that it was impossible to take an observation. At length they came to the conclusion that there was no passage at all along the north shore of America, or that it was so blocked up with ice as to be impassable. They ran in and dropped anchor in a roadstead, since called the Bay of San Francisco.

The following day the natives came down to the beach, and sent off a man in a canoe, who, as he approached, stood up and made a long speech, using a variety of gesticulations, moving his hands and turning his head about in all directions. His address concluded, he turned back and made for the shore. In a short time he came again, and behaved exactly in the same manner; a third time he appeared, bringing with him as a present a bunch of feathers, much like those of a black crow, all neatly and cleverly put together, forming a sort of crown, such as was also worn by the principal persons in attendance on the chief. He also produced a small basket made of rushes, filled with a herb, which the natives called tabak, from which the French take the word tabac, and the English tobacco. Having tied this to a pole, he placed it in the boat alongside.

Drake would at once have recompensed him with several articles, but the only thing he would receive was a hat, which was floated off to him.

As the ship had sprung a leak and required to be put on shore, she was carried nearer, in order that her cargo might be landed, and that she might be repaired.

In order to guard against any attack from the natives, the Admiral decided on throwing up a fort, in which, for security, their valuable cargo and stores might be placed, and which would serve as a protection to themselves.

While the English were thus employed, the natives were seen coming over the brow of a hill, at the foot of which, close to the beach, the fort was being built. At first only a few warriors appeared, armed with bows and arrows, then more and more came. The seamen sprang to their arms; Drake ordered them not to fire or to show any sign of alarm.

The savages, it appeared, however, had no hostile intentions, for they approached in a humble fashion, as if they were inclined rather to reverence the white strangers than to attack them. Their numbers still further increased.

It being intimated to them by signs that they must lay aside their bows and arrows, they willingly did as they were directed. The example of the first parties was followed by the rest. Drake, anxious to secure their good-will by every possible means, distributed among them various articles of clothing, of which they stood greatly in need. As the natives by their reverential gestures appeared to look upon their visitors as beings of a superior order, Drake, shocked at the thoughts of allowing himself or his men for a moment to be so worshipped, tried to make them understand that he and his companions required clothing as much as they did, as also food and water, for which purpose he and his companions ate and drank in their presence. Notwithstanding this, nothing apparently could remove the idea entertained by the Indians that the white men were divinities.

In return for the shirts, linen, cloths, and other articles they had received, they offered feather ornaments, net-work bags, quivers made of deer-skin, and various skins.

The costume of these people was not very elaborate. The women wore on their shoulders the skins of deer, with the hair upon them, in addition to which they had petticoats formed of rushes combed out, hanging down from their waists to their knees. They appeared to be very obedient to their lords and masters, and did not even venture to move without asking permission. The men wore scarcely any clothing whatever.

Having satisfied their curiosity, or whatever brought them to visit the strangers, they retired towards some woods seen in the distance, where their dwellings were supposed to be.

Scarcely had they reached the woods, when they began weeping and crying out, the women especially shrieking in shrill tones, the sounds, although they were three-quarters of a mile off, reaching to the fort.

Drake wisely considered, in consequence of the experience he had had with other savages, notwithstanding the humble way in which they had behaved, that it would be dangerous to trust them too much, well aware, also, that any trifling event might cause a breach of the peace.

For two days none of the savages came near the voyagers, who were thus able to finish the fort without interruption. It was constructed of rough stones and stakes, so that with their guns and crossbows it might easily be defended against any number of assailants.

At the end of two days a still larger number of people than before appeared in the distance, men, women, and children, who brought with them, as they had before, feathers and bags of tabak, as propitiatory offerings. On reaching the top of a hill they stopped, when one of their number, who appeared to be their chief, commenced an oration in a loud voice, which could be clearly heard, though he was at some distance; while he used at the same time the strangest and most violent gestures, exerting himself until he was breathless.

When he had concluded, the rest bowed their bodies, crying "Oh!" as if to give their consent to the truth of all he had spoken. This done, the men, leaving their bows and arrows on the top of the hill with their women and children, approached the fort with their presents. As they did so, the women began shrieking in the most piteous tones, tearing their flesh with their nails, and dashing themselves against hard stones and stumps of trees and prickly bushes until blood streamed from their cheeks and all parts of their bodies. Supposing that they were performing some rite in honour of the diabolical beings they worshipped, Drake, to avert the evil which might ensue should he calmly sanction such a proceeding, ordered his men to fall on their knees, he himself setting the example. There they offered up prayers to God, that He would in His own good pleasure open the eyes of the savages, that they might in due time be called to a knowledge of Himself and Jesus Christ, whom He hath sent to be the salvation of the Gentiles.

While the chaplain was reading certain portions in the Bible, and the seamen were joining in the prayers and singing psalms, the savages watched them attentively, at every pause uttering "Oh!" as if highly pleased.

The service over, the savages approached, and their first request was that the English would again sing them some psalms.

On further presents being offered them, they left them behind, wishing to show that they had not come to receive such things. Towards the end of another three days a still larger number of people appeared: so great, indeed, was the concourse, that it seemed as if the whole population of the country for a considerable distance must have been assembled.

From the midst of the crowd two persons were seen approaching, who from their gestures were supposed to be heralds. As far as could be understood, their Hioh or King was at hand, and desired to pay the strangers a visit.

One of the heralds spoke in a low soft voice, as if to prompt his companion; the other repeated word by word what was said in a loud and sonorous tone. The speech lasted half an hour. At the end of it they requested that something might be sent to their Hioh, as a token that he would be received as a friend.

With this request Drake willingly complied, and a suitable present was placed in the hands of the heralds, who took their departure.

In a short time a handsome man of great stature was seen approaching, who from his plumed head-dress and a coat of rich skins which he wore, reaching to his waist, was shown to be their King. In front marched a fine-looking man of large size, carrying a heavy black club, to which was suspended two feather crowns and three chains of great length, made of bone highly polished, and a bag containing tabak.

He was accompanied by some tall warriors, who formed his body-guard, their head-dresses and coats being very similar to those of the King. They all had their faces painted, some with white, others black, and others of various colours, each man carrying in his hand a gift of some sort. Behind these came a concourse of nearly naked people, their long hair being gathered into a bunch behind, and ornamented with plumes of feathers in various forms, some having stuck a feather on each side on the front of their heads, which looked like horns.

Last of all came the women and children, the women carrying, hung round their necks in front, baskets of tabak and roots which they called petah, -- no doubt the potato, -- and boiled fishes. Their baskets, formed of dried grass, were neatly woven, the edges ornamented with mother-of-pearl and shells; while on the sides were interwoven red feathers in various devices. So fine were these baskets that they would hold water.

As the cortege approached they struck up a loud chant, to the measured time of which they marched forward. As they got nearer, after a shout of welcome had been uttered by the entire concourse, the sceptre-bearer advanced, and in a manly voice commenced an oration, prompted by a companion, and at the conclusion, according to the rule, they all shouted "Oh!" to signify "Amen."

The King himself then, accompanied by both men and women, the children only being left behind, with stately step came down the hill. On reaching its foot, close to the fort, the sceptre-bearer commenced in a slow measure a dignified dance, keeping time to a chant or song which he began; then the King and his guards and every other person joined in the song and dance, the women also dancing, but not singing. In this way, dancing and singing, they advanced close up to the fort.

So satisfied was Drake that these performances were friendly, that he allowed them freely to enter the fort. When the women approached with their offerings, it was seen that blood was streaming from their bodies, their faces, and necks.

They now requested Drake to sit down, when both the King and his chief men made long orations, and these the English understood to signify that they desired to place the country and everything they possessed at the feet of her Majesty the Queen. They were still further convinced of this when the King -- the rest singing a joyful song -- placed the crown on the Admiral's head, and threw the bone chains which had been brought round his neck, addressing him as "Hioh."

Drake, not considering this as any superior reverence to himself, but only such as would be paid to the King, did not think it right to refuse the homage or the gifts thus freely offered, hoping that in time to come it might redound to the honour and profit of his country, and that these children of nature would willingly receive missionaries of the Gospel, and be brought to a right knowledge of the true and ever-living God.

The natives now dispersing themselves among the English, each selected some person on whom to bestow his present, choosing, it was observed, most willingly the youngest. This done, they again commenced shrieking and tearing the flesh on their faces. In vain the officers and men endeavoured to dissuade them from continuing such heathenish practices, by lifting up their eyes and hands to heaven, as if pointing to the living God, whom they ought to serve.

Becoming at length more calm, the natives began to exhibit their sores and wounds, shrunk sinews, and other complaints from which they suffered, by signs beseeching them to cure them, as if by merely blowing upon them this could be done. On this the young surgeon got out such lotions, plasters, and ointments as he fancied might do them service. It was almost night before the savages retired, but nearly every day they returned, and sometimes forgot to bring food with them, when the Admiral ordered them to be supplied with mussels, seals, and such meat as could be spared, with which they appeared well pleased.

Observing that their offerings were not acceptable, they refrained from bringing them, but still came down and sat in groups, watching what was going forward. They appeared to be people of an especially tractable and mild nature, free from treachery. Their only weapons were their bows and arrows, which constituted all their wealth. These were, however, so small and weak that they could do but little injury with them; they employed them chiefly to shoot the fish swimming along shore or the smaller animals of the chase. This seemed strange, as the men were strong, and would take up loads such as two or three Englishmen could barely lift, and carry them without difficulty up or down hill for a mile together. They also ran with exceeding swiftness and for a long time.

Having got on well in the repairing and refitting of the ship, Drake and his officers made an excursion into the interior, where they saw vast herds of fat deer, and the whole land seemed burrowed by small animals somewhat like coneys, the heads resembling those of rats, the feet of moles, and having tails of great length. Under their chins and on either side was a bag, into which they stowed their food after they had gathered it, that they might either feed their young or themselves at their leisure. The people ate the meat of these animals, and the skins were considered of great value, the King's robes of state being made of them. Several of the native houses were entered. The lower part consisted of a square pit dug in the earth, with a roof; while the upper portion was formed by several poles stuck in the ground and joined together at the top, the whole being interlaced with twigs, and this being covered with earth was impervious to cold or rain. The doorway was of the size and shape of the scuttle of a ship, formed in the sloping roof, and served also to allow the escape of smoke.

A fire was placed in the centre, and the beds of the inmates were on the hard ground, covered only with rushes and mats. The huts being low, and without any means of ventilation except from a single small doorway, the heat within, even though there was no fire, when a number of persons were collected, was intense.

By the time the Admiral returned, everything was ready for continuing the voyage. Before sailing he put up a strong post, with a brass plate fixed to it, on which was engraved the name of the Queen, the day and year of their arrival, and the free giving up of the province, both by the King and the people, into her Majesty's hands, together with a sixpence, showing her Majesty's picture and arms. Underneath Drake's name was engraven, and further particulars. He believed that no Spaniard had ever before set foot on the shore, not being aware that Juan Rodriguez Cabrillo, a Portuguese by birth, had thirty-seven years previously explored the coast by command of the Viceroy of Spain.

As the natives perceived that the English were about to take their departure, the ship being now hauled out, with her sails ready for hoisting, they gave themselves up to unbounded grief, so that nothing that could be said to them seemed to lighten their sorrow. They could not be prevented lighting a fire, supposed to be sacrificial; but when the English commenced praying and singing psalms, they appeared to forget their fury, and came round, lifting up their hands and eyes to heaven, as they saw them doing. On the 23rd of July they took a sorrowful farewell of their visitors, who, shoving off in their boats, went on board the Golden Hind. Her crew, as they sailed away, saw fires burning on all the surrounding heights, kindled by the natives, evidently either to do them honour or to show their affection.

Drake bestowed on this country the name of Albion, in consequence of the whiteness of the cliffs, which resembled those of England, and because his native land was so-called.



Chapter Eighteen.

Voyage Of Sir Francis Drake, Continued -- A.D. 1579-80.

Search of passage to north-east abandoned -- Passage across the Pacific -- A group of islands made -- Thievish practices of the natives -- Called the Carolines -- The Moluccas reached -- Friendly reception by the King of Ternate -- Comes off in his state barge -- His magnificent jewels -- The Hind sails -- Careened at an island near Celebes -- Gigantic trees, fire-flies, crabs -- Gets among reefs and shoals -- Strikes on a rock --  Perilous position of the ship -- Gets off -- A heavy gale -- Runs under bare poles -- Anchors off Baratira -- Natives friendly -- Sails on to Java -- The Rajah treats them well -- The Golden Hind sails across the Indian Ocean -- Rounds the Cape of Good Hope -- Touches at Sierra Leone -- Enters the Channel -- Plymouth reached the 25th of September, 1580 -- Received by the Queen -- The Queen visits the Golden Hind -- Drake knighted -- His subsequent enterprises against the Spaniards -- In command of the Bonaventura attacks the Spanish Armada -- His last expedition to the West Indies, and death at sea.

After touching at some islands which lie about a day's sail to the westward of California, where there was a large supply of seals and aquatic birds, the Golden Hind continued her course. In consequence of the increased cold, all idea of finding a passage round the north of America, by the consent of every officer on board, was abandoned, and a course was steered which, it was hoped, would enable them to reach the Moluccas.

For full sixty-eight days the voyagers sailed on, their view during the whole of that period being bounded by sky and sea. As far as their experience went, it was to them a Pacific Ocean, for they had smooth water and favouring breezes. They fell in with the usual sights, flying-fish endeavouring to escape from their foes the bonitos; huge whales showing their presence by spouting clouds of mist into the air; while now and then a strong-winged bird passed in their sight.

Good fellowship prevailed amongst them, no words of discontent escaped from their lips. They had confidence in their leader, and, above all, reliance on God's good providence. They were men pious after a manner. The robberies they committed did not trouble their consciences, for they considered that they had lawfully despoiled the Spaniards of their unlawfully gotten gains. They each considered that they had performed a noble and meritorious act in thus revenging on the heads of the tyrants the injuries inflicted on the helpless Indians, as well as of those which they and their countrymen had received. Even Master Fletcher, the chaplain, looked with a complacent eye on the crucifix set with brilliants, the bowls, chalices, and other articles, which, according to his view, having been taken from the idolatrous temples of the hated foe, were his proper share of the spoil; and he was ready to receive as many more similar articles as might be allotted to him.

As the sailors thought of the huge bars of silver and the chests of plate stowed away in the hold, they prayed with all earnestness to Heaven for a successful termination to their voyage, and resolved, like true men as they were, that nothing should be lacking on their part to accomplish it.

At length a group of islands was seen, from which a large number of canoes came off, manned some by four, others by fifteen men, bringing with them cocoa-nuts, fish, potatoes, and fruits. Their canoes were formed out of one tree, but smoothly and cleverly hollowed out, having the appearance of being skilfully burnished. The bow and stern were of the same shape, turned inwards in a semicircle, and highly ornamented with glistening shells. On either side of the canoe pieces of timber were hung out, from a yard to a yard and a half long, according to the size of the canoes, to the ends of which was fastened a beam, the object being to keep them from upsetting.

The ears of the natives hung down on either side of their cheeks, weighted by heavy ornaments. Some had nails on their fingers an inch long, and their teeth were as black as pitch, caused by rubbing them with a black pigment contained in a cane.

On first coming alongside they appeared ready to trade in an ordinary honest way, and gave the articles they had brought off willingly for whatever they received; but others coming round in great numbers, snatched up anything they could get hold of, and made off with it.

Drake, to show that this was not approved of, would not deal with those who had thus behaved. They still, however, came round with the greatest impudence, and asked for more. At length, to warn them, he ordered a gun without shot to be fired over their heads. On hearing the sound, in natural alarm they leapt overboard, and dived under their canoes, when, waiting until the ship had passed on, they got into them and made for the shore. Others, however, in a short time came off, one of whom had the impudence to steal a dagger from a seaman's belt. Being ordered to restore it, instead of so doing, he grasped at other things, and tried to make his escape. At length the seamen, losing patience, handling the ropes' ends and other still more formidable weapons, drove their roguish visitors overboard, and as they sailed away, bestowed on the group the name of the Islands of Thieves, now known as the Carolines. Thence sailing southward, the Hind passed several islands till she reached that of Mindanao, whence two canoes came off; but the wind blowing strong, Drake could not wait to communicate with them.

On the 3rd of November she came in sight of the high-peaked Molucca Islands, to the east of which lies the great island of Gilolo. The two principal are called Ternate and Tidore. Drake had intended to touch at the latter, but when near the little island of Motir, belonging to Ternate, a person of consequence, the Viceroy of the island, came off with the information that the King had driven the Portuguese, who were enemies to him as well as to them, out of Ternate, and that he was anxious to receive the English with due honour, and to open up a commercial intercourse with them. He assured Drake that if he dealt with the Portuguese, he would find them treacherous and deceitful, and that the King of Ternate would have nothing to do with him if he had any intercourse with them.

In consequence of this Drake resolved to run to Ternate, off which island, early the next day, the Golden Hind came to an anchor. The Admiral immediately sent a velvet cloak to the King, with a message stating that he came on a friendly visit.

The Viceroy did not fail strongly to impress the King's mind with an idea of the consequence and power of the Queen of England, and he came back carrying a signet ring, as a sign to Drake that he would be well received, saying that the King himself, with his nobles, would soon pay him a visit on board.

Meantime Drake sent one of his officers on shore, who was met on landing by a number of the chief people, and by them was conducted into the presence of the King.

His Majesty blamed himself for not having at once come off to pay his promised visit, and announced his intention of speedily making his appearance. The ship was accordingly decked with flags, the officers and crew were attired in their best, while the guns were got ready to fire a salute. At length signs were perceived that the great person was coming off.

Three large canoes, each of which contained some of the chief people of the kingdom, approached. Canopies were spread from one end of the canoes to the other, of fine mats supported on a framework of reeds. The occupants were attired in white linen or cloth of Calicut, each person seated in order according to his rank, the white heads of some of them showing the wisdom of the King in employing grave and reverend councillors. Besides them were a number of young, handsome-looking men, who, also attired in white, stood under the canopy, but showing, from the places they occupied, that they were of inferior rank. Round them, again, were arranged soldiers, neat and orderly, with their arms brightly polished. On the galleries on the outside of the state barge sat the rowers, in three ranks, each canoe having eight. At the head of the canoe sat two men, one holding a drum and the other a brass instrument, with which they struck time to direct the rowers. In the bow also was a handsome brass cannon of about a yard in length, and each man, except the rowers, had his sword, dagger, and shield, some of them carrying other weapons, such as guns, lances, bows, and darts.

As these magnificently equipped barges came near the ship, they rowed round and round, one following the other, the chief persons in them bowing low as they did so, in token of homage. They then put the former envoy on board, who signified that the King was coming, and desired that a hawser might be sent to the barges, in order that they might tow the ship into a better berth.

As the Golden Hind went gliding on, the King himself came off in a handsome barge, richly ornamented, accompanied by six grave and ancient fathers, and as he approached he also bowed towards the ship in a far more humble way than could have been expected. He was a tall, very corpulent man, of a pleasant and handsome countenance. So great was the respect shown him, that even the chief councillors did not speak to him except on their knees. Drake, wishing to do all the honour in his power to the King, and highly pleased at the confidence he exhibited, ordered the ordnance to be fired, the trumpets to sound, and the band to strike up a lively tune.

This delighted the King so much that he requested the band to come into a boat, which was towed by his barge for a whole hour together. Drake, to strengthen the friendship thus commenced, sent a variety of presents to the King, who had in the meantime dispatched a messenger to bring his brother, named Moro. The latter soon appeared, accompanied by a number of followers, all handsomely dressed, in barges as magnificent as those of the King.

His Majesty now expressed his wish to return on shore, saying that he would come back the next day, and before night he sent on board rice, sugar-canes, and sugar in various forms, fowls, plantains, cocoa-nuts, and sago, now first known to the English. They might also have obtained any amount of cloves, but Drake did not wish further to load his ship.

The Admiral was expecting the arrival of the King, when Prince Moro came with apologies, saying that if Drake would go ashore he himself would remain as a hostage. To this, however, all the officers were greatly averse, suspecting treachery, and he therefore determined to send several of them with Prince Moro, retaining the Viceroy of Motir as a hostage.

On landing they were courteously received by a large number of persons of rank in handsome dresses, and were conducted to the palace. This was a four-sided building, the centre canopied by a cloth of many colours, such as tents are made of. All the way round it were cushioned seats. It was the usual council-house, and not used for any other purpose. On one side was the chair of state, placed on a handsome carpet, having over it a very beautiful and rich canopy.

As the King did not make his appearance for an hour, the officers had time to examine things at their leisure. Before he appeared, about threescore noble, grave, and ancient personages entered and took their seats round the building, while at the farther end were a large number of richly dressed young men. Outside stood four fine-looking white-headed persons clothed in red robes reaching to the ground, having turbans on their heads similar to the Turks. They were, it was understood, strangers, but long resident in the country. Two of them were Turks, one an Italian, and the last a Spaniard, who had been rescued from the Portuguese.

At length the King appeared, followed by ten grave senators, walking under a rich canopy embossed with gold, and guarded by twelve men armed with lances, the points turned downwards.

The officers, accompanied by Prince Moro, rose to meet him. He received them graciously. He was dressed like his countrymen, but far more sumptuously. His garments from the waist downward were of cloth of gold of the richest description; his legs were bare, but on his feet he wore red slippers; his head-dress was a sort of turban twisted through wide gold rings, and somewhat resembled a crown. Round his neck he wore a massive gold chain; on his left hand four magnificent rings, adorned by a diamond, an emerald, a ruby, and a turquoise; and on his right an unusually large turquoise in one ring, and in another ring many diamonds of a smaller size artistically arranged.

While he sat in his chair of state, on his right side stood a page holding a large fan, richly embroidered and set with sapphires, with which he constantly fanned his master. The heat was excessive, both on account of the sun's rays and the number of persons assembled.

The officers, having delivered their message, received permission to take their departure. Before retiring to the boats, they had time to examine the castle, which was very ill fortified. It had only two guns, which had been captured from the Portuguese, and they were not mounted. The present King had lately succeeded his father, who had been killed by the Portuguese. Having driven them out of the country, he greatly increased his strength, and was contemplating an attack on Tidore, from which he hoped to expel them.

While the Golden Hind remained off Ternate, a stranger came on board, very well dressed, and of courteous manners. He described himself as a Chinese, related to the Emperor of China. He said that being accused of a crime of which he was innocent, he thought it prudent to quit his country and travel, after having obtained permission from the King, that should he bring back anything curious, he should obtain his pardon.

Having described the unbounded wealth of China, he entreated Drake to visit the country before returning to Europe. Drake, however, having already more than wealth enough on board his ship, and wishing to get back to England as soon as possible, declined his offer.

On the 9th of November, having shipped all necessary stores and provisions, the Golden Hind proceeded on her voyage. It was necessary, however, before she could attempt to cross the wide expanse of the Indian Ocean, and to encounter the storms off Cape Horn and in the Atlantic, which might be expected, to careen and thoroughly repair her. On the 14th, therefore, they anchored at a convenient spot near an uninhabited island off the east coast of Celebes. The first thing they did was to pitch their tents, and entrench themselves as strongly as they could on the shore, lest any of the inhabitants of the larger island in view might attack them. After having thus provided for their security, they landed the cargo and set up a smith's forge. As all their coals were spent, before they could use it, they had to manufacture charcoal.

The place was remarkably healthy, and those who had hitherto been sickly quickly recovered their strength. The island was thickly wooded with trees of great height. Among them fire-flies in vast numbers were seen flitting, at night every twig on the trees appearing as if lighted up by stars.

They also saw what they took to be huge bats, which moved rapidly through the air with short flights. When they alighted they hung on the boughs, with their backs downwards. They also found, in vast numbers, large land crabs, which lived in colonies under the roots of trees, but never, as far as they could see, entered the water. They accordingly called this place Crab Island.

All necessary repairs being completed, the Golden Hind sailed on the 12th of December, directing her course westward. When off the coast of Celebes, she became entangled among reefs and shoals, from out of which it required the greatest possible care to find a free passage. Here they were sailing, now in one direction, now in another, until the 9th of January, when, a favourable breeze springing up, they believed that they had extricated themselves from their dangerous position, and that they had an open sea before them. They were running under all sail, when, in the beginning of the first night watch, a loud grating sound was heard, -- the masts quivered: the Golden Hind had run hard and fast on a rock. No land was in sight; there appeared no hopes of getting her off. Like pious men as they were, of a sort, they fell down on their knees and implored God's protection. They then rose, -- their brave Admiral setting the example, -- and bestirred themselves to see what could be done. The pumps were tried and quickly sucked dry, showing that the hull of the Golden Hind was sound.

It was now deemed important to carry an anchor out to seaward, but before doing so a boat was lowered, into which the Admiral leaped, undertaking the charge of sounding all round the ship; but even at a boat's length from her no bottom was found to which a cable could reach. She appeared fixed hard and fast, and should any sea get up she must inevitably quickly go to pieces.

Of this all were thoroughly convinced, although, Drake and his officers setting the example, all manfully kept up their spirits. Their boat could not carry more than twenty persons at once with safety, while the whole company consisted of fifty-eight, and the land was six leagues from them, the wind being directly off shore. At first it was proposed to send one boat-load on shore, but there was the risk of their falling into the hands of the savage inhabitants. Anxiously they awaited the return of day. It came at length. They forthwith made another attempt to carry out an anchor, but no holding ground was found. They were apparently on the very pinnacle of a rock. It was the top of high water. There appeared every probability that, when the tide became lower, the ship would fall over on her bilge and be destroyed.

Again they took to praying, and, after a short address by the Admiral and chaplain, they all together partook of the sacrament. Then, lest they should be guilty of not using all lawful means to free themselves from their danger, they commenced unloading the ship by casting all the goods they could lay their hands on into the sea.

Powder and shot and provisions were hove overboard, for they trusted that, should God permit the ship once more to float, He would not allow them to fall into the hands of their enemies, or to perish from want of food. The tide continued to fall, but the breeze blew strongly against the side which was inclined towards the rock, and kept the ship on an even keel, although, at one time, on that side there was not more than seven feet of water, while she required thirteen to float her. The breeze increasing, she heeled over on the opposite side, where the water was the deepest, and by this means, her keel tearing away the coral rock, she was suddenly floated, at a moment no one expected, into deep water. A shout of joy escaped the throats of the gallant crew of the Golden Hind, nor did they forget to offer up their grateful thanks to Heaven for their delivery. This was the greatest danger they had hitherto encountered. For many days afterwards, however, they were entangled among the reefs off the low coast of Celebes.

On the 20th of January, Drake, desiring to come to an anchor, sent the boat a considerable distance off, to look for a spot where he could bring up. Before, however, she could return, the ship was struck by a wind from the south-west, little short of a hurricane, by which the sea was rapidly lashed into fury, endangering not only the boat, but the ship herself, for she was now caught on a lee shore, off which it seemed impossible to beat. Happily the violence of the storm passed over, and the Golden Hind, picking up her boat, was able to ply off the land. Although she got clear of that danger, for many days she was exposed to others of a similar nature, and, being struck by another violent squall, it became necessary to furl all sail and to run under bare poles.

On the 6th of February five islands were in sight, towards one of which they steered, and came to an anchor. Here they wooded and watered, and on the 8th, as they were again at sea, two canoes were seen coming off to the ship. The natives in them, who were fine-looking fellows, but naked, with the exception of turbans on their heads and cloths round their loins, invited them to come to their town of Barativa.

Piloted by the strangers, the Golden Hind steered on for the town. The inhabitants appeared honest and hospitably inclined, and brought off a plentiful supply of nutmegs, pepper, lemons, cucumbers, cocoa-nuts, figs, sago, and other fruits. Indeed, they behaved in so kind and friendly a way that the crew of the Golden Hind felt themselves safer and more at their ease than they had at any place they had visited, with the exception of Ternate.

Two days were spent in recruiting their strength after their toil, and taking fresh provisions on board. Once more they sailed westward, and, after passing many other islands, on the 9th of March came in sight of the large island of Java. Drake, without hesitation, accompanied by several of his officers, went on shore and presented himself to the King, by whom he was cordially welcomed and entertained with music and a review of his troops. They found that this island was governed by a principal chief or Rajah, named Donan, who had under him several other rajahs, each presiding over a certain district. Scarcely a day passed that the Rajah or some of his subordinates did not come on board. They were invariably entertained by music and the exhibition of those things which it was thought would be pleasing to them.

Rajah Donan, in return, entertained them with a concert of his national instruments, which sounded strange in their ears; he likewise sent on board an ox. Though these visits caused some interruption, the crew, eager to prosecute their voyage, laboured hard in refitting and cleaning the bottom of the ship, which was found to be covered with barnacles, greatly impeding her sailing.

In all their transactions with these people they found them a mild and gentle race, honest and just in their dealings. Goats, hens, cocoa-nuts, plantains, and other kinds of fruits were obtained. The Golden Hind at length set sail from Java on the 26th of March, steering west-south-west, directly for the Cape of Good Hope.

Thus, as they had passed over the Pacific, the bold mariners steered their course, day after day the sea and sky alone in sight, until the 21st of May, when high rocky land was seen on the starboard bow, which they well knew was the southern part of Africa. They coasted along until the 15th of June, when, with a smooth sea and gentle wind from the south-east, they passed so near to the Cape that they might have sent a shot on shore from one of their guns.

Thus their experience differed greatly from that of the Portuguese, who had always represented it as a cape of storms. The crew of the Golden Hind suspected that they had done so for the purpose of preventing other mariners from attempting to pass it. The crew of the Golden Hind had now proved that the dreaded cape could be rounded and the Straits of Magellan passed through in safety.

For a whole month they did not again sight land until the 15th of June, when they passed Rio de Sesto, where they saw some boats of negroes fishing, but did not communicate with them. On the 22nd of the same month they came to an anchor off Sierra Leone, where, at the mouth of the river Tagoine, they spent two days watering. They were not a little astonished to see countless numbers of oysters clinging to the branches of the mangrove-trees overhanging the water. These and plenty of lemons, which they found very wholesome and refreshing, were used as food.

Once more the Golden Hind was at sea steering northward, the richest argosy which had ever yet floated on the ocean. The hearts of the gallant crew beat high as they neared their native shores. No longer fearing danger, even from revengeful Spaniards, they stood on until, greatly to their joy, soundings were struck. The well-known Land's End and the Start came in sight, and on the 25th of September, 1580 -- Sunday, according to the reckoning on board -- the Golden Hind, after a voyage of two years and ten months, dropped her anchor in the harbour of Plymouth.

Great was the astonishment of the mariners when they found that the true day, with those who had remained on shore, was Monday the 26th, they not being aware that they had lost a day by the course they had steered, following the sun, and thereby gaining on him.

When the amount of wealth Drake had brought was known, his arrival was hailed throughout the kingdom as an event of national importance; still more so by those who could best appreciate the value of his great undertaking in having circumnavigated the globe, passed through the Straits of Magellan, and made many most important discoveries.

There were those, however, who endeavoured to detract from his merits, and accused him merely of being a successful pirate. Others blamed him for having put the unhappy Doughty to death, and many complained that his attack on the Spaniards would lay their mercantile marine at the mercy of their enemies.

He was, notwithstanding the remarks of his detractors, graciously received at Court in private, although the Queen thought it necessary to show him a certain amount of coldness in public.

So violent were the complaints made by the Spanish ambassador, that she sequestrated the treasure brought home by the Golden Hind, and part of it was paid over to the Spanish agent, by whom it was transmitted to Philip, and employed in supporting the Irish rebellion. The Queen, however, laughed at the complaints of the ambassador that the English had intruded into the South Sea, observing that she knew not why her subjects and others should be prohibited from sailing to the Indies, which she could not acknowledge to belong to the Spaniards by virtue of the Pope's bull, for that could never oblige princes who owed him no obedience, nor by reason that the Spaniards had arrived here and there, had erected cottages, and given names to capes and rivers.

A rupture with Spain becoming inevitable, Queen Elizabeth, throwing aside her simulated coldness, received Drake openly, and expressed her admiration of his boldness, discretion, and brilliant success. The Golden Hind having been brought up to Deptford on the 4th of April, 1581, she went on board in state, and Drake, who knew the tastes of his royal mistress, spared no pains in preparing a worthy banquet. Copies of Latin verses written by the Winchester scholars, praising the Golden Hind and her commander, were nailed to the masts. The banquet over, the Queen conferred upon Drake the honour of knighthood, and issued orders that his ship should be preserved as a monument of the glory of the nation and of the illustrious navigator.

After a residence of two or three years on shore, Sir Francis Drake put to sea in command of a squadron destined to attack the Spaniards wherever they should be found. Having captured some small vessels, he surprised Saint Jago, the chief town of the Cape de Verde Islands, and thence sailed for the Leeward Islands, after which he visited the principal town of San Domingo, though less booty was obtained than was expected.

His next enterprise was directed against Carthagena, which was gallantly captured, the Governor, Alonzo Bravo, being taken prisoner. After a part of the city had been destroyed, a ransom of thirty thousand pounds was accepted for the preservation of the latter. The yellow fever, however, broke out, and carried off numbers of the victorious Englishmen, so that projected attempts on Nombre de Dios and Panama were abandoned, and the squadron sailed for the coast of Florida. Here two settlements, San Augustine and Santa Helena, were burned, and then, touching at Virginia, Drake took on board the hapless survivors of the colony commenced the previous year by Sir Walter Raleigh.

Though the booty obtained was insignificant, the dismantling of so many fortresses at the commencement of the war was of importance.

This was the first of many services rendered by the great navigator. Rumours of an intended invasion of England by the Spaniards, with their so-called Invincible Armada, induced the merchants of London to fit out at their own expense twenty-six vessels of different sizes, which were placed under the command of Drake. To this squadron four ships and two pinnaces were added by the Queen, the largest of which, named the Bonaventura, was commanded by Drake in person.

With this force, early in April, 1587, he sailed from Plymouth to look out for the Spaniards. Hearing from the commanders of two Dutch vessels that a Spanish fleet was lying at Cadiz, about to sail with stores and ammunition of all sorts, he steered for that port, and in the course of one day and two nights destroyed shipping amounting to ten thousand tons.

This important service rendered, he gained information that the Saint Philipe, a Portuguese carrack from the East Indies, was expected at Terceira, one of the Azores. Though the crews of the squadron were almost destitute of provisions, by threats and promises he induced them to continue at sea, and ere long came in sight of and captured the richest prize ever yet taken; but valuable as was her cargo, still more so were the papers found on board, for from them the English merchants acquired so thorough a knowledge of the Indian trade, that they were ere long able to found that profitable company which established the empire of Britain in the East.

Returning home, Sir Francis was in the following year appointed Vice-Admiral under Lord Howard of Effingham. Before long news came that the Spanish Armada was approaching the coast.

Who does not know how Drake, warping his ships out of Plymouth Harbour, attacked the haughty Dons, hanging on their rear as they sailed vauntingly on, harassing, capturing, and destroying them? How he ran alongside a mighty galleon commanded by Don Pedro de Valdez, which at the name of Drake surrendered without striking a blow? How the navy of England did their part, though Heaven gained them the victory?

The war with Spain continuing, Drake, in conjunction with Sir John Hawkins, took command of an expedition for the purpose of crushing the power of the Spaniards in the West Indies. The fleet, consisting of six ships of the navy and twenty-one private vessels, and having on board twenty-five thousand soldiers and sailors, sailed from Plymouth on the 28th of August, 1595.

It was unfortunate from the commencement. First detained in the Channel from a false report that another armada was about to be sent against our shores, no sooner did it arrive off Dominica, than one of the vessels was captured by the enemy, whom in consequence it was no longer possible to surprise. The squadron then proceeded to Porto Rico; but Hawkins died on the evening of their arrival off the place; and shortly afterwards a shot from the fortress entering the cabin of Drake's ship, where he and his officers were seated at supper, knocking the stool from under him, killed Sir Nicholas Clifford and several others.

The place was captured the next day, but the Spaniards having removed all their treasure, and their women and children, the invaders reaped but a barren victory.

Several places fell into the hands of the English, and were given to the flames; but though a small amount of booty was obtained, their numbers were greatly reduced by this desultory style of warfare. An expedition under Sir Thomas Baskerville to capture Panama failed, and the party with difficulty got back to their ships.

This last calamity so preyed on Drake that he was seized with a fever, and after languishing for nearly three weeks, he expired near Porto Bello on the 28th of January, 1595, in the fifty-first year of his age. His followers showed the deepest grief at his loss. His body, enclosed in a leaden coffin, was committed to the deep with all the pomp which circumstances would allow. Thus, as was said, he lived by the sea, died on it, and was buried in it. The whole country mourned his loss, and though his last enterprise had been unsuccessful, all united in admiring the genius and valour of one whose memory, as was written of him, will survive as long as the duration of that world which he circumnavigated.



Chapter Nineteen.

Voyage Of Cavendish Round The World -- A.D. 1586.

Parentage of Cavendish -- Sails with Sir Richard Grenville to the West Indies -- Introduced to the Queen -- Fits out expedition for the South Sea --  Sails from Plymouth -- Lands at Sierra Leone -- Attacks a negro town --  Passage across the Atlantic -- Anchors off coast of Brazil -- Puts into Port Desire -- Large size of natives -- Attacked by them -- Enters the Straits of Magellan -- A deserted Spanish colony -- One man rescued -- San Felipe visited -- Port Famine -- Enters the Pacific -- The squadron puts into Mocha --  Obtains provisions by a mistake of the natives -- An expedition on shore at Quintero -- Twelve of the crew cut off -- Anchors off Moron Moreno --  Degraded natives -- Proceedings at Areca -- Prisoners taken and tortured --  Payta plundered -- The island of Paria and its wealthy cacique -- The English surprised by Spaniards -- Several killed -- Cavendish burns the place -- Several vessels captured -- Cocoa found on board a prize -- Some persons made prisoners on shore held captive till provisions are brought -- In search of the Manilla galleon -- She is attacked and captured -- The prisoners well treated -- The Santa Anna set on fire -- The Desire and Content set sail -- Ersola, a pilot, carried off -- The Content lost sight of -- No tidings ever received of her -- The ship touches at Guham and proceeds on to the Philippines -- Treachery of Ersola discovered -- He is hung -- A Spanish frigate put to flight -- Death of Captain Havers -- Java reached -- Reception by the Rajah -- The Indian Ocean crossed -- A tempest -- Passes the Cape of Good Hope -- Touches at Saint Helena -- Hears of the defeat of the Spanish Armada -- Enters Plymouth with silken sails -- Knighted by Queen Elizabeth -- Sails on a second voyage --  Numerous disasters -- Dies of a broken heart.

At an early age Thomas Cavendish, by the death of his father, William Cavendish, of Trunley Saint Martin, in the county of Suffolk, became an orphan, and the possessor of that goodly estate on which he was born. From his childhood he had been wont to gaze on the ocean, which rolled in front of the family mansion, and thus at an early age he became enamoured of a sea life.

Instead of spending his time in hunting and hawking, or other field sports, and indulging in the luxurious ease which his wealth would have allowed, as soon as he had power over his fortune, after following the Court of her Majesty for a short period, he resolved to undertake some noble enterprise which might bring credit to himself and redound to the honour of his country.

Hearing that Sir Richard Grenville, afterwards so celebrated, was about to sail, for the purpose of founding a colony in Virginia, in 1585, he fitted out a vessel at his own cost, of which he took command, and sailed in the fleet of that brave captain. Although he gained but small profit by the voyage, he obtained a considerable amount of nautical skill, and a knowledge of the islands of the West Indies, among which the squadron cruised before returning home.

Not satisfied with this short voyage, having conversed with several of those who had sailed with Drake, and with other pilots and mariners, he resolved on undertaking an expedition which might rival that of the renowned navigator who had a short time before returned in triumph from his voyage round the world in the richly-laden Golden Hind.

Through the recommendation of his friend Lord Hunsdon, he received a licence from the Queen to cruise against her enemies, and he lost no time in fitting out three vessels. These were the Desire, of one hundred and twenty tons burden, in which he sailed as Admiral, the Content, of sixty tons, and the Hugh Gallant, a bark of forty tons, carrying altogether one hundred and twenty-three officers, seamen, and soldiers. Having embarked near his own house at Harwich on the 10th of July, 1586, on board the Desire, he sailed thence for Plymouth, where his little squadron was directed to rendezvous.

Those were days when gentlemen considered it necessary to settle all disputes with the sword, and unhappily one of his followers, Mr Hope, having engaged in a duel, was mortally wounded, though he insisted on returning to his ship.

On the 21st of July, all things being ready, the anchors were weighed, and the little squadron sailed out of Plymouth Sound. On the 25th the hapless Mr Hope died of his wound. The next day five large Spanish vessels were seen, which, steering for the Desire, attacked her; but the Admiral plied his guns so vigorously that they were glad to escape, having done no material damage.

Having sighted various places, on the 26th of August the squadron put into the harbour of Sierra Leone. The following day two negroes came off and gave the information that there was a Portuguese vessel higher up the harbour. In order to learn more about her, some of the crew went on shore and danced and amused themselves with the negroes, from whom they learned that it would be impossible to approach her with the ships. Disappointed in this. Cavendish and seventy of his men landed the following day, attacked the town, set some of the houses on fire, and took what little spoil they could find. On their return the negroes who had fled, having rallied in a wood, shot poisoned arrows at them, and hurt three or four. Notwithstanding this, the crew again landed for the purpose of filling their water-casks and washing their clothes. While they were thus occupied a party of negroes rushed out upon them from the woods, and shooting their arrows, hurt several of the men, among whom was a soldier, who, breaking off the shaft, allowed the head to remain in the wound rather than have it cut out. It being poisoned, his body swelled and became black, and he died the next morning.

Touching at the Cape de Verde Islands, the squadron steered a west-south-west course across the Atlantic, and on the 31st of October sighted a lofty mountain in Brazil, twenty-four leagues from Cape Frio. The next day the ships came to an anchor between the island of San Sebastian and the main. Here the greater part of a month was spent in setting up a pinnace, preparing casks, and other necessary works.

Again sailing on the afternoon of the 17th of December, the squadron entered a hitherto unknown harbour, to which the Admiral gave the name of Port Desire, in memory of his own ship. Here vast numbers of seals were found, and also penguins. As the tides ebbed and flowed considerably, the ships were put on shore to be careened and graved. No water, however, being found near the harbour, the people had to go a considerable distance to fetch it. A man and a boy were thus employed, when they were set upon by fifty huge savages, who shot their arrows, and wounded them sorely. They would have been killed had not the Admiral, with nineteen men, coming up, put the natives to flight. Though the English followed, so rapidly did the savages run that they soon made their escape. As they were seen above the rocks they appeared like giants, and the print mark of one of their feet being measured, was found, it is asserted, to be eighteen inches in length. This, however, was not a correct way of judging of their height, and was probably an exaggeration, as none have since been found much taller than the tallest Europeans. Cavendish had after this no communication with the natives of this part of the coast.

Sailing from Port Desire, the voyagers brought up off another island three leagues away from it, where they salted and dried the penguins they had taken. They now stood on in sight of land, until on the 6th of January they entered the Straits of Magellan. Here the squadron anchored near the first narrow or angostura, as the Spaniards called it. Soon afterwards lights were seen on the northern shore, which, as they were supposed to be signals, were answered from the ships.

In the morning Cavendish sent off a boat towards the beach, where three men were seen making signals with a handkerchief. They were soon perceived to be Spaniards, who had fancied that the ships were manned by their countrymen; and great was their disappointment when they found out their mistake. Their history was a sad one. They were part of a colony which sailed from Spain in twenty-three large ships, carrying three thousand five hundred men, under the command of Don Pedro Sarmiento, with the title of Viceroy, it being the intention of the Spanish Government to found towns and erect forts on the shores of the narrowest part of the straits, so as to prevent the English or other nations from passing through them.

The greater number of vessels had been wrecked or had turned back, but Pedro Sarmiento at length arrived at the straits in February, 1584, where he landed the colonists, and the foundations of two towns named Nombre de Jesus and San Felipe were laid, situated about seventy miles apart. The Viceroy himself was driven away by stress of weather, and Rivera, one of his officers, with the larger portion of the provisions intended to support the colonists during the winter, sailed for Spain. The unhappy settlers were thus left without food in that dreary region, to endure the inclemency of the winter. Numbers died of famine and cold. Month after month wore by. At length the settlers at Nombre de Jesus built two small barks, hoping to make their way to Brazil, but before they cleared the straits one was wrecked, and the survivors in the other vessel abandoned their project in despair. Of four hundred men and thirty women who had formed the inhabitants of San Felipe, only fifteen men and three women were alive when Cavendish discovered them. Cavendish at once undertook to convey them to Peru. After some demur, they agreed to accept his liberal offer, and sent a messenger, Tome Hernandez, to express their willingness to come on board. Just at this juncture a strong easterly gale springing up, the vessels were compelled to weigh and run before it, and the hapless colonists were left to their miserable fate.

It was hopeless for Cavendish to try and turn back to their relief. As the vessel sped on, Hernandez showed them the wreck of a small bark called the John Thomas, which it was supposed had been left there by Drake.

After passing through the narrows, they brought up off the island of Santa Magdelena on the 8th of January, 1587. Here in two hours they killed and salted a large supply of penguins. Running to the south-west, the next day they came off the other Spanish settlement, San Filipe. Not a living being appeared, but among the ruins of the houses and forts the bodies of several Spaniards were discovered, lying as they had died, like dogs.

In the forts several pieces of cannon were found buried, though the carriages were still standing in their places. The English dug up the guns and carried them off, the only booty they obtained worth preserving.

The town had been well built, and had near it an abundance of wood and water. In one place stood a gibbet, showing that strict discipline had been maintained by the governor until all had succumbed to the common misfortune. It is probable that the wretched inhabitants had been compelled to live on mussels and limpets till they had no strength left to gather them, and that numbers dying from starvation, the survivors had been driven by the horrible stench of the corpses in the houses to seek for pure air and provisions along the shore. Here they had been killed by the savages, in whose possession a variety of European weapons were seen.

Cavendish gave the name of Port Famine to the place, and the Spaniards also call it in their charts Puerto de Hambre. For three weeks the squadron lay in this sheltered harbour, unable to proceed on account of contrary winds, but at length a fair breeze springing up, they cleared the passage on the 24th of February, and entered the Pacific.

On the 1st of March a fearful storm coming on, the Hugh Gallant was lost sight of, and fears were entertained for her safety. For several days the storm raged, but at length the Desire and Content managed to put into Mocha, off the coast of Chili. Here, to the infinite relief of all on board, they were soon afterwards joined by the Hugh Gallant; but her crew were so greatly exhausted by labouring at the pumps, that they could scarcely furl the sails.

Wishing to obtain provisions, Cavendish at once sent a boat to the main; but the fierce Araucanians who inhabited the country, mistaking the crew for Spaniards, of whom they have ever been the deadly enemies, furiously assailed them, but were soon compelled to retreat by a few discharges of the English calivers. They are the most warlike and intelligent aborigines of the southern part of the continent.

The following day Cavendish landed on the island with seventy men, and marched to the town of Santa Maria, where he was received in a friendly way by the chief natives, who also fancied that they were their masters the Spaniards. Here was a church with several storehouses near it, in which had been collected the tribute of provisions destined for the Spanish Governor. These stores, consisting of maize, potatoes, and dried dog-fish, were at once unsuspectingly handed over to the English, the inhabitants adding presents of hogs and fowls in large quantities. In return Cavendish invited the two principal chiefs to dine on board his ship, where he made them merry with wine, when to their astonishment they found out that their hosts were not Spaniards, and that they had handed over their tribute to the wrong persons! On this, nothing disconcerted, the two chiefs appeared to be as friendly as ever, and tried to induce the English to go across to Arauco, assuring them that they would find abundance of gold; but after the experience he had had with the Araucanians, Cavendish wisely declined to venture among them.

Touching at two other places, the voyagers entered the bay of Quintero. Here they found a herdsman asleep on the side of a hill, but before they could get up to him he awoke, and, mounting a horse, galloped off, and, as was feared, gave information of the English being on the coast.

Cavendish, however, went on shore, where he saw three horsemen approaching, flourishing their swords. On this he sent Hernandez to enter into conversation with them. He returned, saying that they were willing to furnish as large a supply of provisions as he might require. On being sent a second time to make further arrangements, forgetting all his vows, he sprang into the saddle behind one of his countrymen, who then galloped off as fast as they could go, hurried by the shots sent after them.

Indignant at this, Cavendish resolved to send an expedition on shore to find their town and burn it. On the following day Captain Havers accordingly landed with a party of sixty well-armed men, who marched eight miles inland, till they were stopped by the steepness of the mountains at whose base they had arrived. On the way they saw vast numbers of cattle and horses wonderfully wild, as well as hares, coneys, partridges, and other birds. Finding no town, they were returning, when they espied two hundred Spanish horsemen; but as they marched along in battle array, the Dons thought it wise not to attack them, and they regained their ships that night. On the ist of April a party again went on shore to fill their water-casks at a bright stream some distance from the beach. They were thus engaged when a large band of horsemen and men on foot came pouring down upon them, and twelve were cut off, either killed or taken prisoners. The rest were rescued by the soldiers who were sent on shore, and the enemy, after a sharp fight, were beaten off, with the loss of twenty-four men.

Notwithstanding this, by keeping a vigilant watch, Cavendish obtained water for all his ships. It was afterwards ascertained that the Spaniards executed as pirates six of the men they had captured, though they sailed with a commission from their Queen, who was at open war with Spain.

Leaving Quintero, they anchored, on the 15th of April, off Moron Moreno. The natives who came off to the ships were friendly, but appeared to be a degraded race, their wigwams being of the roughest description, consisting merely of skins thrown over a pole supported on forked sticks. Their boats or balsas were looked upon as ingenious contrivances. They were formed of two large inflated skins, secured together by sinews. On these they put to sea, and caught numbers of fish, with which they paid their tribute to the Spaniards, whose cruel system had reduced them to their present abject state.

Once more sailing, on the 23rd they arrived off Areca, where a small bark coming out of the harbour was captured; but the crew got away in the boat, and though the Admiral's pinnace made chase, she failed to overtake her. Finding, however, a large vessel anchored in the roads, the pinnace went alongside, and the crew having landed, captured her and her cargo. Several shots, which she narrowly escaped, were fired from the fort at the pinnace, and in revenge Cavendish resolved to attack and pillage the town. The Content, however, was not in sight, and it was necessary to wait for her. When she arrived it was found that she had been engaged some leagues to the southward in carrying off as much as she could conveniently stow of a cargo of Spanish wine. By this time the inhabitants had been able to conceal their treasure, and to make such preparations for their defence that Cavendish deemed it prudent not to attack them. He, however, sent the pinnace on shore with a flag of truce to learn if the Spaniards would redeem the ship just captured, hoping thus to obtain the men who had been carried off by the horsemen at Quintero. They replied, however, that they had been ordered by the Viceroy of Lima not to have any traffic with the heretics under pain of death, and that the prisoners could not be restored.

While this business was being transacted a vessel was seen standing into the harbour, on which the boats were sent out to intercept her; but before they could reach her she was run ashore two miles to the southward of the town. Numbers of persons were seen escaping from her, among whom were several friars, but they made such haste that before they could be taken or killed they had all got away. The vessel was boarded, but nothing of value being found in her, the boats returned to the ships.

Next morning the great ship was set on fire and one of the barks sunk, when, carrying the other with them, the squadron sailed northward. On the 27th a small bark was captured, having on board a Greek, who proved to be a good pilot for the coast of Chili, as also one Fleming and three Spaniards. They were carrying letters from Santiago, near Quintero, to Lima, giving an account of the squadron being on the coast. The crew, however, had been sworn not to reveal this should they be captured. To make them do so their thumbs were put into a winch, and the old Fleming was persuaded that he would be hung if he did not confess. Still he resisted. At last one of the Spaniards gave in and acknowledged the truth, on which the bark was burnt and the men carried off. During the next fortnight several prizes were made and two towns visited, from which an ample supply of bread, fowls, and wine was obtained.

On the 20th of April Cavendish, with a large number of his men, landed at Payta, which they took without loss, the inhabitants after a short skirmish having fled, carrying with them their treasure, to a place among the hills.

Here they were pursued, and twenty-five pounds of silver and other valuable articles taken, besides abundance of household stuff. As, however, they were a mile and a half from the town, Cavendish would not allow his men to burden themselves with anything but the silver and gold, fearing that they might be attacked by the enemy, who outnumbered them as five to one. They got back in safety to the town, which consisted of upwards of two hundred well-built houses, was kept very clean, and had a guildhall in the midst. It was set on fire with goods in it to the value of five or six thousand pounds, and burnt to the ground. The vessel in the roads was also burnt, and the squadron then steered for the island of Puna.

Here a vessel of two hundred and fifty tons was found, and forthwith sunk. Cavendish then landed, and paid a visit to the cacique, who lived in a magnificent house richly furnished, and was married to a Spanish lady. All the people in the island were completely subjected to him, and he made them work like slaves. The cacique had fled to the mainland, but was pursued. Cavendish obtained information from an Indian that a party of sixty soldiers had landed from Guaiaquil to attack him. Notwithstanding this, he marched on through the woods to some houses where he heard that the cacique and his wife had taken refuge. They had, however, again fled with their gold and silver. Cavendish, here obtained ample stores, which had previously been landed from the ship he had sunk, and also the rich leather hangings and household stuff belonging to the cacique's house, which he discovered. In the garden were fruits and vegetables of every sort in great abundance, and numbers of horses, oxen, and fat sheep on the pasture-grounds, together with turkeys, ducks, hens, and poultry of great size. Not believing that any enemy in the neighbourhood would venture to attack them, the party on shore had wandered about in search of provisions, when suddenly a large body of Spanish soldiers made their appearance, accompanied by a number of natives.

The English were driven back to the water's side, but held the enemy in check, notwithstanding their overpowering numbers, until a boat arrived to carry them off. In the meantime several English had been killed, and the boat was so overloaded that four were left behind. They, however, held their own under a cliff until the boat returned, after she had carried the rest on board. Altogether twelve Englishmen were killed, and forty-six of the enemy slain. Next day Cavendish landed with seventy men, drove the Spaniards before him, and set fire to the town, which contained three hundred houses. They then ravaged the fields, orchards, and gardens, and burnt four large ships building on the stocks.

The Spaniards not daring again to molest them, the Content was hauled on shore and graved, and on the 5th of June the squadron sailed from Puna, and brought up to obtain water at a place named Rio Dolce. Here, for want of men, the Hugh Gallant was burnt.

After having sighted the coast of New Spain on the 9th of July, they took what proved to them a valuable prize, a ship of one hundred and twenty tons, on board of which the pilot was a certain Michael Sancius. Having no special love for the Spaniards, he told the Admiral that a rich galleon, the Santa Anna, was shortly expected from the Philippine Islands.

This news exhilarated the hearts of the rovers, who hoped that she might prove as rich an argosy as that taken by Drake. The rest of the crew, six in number, with the ropes and fire-wood, being transferred to the Desire, the prize was set on fire. The next day another vessel was captured, engaged in warning the inhabitants that the English were on the coast, as also intended to give information to the galleon of her danger. The crew had got on shore, so their vessel was burnt. Putting into Acapulco, they found a bark laden with cocoas and anil. They here landing, burnt the town, the church, and the custom-house, in which latter they found six hundred bags of anil, to dye cloth, each bag being worth forty crowns, and four hundred bags of cocoas, each worth ten crowns. These cocoas served in the country both for food and money, one hundred and fifty of them being valued at one real of silver. They resemble an almond in appearance, but are not so pleasant in taste. The people both eat them and make a drink of them. This appears to be the first time the English met with the berry now in such general use. After various adventures on shore, the vessels came off the haven of Puerto de Navidad, when thirty of the crew went on shore in the pinnace. They here surprised a mulatto in his bed, who was travelling with letters warning the people along the coast of the proceedings of the English. His letters were captured, his horse killed, and the houses of the town set on fire, as also were two new ships on the stocks, of two hundred tons each; but the messenger was allowed to go free.

On the morning of the 9th of September Cavendish sent Captain Havers with forty men on shore, and under the guidance of Michael Sancius they made their way two leagues up the country. Here they surprised three householders, with their wives and children, and some Indians, a carpenter, who was a Spaniard, and a Portuguese.

They were all bound and compelled to accompany the seamen to the beach. The wives were here set at liberty on condition of obtaining a supply of plantains, lemons, oranges, pineapples, and other fruits, of which, in a short time, they brought a large supply. On this they and their husbands were allowed to depart, but Sembrano, the Spanish carpenter, and Diego, the Portuguese, were detained to make themselves useful on board.

Crossing the Tropic of Cancer, the English came to an anchor off a little island a league to the northward of Mapatalan. Here one of their prisoners escaped by swimming across to the mainland, a distance of a mile. They were now in great want of water, and on first landing did not believe that it could be found on the island; but one of their Spanish prisoners, called Flores, told them that if they would dig in the sand they could procure it. This they did, and after getting down about three feet, it bubbled up in such profusion that they in a short time were able to fill all their casks.

They remained here until the 9th of October, when again sailing, they came off the Cape of Saint Lucar, which greatly resembles the Needles of the Isle of Wight.

Here, according to the information received from Sancius, they expected to fall in with the Manilla galleon. The Desire and Content, therefore, beat up and down off the headland of California, a bright look-out being kept for their expected prize. Soon after seven o'clock the trumpeter of the Desire, who had gone aloft, espied a vessel bearing in from the offing, on which he cried out, with no small joy to himself and the whole company, "A sail! a sail!"

On this the master and several others hurried aloft, when, convinced that he was right, Cavendish was informed of the joyful news.

The two small vessels were immediately got ready for the expected fight, and the sails being trimmed, they gave chase to the galleon. In the afternoon they got up to her, and without waiting to hail, they each having given her a broadside and a volley of small shot, laid her aboard, although she was of seven hundred tons burden and full of men, whereas their ships' companies had been greatly reduced with those they had at different times lost. They were at once convinced that she was the Santa Anna, the galleon they were in search of, belonging to the King of Spain. The tacks had been hauled down, and she was hove to, but not a man could be seen on her decks. As soon as the English began to climb up, however, they perceived the Spaniards standing close together, armed with lances, javelins, rapiers, targets, and vast quantities of large stones, with which they so warmly attacked the heads of their assailants that the latter were driven back again into their ships, two being killed and several wounded. On this, as the two little vessels sheered off, Cavendish ordered his crews again to fire their great guns, and to discharge their small arms among the Spaniards, by which the sides of the galleon were pierced through and through, and many of her crew killed and wounded.

The Spanish captain, however, like a valiant man, still stood at his post, refusing to yield. Cavendish on this, ordering the trumpets to sound, the broadside guns and small arms were again fired, with such effect that many more Spaniards were killed and wounded; while the shot striking the huge ship between wind and water, she began to fill. On this the Spanish captain struck his colours, and holding out a flag of truce, asked for quarter.

Cavendish promised that it would be given, and ordered the Spanish officers to strike their sails and lower a boat.

Without loss of time this was done, and one of the principal merchants coming up the side of the Desire, falling on his knees, implored the Admiral's mercy.

Cavendish assured him it would be granted, that their lives would be spared, and that they would be well treated, provided he was correctly informed of the amount of valuables on board the galleon.

The captain and pilot, who had also arrived, told him that the ship carried one hundred and twenty-two thousand pesos of gold, and that the rest of her cargo consisted of silks, satins, damasks, with musk and other merchandise, with provisions of all sorts in abundance.

They were detained on board while the galleon their prize was carried into Puerto Seguro. There was here a stream of clear water, with plenty of fish, fowl, and wood to be obtained, as also numerous hares and coneys. As soon as they had anchored, the English employed themselves in transferring the rich cargo on board their own vessels, as also in dividing the treasure, to each man being allotted a certain portion; but the crew of the Content were very far from contented, and showed some inclination to mutiny. They were, however, to all appearances speedily pacified, though as it turned out they were far from being really so.

The Spaniards were supplied with sufficient arms to defend themselves against the natives and everything else they required, for which the captain, in the name of the rest, expressed himself very grateful. All the passengers and most of the ship's company were allowed to go except two Japanese lads, who were detained, and three others who had been born in Manilla, the youngest of whom afterwards became a page to the Countess of Essex.

Besides these, Rodrigo, a Portuguese who had visited Canton and other parts of China, and had been in Java and the Philippines, was kept, and a Spaniard, Thomas de Ersola, an experienced pilot between Acapulco, the Ladrones, and the Philippines.

The Santa Anna, which had still five hundred tons of goods in her, was set on fire, and all arrangements being made, on the 19th of November, to the joy of their crews, the Admiral, firing a farewell salute, stood out of harbour at three o'clock in the afternoon, and with a fair wind, steering westward, they commenced their homeward voyage.

The King's ship was soon burnt down to the water's edge, but curious as it may seem, she escaped destruction. Her cables being burnt through, she drifted on shore, when the Spaniards managed to extinguish the flames, and with the planks they had obtained and the sails and rigging which had been landed, the trees in the neighbourhood supplying them with masts and yards, they fitted her for sea, and before long contrived to make their escape.

Cavendish took a great liking to Ersola, and placed much confidence in him as a pilot. He seemed to merit this by the accurate way in which he guided the ship across the Pacific.

On going out of the harbour the Content had been left astern. Night coming on, she was lost sight of, and when morning broke she was nowhere to be seen. In vain the Desire waited for her. At length, spreading her sails, she stood on her course.

From that day no more was seen of the hapless Content, nor was the slightest clue obtained as to what became of her. Some thought that she had sailed for the Straits and been lost, but Ersola was of opinion that Captain Hare, who commanded her, thinking to be wiser than Drake, had attempted the North-East Passage, and had got so far north that he had perished, with all his company, in the ice.

That there was such a passage no one doubted, and that America was a continent by itself, independent of the rest of the world.

For forty-five days the Desire glided on with a fair wind out of sight of land, until on the 3rd of January, 1588, she made the island of Guham, one of the Ladrones. From thence a number of natives came off, bringing fruits and vegetables, but became so troublesome that, losing temper, Cavendish in a most unjustifiable manner ordered a shot to be fired among them.

On the 14th of the same month the Desire made the Philippines, and sailing on, came to an anchor, on the morning of the 15th, in a safe harbour in the island, called Capal. Scarcely had the anchor been dropped than one of the chief caciques of the island came off with provisions, supposing the ship to be Spanish. He being detained on board, his people were sent on shore to invite the other cacique to come off, which he shortly did, bringing an abundance of provisions, so that the whole of the clay was spent in buying hogs, hens, roots, cocoas, and other vegetables, by which the crew were greatly refreshed.

This island was about sixty leagues distant from Manilla, which was already a flourishing place, containing seven hundred inhabitants, among them many merchants from China, and also several Sanguelos, who were partly Moors, or Malays probably, and partly heathen. The Sanguelos were especially clever in inventing and making all manner, of things, so that few or no Christians could surpass them. They excelled in drawing and embroidering upon satin, silk or lawn, representing either beasts, fowls, fish, or worms, in the most natural manner. They also worked in silk, silver, gold, and pearl.

On the same night of their arrival at Capal the Portuguese Nicholas Rodrigo, who had been taken out of the Santa Anna, desired to speak to Cavendish in secret. His request being granted, he told the Admiral that although he had hitherto appeared to be discontented, he was truly grateful to him for the kindness he had received, and as a proof of this he desired to put him on his guard against a treacherous plot which had been devised by the pilot Ersola to deliver up his vessel to the Spaniards. As a proof that what he said was true, a letter, he stated, would be found in Ersola's chest. Search being made, the letter was discovered, which Ersola had intended to send by some natives to Manilla. It called on the authorities there forthwith to fit out an expedition to capture the Desire, warning them that if she escaped, the English would bring their countrymen down to attack the settlement.

A drum-head court martial was immediately held. The hapless pilot at first denied all knowledge of the letter, but at length compelled to confess his guilt, with a short shrift he was next morning hanged at the yard-arm.

The Desire remained nine days at Capal, during which Cavendish obliged the chief cacique, as well as the caciques of a hundred other islands, to pay tribute to him in hogs, hens, potatoes, and cocoas. The tribute being received on board, he hoisted the flags and sounded the drums and trumpets. Then telling them that the English were enemies to the Spaniards, he paid them in money more than an equivalent for the provisions they had brought. To show their pleasure, the caciques rowed about the ship in their canoes at a great rate. The brave voyagers, who never doubted the existence of Satan, firmly believed what they stated, -- that those people wholly worshipped the devil, and oftentimes have conferences with him who "appeareth unto them in a most ugly and monstrous shape."

Setting sail on the 24th, the Desire ran along the coast, past Manilla, putting to flight some frigates which had been sent after her, and dispersing some Spaniards who fired at her boat.

One or two men died at this time, and on the last day of February Captain Havers succumbed to a burning ague, from which he had suffered several days, to the great grief of all on board.

Passing by the Moluccas, the Desire, after various adventures, reached Java, where she was visited by the chief Rajah, named Bolamboam, an aged despot who possessed a hundred wives, while his son had fifty. His people were said to be the bravest of all those inhabiting the south-east part of the world, for they never feared any death.

Several Portuguese who were settled in this part of the island visited the ship, and, hearing that their King, Don Antonio, was a friend of the Queen of England, urged Cavendish to advise him to come out and found a kingdom which would comprehend the Moluccas, Ceylon, China, and the Philippines. A friendly reception was also promised to the English.

Firing a parting salute on the 16th of March, Cavendish took his departure, traversing for forty days that "mightie and vaste sea between the yle of Java and the main of Africa, observing the heavens, the crosiers or southern cross, the other starres, the fowles, which are marks unto seamen of fair weather or foul weather, approaching of lands or islands, the winds, the tempests, the rains and thunder, with the alterations of the tides and currents."

On the 10th of May the Desire was overtaken by a terrific storm, but it calmed in a few hours, and the next day a look-out from the masthead saw land, which was supposed to be the Cape of Good Hope, but was ultimately proved to be False Cape.

It was not until the 16th of May that, with a brisk gale, the ship passed the Cape of Good Hope, and on the 8th of June she came in sight of the island of Saint Helena. Only four people were found upon the island, but it was abundantly stored with fruits and vegetables of all sorts, carefully cultivated, while there were numberless goats and hogs running wild among the mountains.

The Portuguese homeward-bound East Indian fleet, the smallest of which vessels were of eight or nine hundred tons burden, laden with spices, Calicut cloth, precious stones, pearls, and treasure, had called off there only twenty days before.

Having touched at the Azores on the 3rd of September, the Desire fell in with a Plymouth vessel coming from Lisbon, which gave the voyagers the glorious information of the overthrow of the Spanish Armada.

Directly afterwards the Desire encountered a terrific gale, which carried away the greater part of her remaining sails. To replace them others were manufactured from the Indian damasks, and the canvas made of the silk grass of the South Seas, which had a most lustrous appearance. One of her topsails was of cloth of gold, while her officers and crew were dressed in silk clothes, their own having probably long since worn out.

Thus equipped, on the 9th of September the Desire entered the long-wished-for port of Plymouth, to the great astonishment of the inhabitants, who, as they gazed at her, fancied that all her sails were of silk, supposing naturally that this betokened the value of her cargo. In this they were not far wrong, for the wealth Cavendish brought home was enough to buy a fair earldom.

He was received with great kindness by the Queen, who, considering that his exploit almost rivalled that of Drake, bestowed on him the honour of knighthood. He boasted to his patron, Lord Hunsdon, that he had burnt and sunk nineteen sail of ships, small and great; that all the villages and towns where he had landed he had burnt and spoiled, and had carried off a great quantity of treasure, his most profitable transaction being that of the capture of the Santa Anna, as her cargo was the richest that had ever floated on those seas, so that his ships could only contain a small portion.

Happy would it have been for the gallant Cavendish had he remained contentedly on shore, but his eager soul burned for fresh enterprises. Having fitted out a squadron of three ships and two barks, in one of which, the Roebuck, John Davis went as captain, he sailed from Plymouth on the 26th of August, 1591, for the purpose of finding a North-West Passage by way of the Pacific into the Atlantic. Disaster, however, followed him from the first. He was deserted by one of his captains, and failing to get through the Straits of Magellan, was compelled to return home. He died of a broken heart, after a vain search for Saint Helena, where he hoped to refresh his crew, towards the end of the year 1592.



Chapter Twenty.

Cape Horn First Doubled By Schouten And Le Maire -- A.D. 1615-17.

Desire of Dutch merchants to find a fresh passage into the South Sea -- Le Maire applies to Captain Schouten -- The Unity and Horn fitted out --  Sail -- Touch at Dover and Plymouth -- Put into Sierra Leone -- Fruit and water obtained -- The Horn struck by a sea-unicorn -- Make the coast of South America -- Attempting to enter Port Desire, the Unity strikes a rock -- Both vessels nearly lost -- The vessels put on shore to clean -- The Horn burnt -- Penguins -- Sea-lions -- Discovery of the Straits of Le Maire -- Cape Horn named and doubled -- Steer for Juan Fernandez -- Unable to find anchorage off it -- Touch at Dog, Water, and Fly Islands -- Fire at a double canoe -- Some of the natives killed -- The Unity anchors off an island -- Natives swarm around her -- Boat attacked -- Natives become friendly -- Their chief visits the ship -- The savages attack the ship --  Course changed to the northward -- Two savages killed -- Friendly intercourse with others -- The King and his courtiers take to flight at the sound of a great gun -- Meeting of two Kings -- A feast -- Other islands visited -- Coast of New Guinea reached -- Natives attack the ship -- Shock of an earthquake felt on board -- Sail along western coast of New Guinea --  Hostility of the natives -- Barter with the natives at the south end --  Touch at Gilolo and Amboyna -- The Unity confiscated at Batavia -- Death of La Maire -- Captain Schouten reaches Holland.

The Dutch, from an early period of their history, had actively engaged in commercial enterprises. They had followed the Spaniards and Portuguese to India, and having successfully competed with them for its trade, had established settlements and factories in many of the most fertile portions of the Eastern Archipelago. They had, notwithstanding, no idea of the advantages of free trade, and the Dutch East India Company having been formed, obtained from the States General of the United Provinces -- as their government was then called -- exclusive privileges, prohibiting all the rest of their subjects from trading to the eastward beyond the Cape of Good Hope, or westward through the Straits of Magellan, in any of the countries within those limits, whether known or unknown, under the heaviest penalties. This prohibition gave great dissatisfaction to many of the wealthy merchants of Holland, who wished to employ their ships in making discoveries and trading at their own risk. Among them was Isaac Le Maire, a rich merchant of Amsterdam, then residing at Egmont, who had a desire to employ his wealth in acquiring fame as a discoverer.

Le Maire was a person of determination, and having considered among his friends who was most likely to assist him, fixed upon William Cornelison Schouten, of Horn, an experienced master-mariner, who had already made three voyages to the Indies, as supercargo, pilot, and master. Le Maire first asked him whether he thought it possible that some other passage, besides that of the Straits of Magellan, might be found to the South Sea, and if so whether the countries to the south of that passage would afford commodities as rich as those of the East or West Indies.

Schouten replied that such a passage might be found, and also that there might be many wealthy countries to the westward of the straits.

Believing that the East India Company's charter could not prohibit Dutch subjects from trading with countries to be reached by a new route, they came to the determination of at once fitting out some fleet vessels to make the experiment.

Le Maire advanced half of the funds, and Schouten, with the assistance of Peter Clementson, burgomaster of Horn, and other friends, advanced the remainder. It is probable that they might have heard from some English pilots who were in the service of the United Provinces, that Drake had discovered an open sea to the south of Terra del Fuego. They did not openly avow their object, but they succeeded in obtaining from the Government the privilege of making the first four voyages to the places they might discover. Their destination, however, was not disclosed to the seamen. The other merchants, unable to penetrate their designs, derisively called them: "gold-seekers."

Schouten was to have command of the expedition, and to sail in the larger ship, and Jacques Le Maire, the eldest son of Isaac, was to be supercargo. They at once commenced fitting out two vessels for the voyage, the largest, the Eendracht, or in English the Unity, was of three hundred and sixty tons, carried nineteen guns and twelve swivels, and a crew of sixty-five men, and had on board two pinnaces, one for sailing and another for rowing, a launch, and a small boat. The smaller vessel was named the Horn, of one hundred and ten tons, carrying eight guns and four swivels. Her crew consisted of twenty-two men. She was commanded by Jan Schouten, and Aris Clawson was her supercargo.

The two vessels sailed from the Texel on the 14th of June, and called off Dover, where an experienced English gunner was engaged. Experiencing a heavy storm, they took shelter under the Isle of Wight, and on the 27th put into Plymouth, where a carpenter, Maydenblick, was engaged.

Sailing thence on the 28th of June, with fine weather and a fair breeze, they proceeded on their voyage. The strictest rules were laid down for the government of officers and men. When a boat went on shore where any hostility was to be expected, one of the commanders was always to be in charge. The supercargo was to have the exclusive management of all commercial dealings. The officers were warned against holding conversations with the men in regard to the objects of the voyage; and while they were to be strict in the execution of their duty, they were not to subject the crews to unnecessary toil.

Touching at various places, they cast anchor off Sierra Leone on the 30th of August. The village at that time consisted only of eight or nine poor thatched huts. The native inhabitants declined to come off until a hostage was left for their security, because a French ship had lately perfidiously carried off two of their number. The water which poured down from every hill was to be had in abundance, and the casks could be filled by placing them under the falls. Lemons were so cheap that ten thousand could have been obtained for a few knives. Each man purchased one hundred and fifty for sea store.

After leaving Sierra Leone, as they were gliding over the smooth sea, a sudden shock was felt on board the Horn, as if she had struck on a rock, and, as the crew looked over her side, they saw the water change to a crimson hue. The cause was not known until the ship was afterwards laid on shore, when a large horn, of a substance resembling ivory, was found sticking into her bottom, it having pierced through three stout planks. The Line was crossed on the 25th of October, after which Captain Schouten informed the ships' companies of the object of the voyage. At this they exhibited their satisfaction, hoping to discover some gold countries, to make amends for their toils.

On the 3rd of November they were off the island of Ascension or Martin Vaz. Standing on, they came in sight on the 6th of December of the mainland of South America. It was of no great height, and had a white appearance. The same night they dropped anchor in ten fathoms, at a short distance from Port Desire. Next morning, standing on to the southward, they saw before them a line of cliffs, which they understood marked the entrance to the channel. They, however, found that they had got into a wrong one, and the Unity ran aground by the stern, but the wind blowing from off the land, she got clear again. Next morning, a boat being sent ahead to sound the channel, which was found to be twelve fathoms deep, they entered boldly, having a north-east wind to carry them along. After they had sailed about three miles, however, the wind began to veer, and they brought up in twenty fathoms, but the bottom being composed of slippery stones, and the wind blowing hard from the north-west, they dragged their anchors, and drifted down towards the cliffs, where there appeared every probability that they both would be lost. The Unity lay with her side against the cliffs, though still afloat, while the Horn stuck so fast that, as the tide fell, she remained high and dry. For some time a strong wind blowing from the north-west kept her upright, but as it dropped she sank over, until her bulwarks were under water. On seeing this, as it was impossible to right her, the explorers gave up all hopes of saving her; but, the weather remaining calm, the succeeding flood set her upright again, and she and the Unity, hauling out of their dangerous position, stood farther up the river.

Here they again dropped anchor off King's Island. On landing they found it so thickly covered with the nests of penguins, each of which contained three or four eggs -- that a man might have taken fifty or sixty without moving his position. They here also saw emus and deer with extremely long necks. While wandering over the hills they came upon several heaps of stones, beneath which they discovered bones, as they supposed of persons ten and eleven feet along. Plenty of good fish and fowls were obtained, but no water could be found for some days.

On the 17th of December they laid the Unity ashore in order to clean her bottom, and the following day the Horn was hauled up for the same purpose, at a distance of about two hundred yards from her consort. It was providential that she was thus far. It being necessary to soften the old pitch off her bottom, to which barnacles and mud were sticking, they lighted a fire beneath her bottom. As they were in a hurry to perform the operation, they threw on more sticks and reeds, scattering the fire along her whole length. While they were working away with their iron scrapers, suddenly they saw fire bursting out through her ports. How this had happened they could not tell. There was no fresh water at hand, and as the tide had fallen, leaving her fully fifty feet from the margin of the river, they had to run all that distance with buckets, or whatever else they could lay hold of, to bring up water to extinguish the flames. Before a sufficient quantity could be brought the fire had got a complete hold of the vessel. In vain they dashed the water over her, the flames rapidly spread from stem to stern, and, at length, seeing that all their efforts were useless, they had to stand by and watch her burning, a small portion only of her stores and provisions having been saved. In a short time the poor Horn became a mere heap of ashes.

On the 20th they launched the Unity, and the next day carried on board all the ironwork, anchors, guns, and whatever else they had been able to save from the unfortunate Horn. While hunting about for water, without which they could not venture to sea, they found on the 25th some holes full of it. Though it was white and muddy, it was well tasting, and they accordingly carried on board a large quantity in casks on men's shoulders.

Near this place they discovered a number of sea-lions, the young of which they found very good to eat; but the creatures were so fierce that they could only be killed by musket-shots. On the 13th of January, 1616, they left Port Desire, and on the 18th sighted the Falkland Islands.

Holding their course south by west, they saw land bearing west and west-south-west from them, and shortly afterwards other land to the south. The wind blowing strong, they were compelled to take in sail. The next morning they saw land to starboard at the distance of about a league, consisting of high snow-covered hills. Then they saw other land bearing east from the former, also high and rugged. As these two lands were about eight leagues apart, and as there was a strong current running to the southward in the direction of the opening, they guessed that there might be a free passage between them.

They had good reason to hope that this might be the one they were in search of, leading into the South Sea. They accordingly steered for it, but the wind falling, they were compelled to restrain their eagerness. Here, as they were gliding on, they saw prodigious multitudes of penguins and also whales in such vast schools that they had to steer with caution lest, by running against them, the monsters should injure the ship. On the 25th they got close up to the north shore of the eastern land they had seen, to which they gave the name of Staten Land, in honour of the States of Holland.

The wind being favourable, they now stood through the Straits. On both sides they observed sandy bays and good roadsteads, but the shores were bare of trees and shrubs. There were, however, abundance of fish, porpoises, penguins, and other birds. To the land on the starboard side they gave the name of Maurice Land, being a part of Terra del Fuego. The wind being north, they stood briskly on, steering west-south-west, but again shifting to south-west, they were compelled to steer south.

They now met with long high waves, which rolled on in slow succession, while the water appeared to be unusually blue, evident signs, as they considered, that the great South Sea was before them, and that they had made their way into it by a passage of their own discovering. Numbers of seamews, or rather of albatrosses, larger than swans, their wings when extended measuring six feet from tip to tip, came circling round the ship, and even alighted on board, being so tame as to allow themselves to be taken by the hand without even attempting to escape. The wind was generally favourable, but with storms of rain and snow, the sea running very high. As they steered south-west they saw land to the north-west and north-north-west, the lofty snow-capped mountains of Terra del Fuego. At length they came off a sharp point, the most southern extremity of that land, to which they gave the name of Cape Horn, in compliment to the port from which they had sailed.

Theirs were the first human eyes probably which had ever closely viewed that now well-known promontory, although Drake may possibly have seen it at a distance when scudding before the gale which drove the sorely-battered Golden Hind out of her course.

Having kept a bright look-out in all directions, and having seen no land to the southward, they were now thoroughly convinced that they had doubled the extreme end of the continent of South America, or rather of the islands which lie off it.

Altering their course to the northward, they, on the 12th of February, had attained the parallel of the western end of the Straits of Magellan, and returning thanks to Heaven for their happy discovery, they commemorated the event by a cup of wine, which was handed three times round the ship's company. The officers, holding a consultation, agreed to give the name of the Straits of Le Maire to the passage through which they had come, in compliment to the worthy merchant who had promoted the expedition, although that honour might justly have been bestowed upon Captain Schouten.

The next land they saw was Juan Fernandez, but missing the proper anchorage, they were unable to bring up. Captain Schouten sent a boat, however, to look for a safe place to anchor; but the officer in command of her, on his return, reported that the island was inaccessible, though he brought off a large quantity of lobsters, crabs, and a few fish, having also seen many sea-wolves. They next sighted another small island, but here also were unable to anchor, and on sending a boat ashore, her crew could only find some herbs, which tasted like scurvy-grass, though they saw several dogs which neither barked nor snarled, for which reason they called it Dog Island.

When about a league away from another low island, a canoe, in which were six or eight reddish-coloured Indians with long black hair, came off to the ship; but the explorers could not communicate with them, as they understood none of the languages in which they were addressed.

Sailing along the coast, another canoe came off. The skins of her crew, who were nearly naked, except a piece of matting hung from a belt round their waists, were punctured over with snakes, dragons, and other reptiles. They would not venture on board, but came to the boats, when the Dutch gave them beads, knives, and other trifles. They quickly showed their thievish disposition by stealing the nails from the cabin windows and the bolts from the doors. The boat, with a well-armed crew, was now sent on shore; but the moment they landed, about thirty natives rushed from the woods, armed with clubs, slings, and spears, and tried to take away the arms from the soldiers; but on receiving a discharge of musketry, they took to flight.

This island was low and sandy, and was covered with cocoa-nut-trees. It was about one hundred leagues from Dog Island. At the next island at which they touched, on the 16th, they were fortunate enough to find abundance of fresh water in a pit not far from shore, as also some herbs, which proved serviceable to those who were afflicted with scurvy. To this island they gave the name of Water Island.

Sailing westward, anchorage was found off another island about twenty leagues distant from it, a musket-shot from the shore, where they observed a stream of fresh water. After having had considerable difficulty in getting ashore, they found a spring in a wood; but suddenly, as they were about to fill their casks with water, a savage started up, and they considered it wise to beat a retreat to the boat.

Just as they got there, five or six more savages appeared, but on seeing them, quickly retired into the wood. Although they had got rid of the savages, they encountered other adversaries of a more formidable nature, for they were followed by myriads of black flies, so that they came on board absolutely covered with them from head to foot. This plague of flies raged in the ship for three or four days, until by the help of a good breeze they were blown away. The Dutch naturally called this island Fly Island, but it is now known as Palliser's Island.

Continuing their course westward, when about one thousand five hundred and ten leagues from the coast of Peru, they saw a large double canoe standing towards them. On this a gun was fired to make her heave to. The people in her not understanding the meaning of the signal, naturally made off as fast as they could. On this the Dutch sent their boat with ten musketeers, who fired a volley at her. On seeing the boat approach, some of the savages leapt overboard, but the rest surrendered without resistance, on which the Dutch used them kindly, dressing the wounds of those who were hurt, and saving the lives of some who had leapt into the sea. Besides the men, there were eight women and several children, -- in all twenty-three persons. They were cleanly looking, of a reddish colour, and almost naked, wearing only the usual cloth, hung to a belt in front.

The men wore their long black hair curled, but the women had theirs cut short. The only articles found on board were a few fishing-hooks: the upper part was formed of stone, and the other of bone or mother-of-pearl. They had no water, but satisfied their thirst with the liquor of a few cocoa-nuts, or with salt water, of which even the children drank heartily. The canoe was probably bound from one of the Society Islands to Otaheite.

On the 10th high land was seen on the larboard side, about eight leagues off, but the Unity was unable to reach it. On the 11th she came up with another high island, with a second, much lower, about two leagues to the southward.

About this time another double canoe appeared, which outsailed the Unity. She was steered with two oars, one in each canoe. The Dutch, wishing to anchor, stood in until they brought up about a cannon-shot from the island, which consisted of an entire mountain, resembling one of the Moluccas, and was covered over with cocoa-nut-trees. No sooner had the ship come to an anchor than she was surrounded by canoes, the people from which leaped into the water and swam to her, carrying in their hands cocoa-nuts and roots of various sorts. These they bartered for nails, beads, and other trifles; so that the crew obtained a sufficient number of cocoa-nuts to supply each of them bountifully.

This traffic brought so many of the native canoes round the ship, that the Dutchmen had a difficulty in steering clear of them. A boat was now sent to the other island to discover better anchorage, but she was quickly beset with a vast number of canoes, full of wild savages armed with clubs, who attempted to board her. When the seamen first fired their muskets, the natives laughed at them for making so much noise and doing so little harm; but at the next discharge, a savage being shot through the breast, they quickly retreated. They were strong, well-proportioned men, and expert swimmers.

Notwithstanding the hostility they first displayed, the savages came again on the 12th in their canoes, laden with cocoa-nuts, bananas, roots, hogs, and fresh water, all struggling to get first on board. Those from the canoes outside leaped into the sea, and, diving, swam to the ship with bunches of cocoa-nuts in their mouths, climbing up the sides like so many rats, in such swarms that the Dutch had to keep them off with their cutlasses. Sufficient cocoa-nuts were obtained that day to give each man of the crew a dozen.

The natives seemed astonished at the strength of the Unity. Some of them were seen to dive under her bottom, knocking against it with stones, as if to try how strong it was. Their King or chief sent on board a black hog as a present, the messenger being ordered to take no reward. Shortly afterwards he came in person, in a large double canoe, attended by thirty-five single canoes. When at a distance he and his people began to shout at the top of their voices, that being their manner of welcoming strangers. He was not to be distinguished from any of his subjects by any external mark, for he was as naked as they were; but it was seen who he was by the reverence they showed him. The Dutchmen, to do him honour, began beating their drums and sounding their trumpets, and this seemed to afford him much satisfaction, as he and his attendants, to show how highly they appreciated this reception, bowed and clapped their hands until they grew tired of the performance. The King then sent another pig, in one of the small canoes, on board the Unity, for which Captain Schouten returned him an old hatchet, some rusty nails, some glass beads, and a piece of linen cloth, with which he seemed highly pleased.

They then invited him by signs to come on board. He would not, however, trust himself with the strangers; but, after satisfying his curiosity, he, followed by the rest of the canoes, took his departure.

At noon on the 13th, fully twenty-three double canoes and forty-five single ones, in each of which there could not have been less than seven or eight men, were seen coming off from the shore, and soon perfectly surrounded the ship. At first the savages pretended to come for the purpose of trading, making signs of friendship, and endeavouring to persuade their visitors to remove the ship to another island, where there was better anchorage. Captain Schouten suspected, however, in spite of this, that there was some mischief intended. He therefore ordered his men to arm themselves, and load their guns as well as their muskets, to be ready for an attack. He was not mistaken, for in a short time the savages, finding their signs not attended to, began to shout in the most fearful manner, and then the crew of the King's ship, which was nearest, plying her paddles, forced her with such force against the Unity, that the heads of the two canoes composing it were both dashed to pieces.

The rest of the canoes came rushing on from every side, the people in them throwing showers of heavy stones on board. As they did so Captain Schouten ordered his crew to open upon them with musketry, and at the same time the great guns, which had been loaded with bullets and nails, were fired right down on the surrounding canoes. This had the desired effect, for the savages in the nearest canoes, leaping overboard, endeavoured to make for the shore, while the others paddled off as fast as they could, endeavouring to escape from the anger of the white men, whom they had so treacherously endeavoured to destroy. It was found that their assailants came from the lower or more southerly of the two islands, which the Dutchmen, therefore, named Traitors' Island.

Not wishing to have anything more to do with such people, Captain Schouten ordered the anchor to be weighed, and the Unity stood towards another island about thirty leagues off, where he hoped to be more fortunate in obtaining refreshments. As the ship approached the island the boat was sent along the shore to sound, for the purpose of discovering good anchorage ground.

While the ship was standing off the shore about a dozen canoes came off, bringing a small quantity of flying-fish. These the natives willingly exchanged for beads; but Captain Schouten, deeming it unwise to allow them to come alongside, ordered them under the stern, when the exchange was made by means of a rope, the beads being let down and the fish hauled up. The savages, having disposed of their fish, paddled away for the Unity's boat, which was engaged in sounding. Getting up to her, they suddenly made an attempt to board, but their intention being perceived, they were met with so warm a reception from the Dutchmen's guns, pikes, and cutlasses, that two were killed, and the rest were glad to hurry away as fast as they could.

The shores of this island were composed of black cliffs with green summits, and numbers of cocoa-nut-trees growing on them. Several huts were seen scattered about, and at one place there was a large village, close to a shelving beach.

As no convenient anchorage was found, Captain Schouten now stood away to the south-west, hoping to discover the great southern land of which he was in search.

At length, however, on the 18th of May, being in latitude 16 degrees 5 minutes south, and at least one thousand six hundred leagues westward of the coast of Peru, without having seen any signs of a continent, Captain Schouten called his officers together, and observed that if they continued on their present course they would reach the southern side of New Guinea, and that if they were unable to find a passage beyond that country, either to the west or north, they would inevitably be lost, as it would be impossible for them to get back, in consequence of the east winds which prevailed in those seas. He proposed, therefore, that they should now alter their course to the northward, so as to fall in with the north side of New Guinea.

Had he continued on he would have fallen in with the group of islands now called the New Hebrides, and afterwards probably have become the discoverer of New South Wales, and perhaps have made his way through Torres Straits, between New Holland and New Guinea, which had a short time before been discovered by Luis Vaez de Torres. It must be remembered, however, that at this period the whole of the vast region to the south of the East Indian Archipelago was totally unknown to the civilised world.

Le Maire and the other officers willingly agreed to this proposal, and the course was accordingly shaped to north-north-west. Before long they fell in with another island, but could only get within a league of it, when they were visited by two canoes, some of the people in them being allowed to come on board. The natives had not been long in the ship before, one of them carrying off a shirt, the whole leapt back into their canoes, and then began shouting and threatening to throw their spears. To show them their folly some muskets were discharged, by which two of the unfortunate savages were killed, while the rest made off at a rapid rate.

It strikes one that the Dutchmen were apt to fire unnecessarily at the savages; but then again it must be remembered that the latter were so ignorant of the power of firearms that unless the pieces were shotted they only laughed at the senseless noise, and that they hurled their spears with such unerring aim that some of the Dutchmen might have been killed had they not employed the means of defence in their power.

Notwithstanding the death of these two savages, some more canoes came off on the 22nd from another part of the island, apparently with peaceable intentions, bringing cocoa-nuts, roots, and roasted hogs, which they bartered for knives, beads, and nails.

They were, however, quite as well versed in stealing as their countrymen. Their huts in considerable numbers were seen along the shore, the roofs being conical and covered with leaves. As Captain Schouten here found a good place for watering, he detained six of the islanders on board, and sent three of his own people as hostages to the King, who treated them with great respect and presented them with four hogs, giving also strict orders to his people not to interfere with the boat while watering. The natives stood in great awe of him. One of them having stolen a cutlass, and a complaint being made to one of his officers, the thief was pursued and soundly thrashed, besides being compelled to make restitution. The officer signified that it was well for the culprit that the King did not know of his crime, for had that been the case his life, to a certainty, would have been forfeited.

Their houses were about twelve feet high and twenty in circumference, the only furniture seen in them being beds of dry leaves, a fishing-rod or two, and a large club.

These islanders appeared to hold firearms in great dread. On one occasion the King desired to hear one of the great guns let off, and for this purpose he took his seat under a canopy in state, having on his head a crown of white, red, and green feathers of parrots and doves, with his courtiers about him, trying to look unconcerned. No sooner, however, was the gun fired, than jumping up, he ran off as fast as his legs could carry him into the woods, followed by his attendants, and no persuasions could stop them.

On the 25th and 26th Captain Schouten sent on shore to procure hogs, but the islanders having only a few left, would not part with any, and would only sell cocoa-nuts, bananas, and roots. The King, notwithstanding, continued to treat his guests with kindness, and as a mark of his regard he and his principal minister took the crowns off their heads and put them on two of the party.

The doves seen here were white on the back, and black everywhere else, except the breast. Each of the King's councillors had one of these birds sitting beside him on a stick.

An ample supply of fresh water having been taken on board, preparations were made for sailing. Before leaving, Captain Schouten and Le Maire went on shore, accompanied by their trumpeters, whose music highly pleased the King. The friendly disposition exhibited by the tawny sovereigns was, they suspected, as much from fear as love, for he offered them ten hogs and a large quantity of cocoa-nuts, if they would quit his island in a couple of days. It was evident that he suspected the Dutch of having some design to seize his country. He requested them, notwithstanding this, to assist him in a war he was carrying on with the inhabitants of another part of the island. This they declined doing. He, however, fearlessly paid them a return visit on board the Unity. On coming up the side he made some cabalistic signs, or, as the Dutch supposed, offered up prayers to his idols, and he did the same at the door of every cabin he entered. When the Dutchmen went on shore the inhabitants showed them the most abject marks of respect, by kissing their feet and placing them on their necks.

The name of Horn was given to this island. It is divided into two portions, joined by a narrow low neck of land, which gives it the appearance of two islands.

The friendly King sent on board on the morning of the 30th of May to say that another King was coming to visit him, and to request that drums and trumpets from the ship might be in attendance to do his visitor honour.

This request was readily granted. Soon after the other King made his appearance, accompanied by a train of three hundred naked Indians, having bunches of green herbs stuck about their waists, of which herb they make their drink. They brought also a present of sixteen hogs. When the two Kings came in sight of each other, they began to bow and to utter certain prayers. As they met, they both fell prostrate on the ground, and after making several strange gestures, they got up and walked to two seats provided for them. Having uttered more prayers and bowed reverently to each other, they sat down under the same canopy, while the drums and trumpets from the ship played a march, to their great entertainment.

After this preparations were commenced for a solemn banquet. The liquor to be consumed at it was concocted in the following strange and disagreeable manner. A number of young Indians quickly collected in the presence of the two Kings, bringing with them a large quantity of kava, a sort of herb. Each person then filled his mouth with it, and having chewed it for some time, spat it into a large wooden trough, on which water was poured. After stirring this for some time, they squeezed out the liquor, which was presented in cups to the two Kings. They also offered some to the Dutch, who turned away with a disgust which must have astonished their hosts. The substantial part of the entertainment consisted of roasted roots and hogs, the latter nicely dressed in the following manner. The entrails being taken out, the hair was singed off, when a pit having been dug and lined with leaves, the bottom was covered with heated stones, on which the hog was placed, the inside being also filled with hot stones. It was then covered with other stones, and on the top with a thick layer of leaves. The whole was then covered up, so as to prevent the escape of heat. By this means the animal was perfectly dressed. The natives presented the Dutchmen with two hogs dressed in this manner, with the same forms and ceremonies they used to their Kings, placing them on their heads, and then humbly kneeling, left them at their feet.

They also presented their guests with eleven live hogs, for which they were given in return some knives, old nails, and glass beads. These natives were of a dark yellow colour, tall, strongly built, and so well proportioned that the tallest Dutchman was of the size of the smallest of them. Some wore their hair curled, others frizzled or tied up in knots, while several had it standing bolt upright on their heads like hogs' bristles, a quarter of an ell long. The women were short, ill-shaped, and exceedingly ugly.

The Dutchmen bidding the friendly natives farewell, the Unity sailed on the ist of June, and stood on until she came off a low island, with three or four small islands near it, covered by trees. Here a canoe similar to those formerly described came off from the shore. The people were black and armed with bows and arrows, being the first weapons of that description the Dutchmen had seen among the Indians of the South Sea.

These people made the voyagers understand by signs that there was more land to the westward, where another King dwelt, who would provide them with good refreshment.

Passing numerous islands, some of which were rugged and full of cliffs, they at length made some high land, which they supposed to be a headland on the coast of New Guinea. They stood towards it, but could find no bottom to anchor.

Here two or three canoes came off full of black naked people, who spoke a language differing entirely from that before heard. On seeing the boat sounding they attacked her with their slings, but, frightened by a few shots, quickly took to flight.

During the night fires were seen burning along the coast, probably as alarm signals. Soon after it was dark more canoes came off, and kept lurking about the ship; but though the Dutch tried to make them understand that they wished to be friendly and were anxious to purchase provisions, the savages only replied by the most horrible noises and outcries.

The Unity anchored that night off a bay in forty-five fathoms. In the morning a fleet of canoes came off, full of savages armed with clubs, wooden swords, and slings. The Dutch tried to propitiate them by offering them trinkets and toys, but this had not the slightest effect on the savages, who began hurling their missiles and approaching so near -- one of the Dutchmen being wounded, the first who had been hurt during the voyage -- that it became necessary to fire at them. Not, however, until several of them had been killed did they take to flight, when they leapt overboard, and dived and swam for their lives. On this the Dutch, pursuing them in their boat, with what was certainly wanton cruelty, knocked several on the head, and took three prisoners and four of their canoes, the latter serving as fuel, of which they were in want.

Having made, one of the wounded men understand that if his countrymen would bring off hogs and bananas the rest of the prisoners would be set at liberty, they sent him on shore, telling him that ten hogs must be paid as a ransom for each of the others; but as the natives refused to agree to this arrangement, one of the captives, who was named after the wounded Dutchman Moses, was carried off.

They here procured some beautiful birds, the plumage of which was entirely red. From the appearance of the people they concluded that they were Papuans. Sailing on along the coast, they saw three other high islands, being then in 3 degrees 20 minutes south latitude.

On the night of the 29th, as the ship was sailing calmly on, she was suddenly shaken so violently that the crew rushed up on deck, fully expecting to find that she had run aground; but on sounding, no bottom was found, and it was seen that no rocks nor shallows were in the neighbourhood. They therefore came to the conclusion that the shaking had been caused by a submarine earthquake, such as often takes place in that volcanic region. The following night the same fearful phenomenon again occurred, accompanied by terrific claps of thunder, while the lightning darted so fiercely from the sky that, had not a heavy downpour of rain come on there seemed every probability that the ship would have been set on fire.

In the morning several canoes appeared full of blacks, who were allowed to come on board. As a token that they wished to be friendly, they broke some sticks they carried over the Dutchmen. Their canoes were very neatly formed, and they themselves were more civilised than the savages last visited. Their black hair was covered over with chalk. They came only to beg, having brought nothing with them, though cocoa-nut trees were seen in abundance on the shore.

On the 1st of July the Unity again anchored between an island and the coast of New Guinea. She was almost immediately surrounded by twenty-five canoes, carrying the same people who had before given tokens of peace. They now, however, came in a very different spirit; for several of them caught hold of two anchors which hung over the bows, and began tugging away, expecting to draw the ship ashore. The rest, coming up on either side, began, with loud shouts and cries, to hurl stones from their slings, and to cast their darts. On this Captain Schouten ordered the guns to be fired, when the shot quickly knocked the canoes to pieces, killed twelve or thirteen men, and wounded a much larger number, when the rest at once took to flight.

The Dutch now continued their cruise round the northern end of New Guinea. Passing a large group of islands, twenty-three in number, of different sizes, some high, others low, most of them being left on the starboard side, their hearts were cheered by coming in sight of a lofty mountain, which they took to be the hill of Banda, but which was in reality several degrees of latitude off from it.

On the 7th they approached a range of lofty hills, some of which they found were volcanoes, for which reason they named the island Volcano Island. It was thickly inhabited, and abounded in cocoa-nut trees. The people regarded the ship with evident terror, and would not come near her. Steering west-south-west, and occasionally altering their course to the west-north-west, they anchored on the 8th about a cannon-shot from the shore between two islands, one lofty and the other somewhat lower. It was inhabited by Papuans, whose mode of bedecking themselves, owing to their natural deformity, made them literally appear like monsters. Nearly the whole of them had their limbs fearfully misshapen, besides which they had strings of hogs'-teeth hung about their necks, rings in their noses, their hair frizzled, and their faces black and ugly. Their habitations were remarkable, being light structures of bamboo, mounted on stakes eight or nine feet above the ground, and close to the water. There were two villages near the shore, from whence the inhabitants brought off hogs and cocoa-nuts, but so high a price was demanded that none were purchased.

By the morning of the 5th they reckoned that they were off the extreme western part of New Guinea, along which they had sailed two hundred and eighty leagues. Here several canoes came off, bringing beans, rice, tobacco, and two beautiful birds of paradise. The natives spoke the language of Ternate, and some of them a little Spanish and Malayan. They were clothed from the waist down, some with loose silken robes, and others with trousers, while some, who were Mohammedans, wore silken turbans on their heads; many also had gold and silver rings on their fingers. They bartered their provisions for beads and other toys, but seemed more desirous of having linen than anything else. Suspicious of the Dutch, they would not tell the name of their country. It was afterwards found that they were natives of Tidore.

Captain Schouten now shaped a course, intending to go round the north point of Gilolo, and, having touched at Soppy, anchored on the 5th off the coast of that island. At this place some of the seamen went on shore several times to catch fish. On one occasion, when they were drawing their net, four soldiers from Ternate rushed suddenly out of a wood, sword in hand, and had not the surgeon, who was present, cried out, "These are Holland men!" would have killed them. The soldiers instantly stopped, and, throwing water on their heads, in token of peace, approached in a friendly manner, saying that they had mistaken the Dutchmen for Spaniards. They at once accompanied the seamen on board, and, being well treated, undertook to bring off provisions, which promise they fulfilled.

Having sighted Ternate and Tidore, the Unity anchored, on the evening of the 17th, off the former island. Here Captain Schouten with Le Maire went on shore, and were kindly entertained by the King of Amboyna and the admiral and general of the station.

At this place the pinnaces and the stores of the unfortunate Horn were sold for one thousand three hundred and fifty reals, with which Captain Schouten obtained some provisions. On the 28th he anchored at Batavia, then called Jacutra. Here John Paterson Koen, President of the Dutch East India Company, arrived on the 31st of October; but instead of the friendly reception the voyagers expected he would offer, to their bitter grief he the next day sequestered the Unity and her cargo, declaring that she was forfeited to the East India Company for illegally sailing within the bounds of their charter.

In vain Le Maire protested against this arbitrary proceeding, and declared that the seizure was unlawful, as they had not offended against the letter nor intention of the company's charter, since they had not come to India by either of the forbidden passages, -- the Straits of Magellan or the Cape of Good Hope, -- but by a passage they themselves had discovered, and which must be extremely advantageous to the commerce of their own countrymen and to the trading world.

Finding, however, all his efforts vain, he and Captain Schouten, with some of their people, embarked on board the Amsterdam on the 14th of December, 1616, and others on board the Zealand, while the rest entered the service of the company. On the 31st of the same month poor Jacques Le Maire died, chiefly of grief and vexation at the failure of the enterprise, which had been so successful until the arrest of the ship and cargo. He had kept a journal with great care during the voyage, and he left an earnest request that it should be published, that the world might know and judge of the usage he and his companions had received. The voyagers arrived on the 1st of July, 1617, in Holland, from which they had been absent, during their circumnavigation of the globe, two years and seventeen days.



Chapter Twenty One.

Voyages And Adventures Of William Dampier -- From A.D. 1674.

His parentage -- Early voyages -- Sails for Jamaica as a planter -- Visits Bay of Campeachy -- Turns logwood-cutter -- His adventures -- Joins the buccaneers -- Succeeds -- Returns to England -- Marries -- Again goes to Jamaica -- Captured by buccaneers, and takes part in several expeditions in the South Sea -- Recrosses the Isthmus of Darien, and reaches the Samballas Islands -- Joins Captain Tristan -- The prizes sold to the Dutch --  Goes to Virginia -- Joins the Revenge -- Captain Cook sails for the South Seas -- Puts into the Sherbro' River -- Cook treacherously captures a Dane --  The name of the Bachelor's Delight given to her -- Cape Horn doubled --  Steers for Juan Fernandez -- Falls in with the Nicholas -- Meeting of the Mosquito Indians, Will and Robin, at Juan Fernandez -- Several vessels captured on the coast -- A design on Truxillo abandoned -- Death of Cook --  Buried on shore -- Narrow escape of the party on shore -- Davis elected captain -- Transactions at Amapalla -- Eaton and Davis separate -- Davis joined by other pirates -- Paita attacked and burnt -- Attempt on Guayaquil abandoned -- A packet-boat captured -- Hear of the sailing of the Plata fleet -- Lay in wait for it off New Panama -- Attempts of the Spaniards with a fire-ship -- Large parties of pirates unite -- Plan to attack Panama --  Encounters a Spanish fleet -- Stratagem of the Spaniards to place the pirates in a disadvantageous position -- The Spanish fleet escapes -- Lexa and Leon plundered -- Swan proposes to cross the Pacific -- Santa Pecaque plundered -- A large body of the rovers massacred -- The prisoners set on shore on a desert island -- The Cygnet prepared for crossing the Pacific -- Dampier cured of a dropsy.

Few British seamen have seen so much of the world, or have gone through more remarkable adventures, with the power of describing them, than William Dampier. He was born in 1652, near Yeovil, in Somersetshire, on the farm of his father, a well-to-do yeoman, who sent him at an early age to a good school, where he acquired some classical knowledge. He was afterwards removed to another, where he learned writing and arithmetic.

Having shown a strong inclination for the sea, on the death of his parents his guardians apprenticed him to a shipmaster at Weymouth, with whom he made a voyage to France, and in the following year one to Newfoundland; but suffering from the cold, he got disgusted with a sailor's life, and settled for a short time with a brother in Somersetshire.

His longing for adventure, however, soon revived, and hearing of an outward-bound East Indiaman about to sail for Bantam in Java, knowing that at all events he should be warm enough there, he shipped on board of her before the mast.

Having gained considerable nautical experience, he returned home, and after again living on shore with his brother, he entered on board the Royal Princess man-of-war, commanded by Sir Edward Spragge. In this ship he took part in two sanguinary fights; but falling ill, he was sent to hospital on shore, thus missing the last engagement in which his brave commander was killed.

On his recovery he accepted an offer from his brother's landlord, Colonel Hellier, to go out as under-manager to an estate in Jamaica. He accordingly sailed, and after visiting several islands, reached Jamaica. Growing weary, however, of a planter's life, he made trips in different traders, carrying goods along the coast, by which he gained a thorough knowledge of the harbours and bays of the island.

In August, 1675, he sailed on board a vessel bound for the island of Trist, in the Bay of Campeachy. He here became enamoured of the free life of the logwood-cutters, and after his return to Jamaica, having supplied himself with tools, a gun, and store of powder and shot, as well as a tent, he again sailed for the island of Trist. He now began to keep a regular journal, which tells us of his adventures while engaged as a logwood-cutter. They are amongst the most interesting of his life, while his notes on the natural history of the country show his accuracy as an observer. The logwood-cutters varied their occupation by hunting the wild cattle, and on one occasion Dampier nearly perished by having lost his way in the woods. During his wanderings he had the unpleasant reflection that a short time before six or seven of the crew of a Boston ship had died, in the vain endeavour to find their way to the shore.

On another occasion he was, while crossing a small savannah with his companions, who had gone on ahead, nearly losing his life. He perceived the strong scent of an alligator; directly afterwards he stumbled over one, and fell into the water. Recovering, he shouted to the other men, but they, terror-stricken, were flying towards the woods. A second, and even a third time he fell, every moment expecting to be seized by the jaws of the horrid monster; but he at length got safely on shore. An alligator had a few days before actually seized one of his comrades by the knee, but the man had the presence of mind to wait until the brute relinquished his grip to take a firmer hold, when he rammed the butt-end of his musket down its throat, and scampered off.

During a hurricane he was deprived of his stock of provisions. Having no means of procuring a fresh supply, he was compelled to join a company of buccaneers, or privateers as he called them, with whom he spent a year before he could make his escape, pillaging the Spaniards and making descents on native villages. While with the freebooters a Spanish fort was attacked, but they lost ten men killed or desperately wounded, and obtained little booty, except the flesh of some thirty bullocks, some Indian corn, poultry, and a number of tame parrots.

While the vessels of the buccaneers were encumbered by the live stock and provisions they had obtained, they were attacked by some Spanish armadillos, which they succeeded, however, in beating off. After this adventure Dampier returned to the island of Trist, and was so successful in his occupation as a woodcutter, that he was enabled to return to England in 1678. Here he married a young woman attached to the Duchess of Grafton's family, but after spending about half a year at home he again sailed for Jamaica, carrying out a quantity of goods to exchange for the commodities most in request among the woodcutters.

He spent nearly a year in Jamaica, where he was so successful in his mercantile transactions that he was able to send over money sufficient to purchase a small property in Dorsetshire. He was about to return home and take possession of it, when he was persuaded to engage in a voyage to the Mosquito shore. On the way the vessel fell in with a squadron of three noted pirates, Coxon, Sawkins, and Sharp. The whole of the crew of the merchantman joining them, Dampier was compelled to go with them also.

Soon afterwards Porto Bello was sacked by two hundred of the pirates, each of whom obtained as his share one hundred and sixty pieces of eight. After this the buccaneers marched across the Isthmus of Panama, three hundred and thirty strong, under the command of Captain Sharp, accompanied by a band of Mosquito Indians. On their way they attacked the town of Santa Maria, where the Indians put many of the inhabitants to death. They then embarked in a fleet of canoes and boats, and, having deposed Sharp, chose Captain Coxon for their commander.

Shortly afterwards they separated, Dampier accompanying Sharp. Again uniting preparatory to an attack on Panama, they encountered three Spanish ships, and, after a severe action, in which many on both sides fell, they captured them. Sawkins was now raised to the command, but was killed while leading on his men in an attack on Puebla Nueva.

The pirates at length repaired to the island of Juan Fernandez to refit, and William, one of the Mosquito Indians, was left behind.

Captain Watling, who had been elected chief, was shortly afterwards killed in an attempt to capture Arica, and Sharp was once more placed at the head of the band. He managed, in one of the vessels he had captured, to double Cape Horn, and return in safety to England, where he narrowly escaped being hung as a pirate. Dampier, meantime, with a minority of the party, consisting of forty-four Europeans, two Mosquito men, and a Spanish Indian, after undergoing great hardships and perils, crossed the isthmus to the mouth of the river Concepcion, where they obtained canoes, in which they proceeded to one of the Samballas Islands. Here they found a French privateer, commanded by Captain Tristan, whom they joined. Having captured a large Spanish ship, with twelve guns and forty men, laden with sugar, tobacco, and marmalade, the cargo was offered to the Dutch Governor of Curacoa, who was too cautious to purchase it himself, but recommended them to go to Saint Thomas's, which belonged to the Danes, saying that he would send a sloop to take the sugar off their hands.

Declining his suggestion, they sailed to another Dutch colony, where they easily disposed of their booty.

Dampier some time after this found his way to Virginia, where he was residing with several of his former companions, when a ship, captured by a party of English buccaneers under Captain Cook, and named the Revenge, put into the harbour. As she carried eighteen guns, and was equipped for a long voyage -- and it was necessary to get away from those seas as soon as possible, lest they should be treated as pirates -- it was proposed that a voyage should be made to the South Seas.

Besides Dampier, the ship's company consisted of Lionel Wafer, the surgeon, Ambrose Cowley, and many adventurers who had lately crossed the Isthmus of Panama. The ship being well stored, sailed from Achamack in Virginia on the 23rd of August, 1683.

Having helped themselves to some casks of wine from a Dutch vessel, they steered for the Cape de Verde Islands, and thence were intending to hold a course for the Straits of Magellan, but, as they were driven east by foul weather, they put into the river Sherbro'. The natives, being in no way shy, brought off an abundance of plantains, sugar-cane, rice, fowls, honey, and palm wine. Here they found at anchor a large Danish ship, which, being far superior to their own vessel, Captain Cook resolved to capture. Concealing most of his crew, who were well armed, and allowing only a few to appear on deck, he steered for the stranger. He had given directions to the helmsman to run her aboard, notwithstanding whatever command he might issue. The helmsman doing as he had been ordered, ran her alongside, when the pirate crew, springing from their places of concealment, rushed, cutlass in hand, over the bulwarks of the Dane, which they captured after a short struggle, with the loss, however, of five men.

Dampier, justly ashamed of the nefarious proceeding, does not mention it in his journal, but it is found in that of Cowley, who wrote an account of the voyage. The crew of the captured ship being sent on shore to shift for themselves, she was towed out of the harbour; and such stores, guns, and ammunition as were required being moved out of the Revenge into her, the pirates set fire to their old ship, that she might tell no tales, and sailed away in their prize. She carried thirty-six guns, and was victualled for a long voyage.

The name of the Bachelor's Delight was bestowed upon her, and with exulting hearts the buccaneers directed their course for the Straits of Magellan. On their way two or three of the crew died, and among them one of the surgeons, greatly to their regret, as they had now only one remaining.

Having touched at the Falkland Islands, then known under the name of Sibald de Weert, to obtain water and fresh provisions, they steered for the entrance of the straits. Dampier, knowing the want of discipline among the lawless crew, feared to take the ship through so narrow and dangerous a passage, and endeavoured to persuade Captain Cook to sail round Cape Horn, instead of attempting that of the straits. Captain Cook, however, insisted on keeping to his original plan; but on reaching the northern entrance to the Straits of Le Maire, the ship, having been tossed about in the sea created by counter-currents, was forced through them, and the pirates were compelled, after all, to go round Cape Horn. Fortunately they were able to supply themselves with water from the heavy rain which fell.

The Bachelor's Delight, entering the South Sea on the 3rd of March, steered for Juan Fernandez. On the 19th a strange sail was seen bearing down upon them, and it being supposed she was Spanish, preparations were made for a fight.

On signals being exchanged, she was found to be the Nicholas of London, which, though nominally an honest trader, was in reality a pirate, commanded by Captain Eaton. He coming on board, the Bachelor's Delight supplied him with water, while he gave bread and beef in exchange. Both being bound for the same island, they continued their course together, and on the 22nd of March, 1684, came in sight of it.

Having come to an anchor, Dampier and others went on shore to look for a Mosquito Indian named Will, who had been left there three years before by Captain Watling. As they approached, he having discerned the ships, and knowing them to be English, came down to the seaside to welcome them. As soon as they reached the beach, another Mosquito Indian, named Robin, leapt on shore, and running to his brother Mosquito man, threw himself flat on his face at his feet. The other helped him up, and having embraced him, also fell flat on his face on the ground at the feet of Robin, who also took him up.

Dampier and his companions stood watching with pleasure and surprise the tenderness and solemnity of this interview, which was exceedingly affectionate on both sides. When it was over they all embraced.

Will was delighted to see so many old friends, coming, as he supposed, to take him away. He was almost naked, his own clothes having been worn out, so that he had only a skin about his waist. Seeing the vessels, he had in the morning killed three goats and dressed them with cabbage, to treat his visitors as soon as they got on shore.

The Spaniards had several times searched for him, but he had always managed to conceal himself from them. He had been out hunting in the woods for goats when Captain Watling had embarked his men, and he had thus been left behind. He had with him his gun and a knife, with a small horn of powder and a few shot. This ammunition being spent, he contrived, by notching his knife, to saw the barrel of his gun into small pieces, with which he made harpoons, lances, hooks, and a long knife. Having made a fire by means of his gun-flint and a piece of the barrel of his gun which he had hardened, he heated the pieces, which he hammered out or bent as he desired with stones, and either sawed them with his jagged knife or ground them to an edge with persevering labour, hardening them to a good temper.

This may seem strange, but the Mosquito Indians are especially clever in manufacturing implements out of the roughest materials. With the weapons he thus made he was able to kill goats or fish. At first he had lived upon seals; but, having made some good hooks, he never afterwards killed any seals, except for the purpose of cutting up their skins to make lines and thongs. He had erected a hut for himself, half a mile from the sea, which was lined with goat-skins, his clothes and bedding being formed of the same material. Seals and sea-lions swarmed round the coast of this island.

Although Alexander Selkirk, afterwards found by Dampier, was the true original of Robinson Crusoe, Defoe appears to have taken some of his descriptions from the adventures of the Mosquito Indian just mentioned.

The hills of Juan Fernandez are partly covered with woods, and partly open, intersected by fertile valleys, the grass being rich and delicate. There were no trees fit for masts, but there was much fine timber, among which was the cabbage-tree. Here Captain Cook was taken seriously ill, and was evidently in a declining state.

The crews having refreshed themselves during sixteen days, the two ships sailed for the coast of America. A Spanish vessel was captured on the 3rd of May, bound for Lima with timber, before news of the pirates being on the coast was known at the settlements.

Notwithstanding this, Cook and Eaton, uniting their forces, determined to attack Truxillo. Three vessels were shortly afterwards captured, laden with flour. On board one of them were eight tons of quince marmalade, but the pirates were bitterly disappointed on learning that they had missed a vessel containing eight hundred thousand pieces of eight, which had shortly before been landed. Finding that the garrison of Truxillo was prepared for them, they steered for the Galapagos, which lie under the equator, and are uninhabited. They abound, however, in land turtle and enormous iguanas; there was also abundance of sea turtle. So numerous, indeed, were the land turtle, that a large ship's company might subsist on them for many months together.

Depositing a portion of their flour in a hut built on one of the islands, they again sailed for the mainland. As they were standing off Cape Blanco, Captain Cook died, and, as he was much respected, his crew carried him on shore to be buried. While they were engaged in digging the grave three Indians appeared, two of whom were captured. They informed the pirates that large herds of cattle were to be found in the neighbourhood. Two boats were therefore sent, under the guidance of the Indians, to obtain a supply.

Dampier, considering that the enterprise was dangerous, returned with a part of the men on board; the rest continued their sport and slept on shore. Next morning they discovered that their boat, which they had left on the beach, was destroyed, and that they were watched by a party of fifty armed Spaniards. The enemy, however, afraid to encounter them openly, remained among the trees, and kept firing from thence at them. The latter thought it prudent to retreat to an isolated rock which they had seen when landing, just appearing above the water. Wading off to it, almost up to their necks, amidst a shower of bullets, they gained its highest point. Here they hoped to hold out until the Spaniards had retired; but what was their horror to find that the water was rising, and that in a short time the rock would be entirely covered! Fortunately their position was seen from the ships, and a boat sent to rescue them.

On the death of Captain Cook, the quartermaster, Edward Davis, was elected commander in his stead.

After this the pirates entered the Gulf of Amapalla. On an island within it the priest of a village was made prisoner, with two native boys, while endeavouring to escape. With these as hostages, Captain Davis and a number of his men proceeded to the town, where he told the people that his people were Spaniards, and had been sent to clear the sea of pirates, his intention being to repair his ships.

This statement being credited, he and his men were well received. He accompanied the inhabitants to church, where all public business was transacted. The intention of Davis was to ensnare the principal inhabitants, and to make them pay a ransom. His object was frustrated, in consequence of one of the pirates violently pushing a man before him, when the Indians, suspecting treachery, took to flight. Upon this Davis and his people fired, and one of the unfortunate Indians was killed. Notwithstanding this, through fear, they assisted in storing the ships with animals taken from a farm belonging to a nunnery. In return, Davis presented one of his prizes, laden with flour, to the inhabitants. The crews having had a dispute about the division of the spoil, the two vessels here separated; Eaton sailing on the 2nd of September, and Davis, accompanied by Dampier, on the following day, the padre and the young Indians having been previously landed. Davis now found it difficult to decide what course to pursue. The Spaniards were everywhere on the alert, in consequence of a party of buccaneers having crossed the isthmus, and now being engaged in cruising in boats along the coast.

The Bachelor's Delight now put into La Plata, where Drake had destroyed the Cacafuego. While she lay here, the Cygnet, of London, a regular trader, under Captain Swan, came in. He had endeavoured to open up a peaceful traffic with the Spaniards, but his party had been attacked and several of his men killed.

Swan was therefore, in his own defence, compelled to turn pirate. While the two ships lay here, they were joined by the band of buccaneers who had crossed the isthmus under the command of Peter Harris, the nephew of a well-known leader of that name.

During the time that the ships were refitting, a small bark which had been captured was sent out on a cruise, and succeeded in taking a vessel of four hundred tons, laden with timber. From her crew the rovers obtained intelligence that the Viceroy was fitting out a fleet of ten frigates, to drive them from the South Seas. Having formed the design of attacking Paita, they joined forces, and, much regretting the absence of Eaton, sailed for that place. Entering the roads on the 3rd of November, they found the town nearly abandoned, with all the treasure carried away. They demanded, however, flour, sugar, wine, and water to be sent off; but, as this was not complied with, landing, they set the town on fire, and it was burnt to the ground.

Harris's ship being found a slow one, she was burnt, and her crew joined the larger vessels. In vain they looked for Eaton, who, as it turned out, had sailed for the East Indies.

Having refitted the vessels, and obtained a supply of wood, seals, penguins, and boobies, which were salted at the island of Lobos de Tierra, they made a descent on Guayaquil; but disagreements arose between the commanders, and, after landing and getting in sight of the town, they abandoned the enterprise, neither being willing to trust the other.

Descents were made on two or three other places, and near Tomaco they captured a vessel, with a Spanish gentleman -- Don Diego de Pinas -- on board, and several other Spaniards.

On the 1st of January, 1685, the two vessels sailed for the island of Gallo. On their way they captured a packet-boat from Lima, and, securing her despatches, learned that the Governor had hastened the sailing of the Plate fleet from Callao to Panama.

On hearing this, the rovers eagerly looked forward to the capture of these richly-laden vessels. In order to careen their ships, and lay in wait for their prey, they steered for the Pearl Islands. On their way they touched at Gorgona, where they landed most of their prisoners.

Several prizes having been captured, their squadron now consisted of six sail, but only two -- the Bachelor's Delight and the Cygnet -- were large vessels.

Reaching the Pearl Islands, they supplied themselves with all necessaries, then again sailed to watch for the Plate fleet. For some time they cruised before New Panama, a very fair city, standing close by the sea, about four miles from the ruins of the old town. The country round it was very beautiful, and it was newly walled, with guns pointing seaward. Growing weary of watching, they stood out to sea, and came to an anchor near the island of Taboga. While they lay here a vessel appeared, the people on board of which stated that they had come to traffic secretly with the English. Suddenly, however, about midnight, they were seen to take their departure, and the vessel, bursting into flames, was discovered to be a fire-ship.

The vessels slipping their cables, by great exertions put to sea and escaped damage. On their return they were alarmed by observing a fleet of canoes full of armed men steering towards them. Their joy was great when they discovered that the new-comers were a party of buccaneers, mustering two hundred and eighty men, English and French, who had crossed the isthmus on an expedition to the South Sea. About eighty of the former entered with Davis and Swan, and the vessels which had before been captured were given to the remainder. Their force was further increased by another party numbering one hundred and eighty, all British, under Captain Townley. Three other parties shortly afterwards arrived, mustering two hundred and sixty-four men.

With a force amounting in all to about one thousand men, they resolved to attack Panama. Before, however, making the attempt, they ascertained from intercepted letters that the Lima fleet was at sea, and they resolved to capture it in the first place. Their squadron now consisted of ten sail, but the Bachelor's Delight and Cygnet were the only well-armed vessels, while the Spanish fleet amounted to fourteen, -- two of which carried forty guns, one thirty-six, another eighteen, one eight, and two fire-ships, all supplied with numerous crews.

At length, sighting the enemy, they bore down before the wind; but the Spaniards kept close on a wind, and although a few shots were exchanged, succeeded in avoiding their assailants until nightfall. A light was then seen hoisted on board the Spanish Admiral's ship. This was supposed to be a signal for his fleet to anchor. After some time it was lowered, but was again seen to leeward. Consequently the buccaneers steered for it during the night. Great was their disgust when morning broke to discover the Spanish fleet well to windward, a small bark having conveyed the lantern to leeward, and thus placed them in a dangerous position. The Spaniards now got under weigh and bore down before the wind, compelling the buccaneers to retreat.

A running fight ensued, but the Frenchmen kept out of the way, and the rovers, bold as they were, dared not, in their small vessels, come to closer quarters. All hopes of the capture of the long-looked-for Lima fleet was thus lost. To avenge themselves they sailed for the Rio Lexa, near which was the town of Leon, on the Lake of Nicaragua. Both places were attacked and captured. A ransom of three hundred thousand dollars was demanded for Leon, but the Spaniards put off paying it; and the buccaneers, suspecting that a strong force was gathering to overwhelm them, retreated to the shore. One Spanish gentleman who had promised one hundred and fifty head of cattle as his ransom, scrupulously redeemed his word.

After this adventure the buccaneers determined to separate, and Captain Swan proposed to his crew to cross the Pacific, and to return home by India. Dampier, who had long wished to get free from the lawless band, was among the first to agree to the proposal, and leaving the Bachelor's Delight, he joined the Cygnet. It was necessary, however, first to victual the ship. For this purpose the town of Santa Pecaque, which was well stored with provisions for supplying the slaves in the neighbouring mines, was captured. During two or more days a large quantity of maize and other provisions were brought off. Captain Swan warned his men when on shore engaged in transporting the provisions to keep together, and to be constantly on the watch, lest they should be attacked by the Spaniards. A party of fifty-four Englishmen and nine blacks had been thus engaged, and were on their return to the ship, when the sound of rapid firing was heard on board. Captain Swan, fearing that they were attacked, immediately landed with the greater part of the remainder of his crew, and hurried to their assistance. On reaching the spot, to his grief he found that the whole had been massacred, a large body of Spaniards having suddenly set upon them, and either shot them down or sabred them, not allowing one to escape. Among them were several of the officers, one of whom was supercargo on board the Cygnet, and who had written the history of his adventures.

This disaster, the most serious which had befallen the buccaneers since their arrival on the coast, determined Captain Swan to hasten his departure. The Cygnet now sailed for Cape Saint Lucas, and put into the middle island of the Tres Marias. It was well stored with iguanas, raccoons, rabbits, pigeons, deer, turtle, seals, and fish of various kinds. Here a considerable number of persons whom the pirates had taken prisoners were landed and left to shift for themselves, in revenge for the disaster suffered at Santa Pecaque.

The ship was careened, a tender was sent across to the mainland for water, and final preparations made for the intended voyage. Dampier had been suffering much from dropsy, when, by the advice of a native, he underwent a treatment which he was assured would restore him to health. He was first buried up to his neck in hot sand, and then, after undergoing a profuse perspiration, he was placed in a close tent, where he remained until he became cool. By this means he was entirely cured.



Chapter Twenty Two.

Dampier's Voyages, Continued -- A.D. 1686.

The Cygnet and a bark sail from Cape Corrientes for the Ladrones --  Short allowance of food -- The crew threaten to mutiny -- Narrow escape from shipwreck -- Guam reached -- Friendly intercourse with the Governor --  Provisions obtained -- A friar kept as hostage -- A Manilla ship appears and escapes -- Quit Guam and reach Mindanao, one of the Philippines -- Visit from Rajah Laut -- The Viceroy -- An officer visits the Sultan -- Friendly reception -- Entertainments on shore -- Rajah Laut's treachery -- The crew become discontented -- Run off with the Cygnet leaving Captain Swan and portion of the crew on shore -- Many die poisoned by the natives -- The Cygnet lays in wait for the Manilla ship -- Reed chosen as captain -- Put into a harbour -- Refit the ship and cut down the quarter-deck -- Nearly wrecked -- Anchor off Mindano -- Go to Polo Condore -- Refit the ship -- Live on friendly terms with the natives -- Again sail -- Some of a boat's crew killed by Malays -- Proceed to the west of China -- Remarks on the natives --  Come off the Pescadores -- Obtain provisions from the natives -- The Bashee Islands visited -- Leave Luconia -- Dampier desires to return for Captain Swan -- Hears of his death -- Waterspouts -- Anchor off Callasunguny -- Visits exchanged with the Sultan -- Sail for the coast of New Holland --  Intercourse with the natives -- Sail for the Nicobar Islands -- A canoe with natives captured -- Dampier set on shore -- Brought off again -- Again set on shore with several companions -- They obtain a canoe, and set sail for Achin -- Perilous voyage -- Reach Achin -- Sufferings of the voyagers -- Dampier makes several voyages, and becomes gunner at Boncoulin -- Plan of trading to Meangis -- The Painted Prince -- He escapes privately to Boncoulin on board the Defence -- Reaches England after twelve years absence -- Death of the Painted Prince-Dampier publishes his adventures.

On the 31st of March, 1686, the Cygnet, with a hundred men on board, commanded by Captain Swan, and a bark, commanded by Captain Tait, with whom went fifty men besides slaves, made sail from Cape Corrientes with a fresh breeze of north-north-east. The only provisions they had been able to obtain were some Jew-fish, caught by the Mosquito men, and salted, and a store of maize. They now steered due west for the Ladrones. As they might possibly be fifty or sixty days before making Guam, the crews were at once put on short allowance, having only one meal a day. In three days they had consumed their salted Jew-fish, and had now nothing but the maize on which to subsist. However, they made good runs every day before the fresh trade winds, and in about twenty days the crews, expecting to get soon in, insisted on having a larger allowance.

With some reluctance the captain allowed them ten spoonfuls of maize a day each man, instead of eight. Dampier declares that he benefited by this meagre fare, and drank about three times every twenty-four hours, but some men drank only once in nine or ten days, and one did not swallow any liquid for seventeen days, and asserted that he did not feel at all thirsty. They ran on for nearly five thousand miles without seeing a flying-fish or fowl of any sort, but then they fell in with a number of boobies, which they supposed came from some rocks not far off. As they approached Guam some rain fell, a sign that they were in the neighbourhood of land. Many of the crew were in a state of mutiny, and had formed a plot to kill Captain Swan and eat him should their provisions fail, and they had now only meal sufficient for three days more.

He was a stout, lusty man, and when the danger was past he remarked, laughing, "Ah, Dampier, you would have made them but a poor meal!" for the latter was as lean as the captain was fat.

The bark being ahead, passed over a shoal with only four fathoms of water on it, on which Captain Tait hauled his wind and waited for the Cygnet. He then came on board and described what he had seen. At first they were very doubtful where they had got to, as no shoal was marked on the Spanish charts; but by keeping northward, at four o'clock that evening, the 20th of May, the island of Guam was sighted. On the following day the two vessels came to an anchor on the western side of Guam, about a mile from shore, after a run of seven thousand three hundred and two miles. The Spaniards had here a port and a garrison of thirty men. Having been unable to distinguish the vessels as they approached after dark, supposing that they belonged to their own nation, a priest came off with two boats, and was greatly surprised to find that they were English. He was, however, well treated, although detained as a hostage. He agreed to obtain the necessary provisions, and to arrange for a fair exchange of commodities. He accordingly wrote to the Governor of the fort, who willingly agreed to the proposed terms. Next day the natives brought off rice, pineapples, melons, oranges, limes, cocoa-nuts, and a sort of fruit called by the English bread-fruit, which proved of the greatest value to the half-starved seamen. The fruit was baked on shore, and brought off hot ready to be eaten. Besides the garrison there were only two or three Spanish priests on the island; the rest of the inhabitants consisting of about one hundred natives. It had but shortly before been thickly populated, but the natives, attempting to capture the fort and turn out their tyrants, were, with the help of Captain Eaton, who put in there at this juncture, either killed or compelled to fly the island.

Besides the fruit, the Governor sent every day one or two canoes laden with hogs and various delicacies. While the vessels lay here, a Manilla ship appeared in the offing, and, unseen by the English, the Governor made her a signal that the buccaneers were there, and she stood away from the shore. Running to the southward, however, she got on the shoal from which Captain Tait had so narrowly escaped, and was very nearly lost. The pirate crews, hearing of this, were eager to go and capture her. Captain Swan, however, being sick or ashamed of robbing, and perhaps suspecting that she would prove a tough customer, persuaded them to abandon their design.

On the 30th of May the Governor sent off a last present, including six or seven bags of rice; he also hinted that the west monsoon was at hand, and that therefore it behoved his visitors to be jogging, unless they desired to return to America. The same day the friar who had remained as a hostage was sent on shore with various presents, including a brass clock, an astrolabe, and a telescope. Grateful for these, he made a return present of six hogs and a roasting pig, three or four bushels of potatoes, and fifty pounds of Manilla tobacco.

Besides minor articles they had as many cocoa-nuts as could be stowed, a good stock of rice, and fifty hogs in salt. This store, they hoped, was amply sufficient to carry them on to Mindanao, one of the Philippine Islands, where they had resolved to go.

The two largest of these islands are Luconia and Mindanao, on the former of which Magalhaens was killed in his mad attempt to conquer the natives. The whole of the group was then subject to the Spaniards, with the exception of the islands of Mindanao and Saint John's.

The passage to Mindanao occupied nineteen days, during which the Cygnet and her consort met with a heavy gale which compelled them to remain at anchor. On approaching they hoisted their colours and fired a salute of seven guns, which was returned from the shore by three. The town stood on the banks of the river about two miles from the sea. The houses were built upon piles from fourteen to twenty feet in height, and as this was the rainy season, were completely surrounded by water, so that they appeared as if standing in a lake, many of the inhabitants going from house to house in their canoes. The island was at this time governed by rival Rajahs, the Rajah of Mindanao being the chief.

Captain Swan's object was to gain his friendship, especially as he was supposed to be hostile to the Spaniards. As soon as the Cygnet and her consort dropped their anchors, a canoe, paddled by ten paddlers, came off, carrying a man of consequence, who introduced himself as Rajah Laut, the brother and prime minister of the Sultan. He was attended by one of his nephews, who spoke Spanish fluently, and a conversation was thus carried on through Mr Smith, who had been made prisoner at Rio Lexa.

When he understood that the strangers were English, he welcomed them cordially, but evidently seemed disappointed on being told by Captain Swan that he had come merely to obtain provisions, and not to establish a factory.

The Rajah had been informed by a Captain Goodlad, who had touched there some time before, that he would induce the East India merchants to form one on the island to carry on a trade with him.

Rajah Laut and his nephew remained all the time in their canoe, saying that they had no authority from the Sultan to go on board the ship. Captain Swan, believing that he should have to remain some time at the island, was anxious to consult the Sultan, and accordingly sent a Mr More on shore with a present of scarlet cloth, three yards of broad gold lace, a Turkish scimitar, and a pair of pistols. Mr More was well received, and many questions were asked him through an interpreter in Spanish.

On being dismissed he found a supper prepared for him and his boat's crew at Rajah Laut's house, after partaking of which he returned on board. The inhabitants behaved to their visitors in the most friendly way, insisting on their coming into their houses to be treated, although their treats were but mean, consisting of tobacco and betel-nut and a little sweet spiced water.

Rajah Laut, seeing so many of the men in fine clothes, asked who they were, when he was told, as a joke, that they were noblemen, who had come aboard to see the world, but that the rest, who had shabby garments, were only common seamen.

After this he showed much respect to those who had good clothes, and especially to one John Thacker, who, having husbanded his share of the spoil, had plenty of gold in his pocket, which he liberally spent, besides which he was a good dancer.

Captain Swan discovering this, undeceived the Rajah, and gave a drubbing to the unfortunate nobleman, against whom he was so much incensed that he could never afterwards bear to see him.

At this time Captain Swan had his men in such perfect subjection, that he could punish whom he chose, and he might, had he wished, have induced them to form a settlement on the island. During the Ramadan no amusement of any sort took place on shore; but as soon as the feast was over, Rajah Laut entertained Captain Swan and his officers with performances of dancing women, such as are common over India. The females of the place were especially addicted to dancing. Forty or fifty would form a ring, joined hand in hand, and sing a chorus while keeping time; though they never moved from the same spot, they would make various gestures, now throwing forward one leg, now another, while they shouted loudly and clapped their hands while the chorus was sung.

Much of the night was spent in this way. Many of the seamen who had money lived on shore among the inhabitants, spending it in the too usual profligate manner. Christmas Day was spent on board, and it was expected that Captain Swan would then announce his intentions for the future; but he kept them to himself, and no one could tell what he intended to do.

He now received a secret visit from the nephew of a Sultan of one of the Spice Islands, who came to invite him to form a settlement on shore, provided he would defend the island from the Dutch. He, however, had not the resolution to engage in the undertaking.

So satisfied was Captain Swan of the good intentions of the natives, that he carried his vessel over the bar into the river. She had not been there long when it was discovered that her bottom was perforated by the teredo, and it appeared a short time before that a Dutch vessel had been entirely destroyed by them in less than two months.

Rajah Laut, who had become heir to her great guns, no doubt hoped to obtain those of the Cygnet, as well as her stores and cargo, in the same manner.

The evil having been discovered in time, the crew set to work to rip off the worm-eaten planks, and put on new, and to sheathe and tallow the ship's bottom. They also took on board her cargo, consisting of iron and lead, as also rice for the voyage, and filled the water-casks.

Rajah Laut had long promised to supply her with beef, and he invited Dampier and a party of others to accompany him on a hunting expedition; but only a few cows were seen, and none were shot. It now became evident that he was playing false with the voyagers, and that his great object was to detain them until their ship was destroyed. Suspecting this, they got her over the bar. On a second expedition, when Rajah Laut carried his wives and family with him, Dampier had an opportunity of seeing much of the manners and customs of the people.

As soon as the Rajah was out of the house the ladies came to the quarters of the English, and talked freely with them. They were much surprised on hearing that the King of England had only one wife. Some approved of the custom, but others considered it a very bad one.

Though the party were several days out in the country, the cows were so wild that only three heifers were killed. With these Dampier and his men returned on board.

Rajah Laut now showed his true character. He first borrowed twenty ounces of gold from Captain Swan, who very unwillingly lent them to him, and could not afterwards get them back. He also demanded payment for the food the captain and his men had eaten at his house.

These matters greatly annoyed the captain, who was a man of bad temper. His own ship's company were every day pressing him to be gone. Some of them ran away, assisted by Rajah Laut; the whole crew, indeed, became disaffected. Those who had no money lived on board and wished to be off, while those who had still some cash remaining were content to stay. The former stole some of the cargo, which they sent on shore to purchase arrack and honey to make punch, with which they became drunk and quarrelsome.

Captain Swan might at once have put a stop to these disorders, had he exerted his authority; but, as he and the supercargo were always living on shore, nothing was done. The mutiny was brought to a head by the discovery of the captain's journal, in which he inveighed against the crew, and especially a man named Reed.

Captain Tait, who had before behaved ill and been punished by Captain Swan, took advantage of this state of discontent to advise the men to turn him out, hoping to be chosen in his stead to command the ship.

They would have sailed at once, had not the surgeon and his mate been on shore. To get them off, the mutineers dispatched John Cookworthy, a follower of their party, who was directed to say that one of the men had broken his leg, and required their assistance. The surgeon replied that he intended to return next day, but sent his mate, Herman Coppinger. Dampier, who had been on shore, accompanied Coppinger off to the ship, and then discovered the trick that had been played, and the treacherous projects of the crew. He immediately on this sent to the captain, who, however, not believing that his men would run away, remained on shore.

The next day he did not appear, and on the morning of the 13th the mutineers, firing a gun, weighed anchor, and were standing out to sea, when Mr Nelly, the chief mate, pulled after them and got on board. He advised them again to anchor, which they did; but Captain Swan, either from cowardice or reluctance to leave the island, still refused to return on board.

The mutineers would allow no one to visit on shore, so Dampier and Coppinger were kept prisoners. Losing patience, they once more weighed and steered for Mindanao, leaving the captain and thirty-six men on shore, besides those who had run off. Sixteen had been buried there, most of whom had died from the effects of poison administered to them by the natives. Several others succumbed from the same cause, after they had been some weeks at sea, the surgeon being unable to counteract the effects of the noxious drugs they had swallowed.

The Cygnet left Mindanao on the 14th of January, 1687, directing her course to Manilla, in the neighbourhood of which place it was intended to cruise, in the hopes of capturing the galleon. On the 3rd of February they came to an anchor off an island well suited for beaching the ship.

Before this Reed had been chosen as captain, Tait as master, and More as quartermaster. The quarter-deck was here cut down, to make the ship the better for sailing, and her bottom was scrubbed and tallowed.

In the island were seen vast numbers of large bats, their bodies as big as ducks, with wings from seven to eight feet from tip to top. The ground in many places was covered with vines, which ran over it until they met a tree, when they climbed up it to its topmost branches. They were of the thickness of walking-canes, the joints being between a couple and three feet apart.

Again sailing, on the 10th of February they coasted along the shore, but had not long been out of port when the ship struck on a rock. Fortunately, the water was smooth and the tide at flood; but, as it was, they lost a large piece of their rudder, and the ship narrowly escaped being wrecked.

By the fires they saw burning on the shore, they supposed the country was thickly inhabited by Spaniards. On the 18th the ship brought up off the island of Mindano. While she lay there, a canoe with four Indians came from Manilla. At first they were shy, but, hearing the pirates speak Spanish, they came alongside, and informed them that the harbour of Manilla was seldom or never without twenty or thirty sail of vessels, a few Spaniards and Portuguese, but mostly Chinese.

The pirates told them that they had come to trade with the Spaniards, and requested them to carry a letter to the merchants there. This was only a pretence, as their business was only to pillage. A fair opportunity to trade would have been afforded them, had they really desired it.

Shortly after sailing, they saw a vessel coming from the northward, and, making chase, captured her. She was a Spanish bark, bound to Manilla, but as she had no goods on board they let her go. Two days afterwards they took another vessel laden with rice and cotton cloth, also bound for Manilla. The goods were for the Acapulco ship which had escaped them at Guam, and was now at Manilla.

They now resolved to go to Pulo Condore, which, being out of the way, they hoped there to remain concealed, and to clean their ship, until the latter end of May, when they intended to look out for the Acapulco ship, which was expected to come by about that time. They anchored off Pulo Condore on the 14th, and found it to be the largest and only inhabited one of a group of islands. The people were from Cochin, and, as several of the seamen could speak Malay, it was easy to carry on a conversation with them.

The pirates lived here in the most intimate way with the natives, whose chief employment was making tar from the sap of trees. Others employed themselves in catching turtle and boiling the fat into oil, which, with the tar, they sent to their native country.

The island abounded in birds, such as parrots, doves, pigeons, and wild cocks and hens. The country people supplied them with hogs and turtle, and other provisions.

A convenient spot being found, the ship was careened and the men employed in felling trees, sawing them into planks, and making a house to store their goods. A new suit of sails was also made from the cloth taken out of the Manilla ship. Here two of the men died who had been poisoned. At their request their livers were taken out by the doctor, and found to be black, light, and dry, like pieces of cork. Having spent a month at this place, they sailed on the 21st of April, and after touching at a number of places, on their way they overtook a Chinese junk, which came from Sumatra, fully laden with pepper. From her crew the pirates learned that the English were settled on the island, at a place called Sillabar.

On anchoring they saw a small bark at anchor near the shore. Captain Reed ordered a boat's crew to go and ascertain what she was, charging the men on no account to venture on board. Neglecting his advice, they pulled alongside, and several of them, leaping up, were stabbed by the Malays who manned her, supposing that they had come with hostile intent. The rest quickly leapt overboard, some into the boat, and others into the sea. Among them was Daniel Wallis, who had never swum before, but who now swam lustily until he was taken on board. Captain Reed immediately shoved off in another boat to punish the Malays, but they seeing him coming, they scuttled their vessel and made for the shore, where they hid themselves. Here Dampier and Coppinger resolved to leave the pirates, it having been against their will that Captain Swan had been deserted, and they having become ashamed of the proceedings of their companions. Coppinger managed to land, but Captain Reed sent after him and brought him back, and they had to put off their design until a more favourable opportunity.

Finding the sea where they intended to cruise for the Manilla ship dangerous on account of numberless reefs, on which many Spanish vessels, with their cargoes, had been lost, the pirates abandoned their design and sailed for the island of Saint John, lying on the south coast of the province of Canton, in China. The inhabitants were Chinese. There were here plenty of hogs, goats, buffaloes, and bullocks to be seen. Dampier describes the way the feet of the women were bound up so that they lose the use of them, and instead of walking they only stumble about their houses, and then squat down again. They seldom stir abroad, and one would be apt to think their retaining this fashion were a stratagem of the men to confine them at home, to keep them from gadding and gossiping with their friends. The poorer sort trudge about the streets without shoes or stockings, and these cannot afford to have little feet, having to get their living with them. There being signs of a coming storm, in order to have sea-room the ship made sail away from the land.

The hurricane burst on them as they expected. Their safety depended on their being able to scud under bare poles, which they did during the whole night; and Dampier and his shipmates averred that they had never been in so violent a storm before.

Fearing that another tempest might come on, they resolved to run for the Pescadores, lying between the island of Formosa and the coast of China.

Making the group on the 20th of July, they found themselves before a large town, with a number of junks going in and out of the harbour. Though they would have preferred anchoring in some uninhabited spot, they had no remedy but to run boldly in. The quartermaster was at once sent on shore to go to the Governor and inform him that they were bound for Amoy, and as they had suffered some damage by the late storm, they wished to remain there until finer weather.

The Governor received the quartermaster civilly, and told him that they could refit the ship better at Amoy or Macao, and dismissed him with a present of flour, cakes, and pineapples. Officers afterwards came on board, but did not appear to suspect the character of their visitors. In a short time the ship was surrounded by native boats, each having three or four men, who soon crowded the decks, and began to steal all the iron on which they could lay hands. One of them being found carrying off a linchpin, a seaman took hold of the fellow, who immediately bawled out, when the rest leapt overboard. The thief, however, not being ill-treated, and receiving a piece of iron, swam to his friends, who had hovered about the ship to see the issue. After this the people were honest and civil, and brought off goats and roots, which were purchased for iron.

Sailing thence, the Cygnet touched at one of the Bashee Islands, and soon afterwards encountered another storm, which so disheartened the pirate crew that they wished themselves at home again. But Captain Reed and Captain Tait persuaded them to go towards Cape Comorin, intending to cruise in the Red Sea, where they expected to pick up some rich prizes.

Fearing to go through the Straits of Malacca, they agreed to sail round the eastern side of the Philippine Islands, and keep south towards the Spice Islands, so as to pass into the East Indian Ocean, about the island of Timor.

Leaving the island of Luconia with all their golden prospects disappointed, they steered for Mindanao. Here they received a visit from the young prince, who had been sent by his uncle. He informed them he had lately seen Captain Swan, who with his men had been assisting Rajah Laut in fighting against the hill tribes, and were held in high estimation.

Here Dampier endeavoured to persuade some of the crew to return for Captain Swan to Mindanao, but his plan being betrayed to Captain Reed and Captain Tait, they made haste to be gone. Dampier afterwards heard that some of the people had got away to Batavia, and from thence to Europe; that some had died; and that Captain Swan and his surgeon, in attempting to get on board a Dutch ship, had been upset by the natives and drowned.

Dampier being here unable to make his escape, was carried on to the island of Celebes. As they were coasting along during the night, the sound of numerous oars was heard, and, supposing they were about to be attacked, they got up their arms and stood ready to defend themselves.

As soon as it was day they saw a large proa, with about sixty men in her, and six smaller proas. These lay to about a mile to windward to view the stranger, probably intending to make a prey of her.

At last the Cygnet hoisted Dutch colours, hoping to allure them nearer, but they pulled away, and were soon out of sight. Standing into this bay, they came to an anchor near a spot where a vast number of trees grew, and one especially of great size. This Captain Reed ordered to be cut down to form into a canoe, as all their boats had been lost during the storm. Dampier and many others, who had been logwood-cutters in the Bay of Campeachy and Honduras, were expert at this work. They took their turns, cutting together, but were one whole day and a half before they got it down. This tree was eighteen feet in circumference, and forty-four clear trunk, without knot or branch. Great was their disappointment on examining it to find that it was rotten at heart, and would not serve their purpose.

Soon after sailing, while becalmed, two or three waterspouts were seen, which seemed terrible, as it was impossible to get out of their way. The waterspout Dampier describes as the small ragged part of a cloud, hanging down from the blackest part. It generally slopes, appearing as if it had a small elbow in the middle. It is smaller at the lower end, not bigger than one's arm, and no bigger towards the cloud whence it proceeds. Though he had seen many, he observed that the fright is always the greatest of the harm it does.

During a calm, which came on while the ship was off Bouton, the Mosquito men were employed in striking turtle with their harpoons. They returned on board with a native, who spoke the Malay language, and told them that farther on was a good anchoring-place in the neighbourhood of a large town called Calla-sus-ung. Here they brought up on the 15th of December. Soon after the Sultan sent a messenger to inquire their business, and, being satisfied with their report, promised to come on board. Meantime a number of boats brought off provisions. The ship was made ready to receive the Sultan, who soon came off in a handsome proa, with a large white silk flag at the head of the mast, edged round with red. In the middle was a green griffin trampling on a winged serpent, which threatened its adversary with open mouth. At the head of the proa sat the Sultan, with three of his sons and several of his nobles, while ten ministers as guards were standing on each side of him. Other guards were arranged about the vessel.

The Sultan was handsomely dressed in a silken turban, a sky-coloured silk pair of breeches, and a piece of red silk thrown across his shoulders, the greater part of his back and waist appearing naked. He had neither stockings nor shoes. As he was conducted by the captain into his cabin, five guns were fired in his honour. After remaining on board a couple of hours he returned on shore.

The next day the captain, by the Sultan's invitation, returned the visit, accompanied by eight men, and Dampier went with them. The Sultan received them in a neat house, near which forty naked soldiers with muskets were drawn up. They were entertained with tobacco and betel-nut and young cocoa-nuts.

While they were seated on their mats, the women and children thronged near the windows to look at them. The next day the Sultan again came on board, bringing a little slave boy as a present. The captain said he was too young to be at sea, and the Sultan exchanged him for a bigger boy. The men purchased a number of parrots and cockatoos, as white as milk, with bunches of feathers on their heads. The captain also purchased a canoe, which the carpenters altered by sawing off one end and making it flat, when she rowed and sailed admirably.

From this place the Cygnet steered across for New Holland, as the crew wished to ascertain what that country would afford them. On the 4th of January, 1688, they fell in with the land of New Holland, and then coasted along some distance.

At that time it was not known whether it was an island or a continent, but Dampier affirms that it joins neither to Asia, Africa, nor America. The land was low and sandy, and destitute of water.

Dampier describes the inhabitants as the "miserablest people in the world. The Hodmadods of Monomatapa (that is, the Hottentots of the Cape), though nasty people, yet, for wealth, are gentlemen to these, and, setting aside their human shape, they differ little from the brutes."

After some trouble, the English induced some of these natives to approach them, and gave them some old clothes, intending to make them carry their casks of water to the boat; but all the signs they could make would not induce the natives to touch the barrels; instead, they stood, like statues, without motion, grinning as so many monkeys would have done, and staring one upon another!

The seamen were therefore compelled to carry the water themselves, but the natives very formally put the clothes off again, and laid them down, as if they were only to work in. They did not appear, indeed, to have any great fancy for them at first, neither did they look surprised at anything they saw. On another occasion, when the boat approached the shore, a number of them appeared, threatening the strangers with their clubs and lances. At last the captain ordered a drum to be beaten. No sooner did they hear the noise than they ran away as fast as they could, crying out, "Gurry, gurry!"

At spring-tide the ship was hauled into a sandy bay, and all the neap-tides she lay wholly aground, so that there was ample time to clean her bottom. Dampier again attempted to persuade the men to take the ship to some English factory and deliver her up; but he was threatened, should he say anything more on the subject, to be left behind. He accordingly desisted, hoping to find some better opportunity for making his escape.

From the coast of New Holland the Cygnet stood for the island of Cocoas. Here fresh water was obtained, and one of the canoes brought on board as many boobies and man-of-war birds as was sufficient for all the ship's company. They caught also a land animal resembling a large crawfish without its great claws. Their flesh was very good, and they were so large that no man could eat two of them at a meal.

Again, at the little island of Triste, Dampier attempted to make his escape, but abandoned his intention for the present, finding it impossible to run off with the boat. Sailing on the 29th, they chased and captured a proa, with four men, belonging to Achin. She was laden with cocoa-nuts and cocoa-nut oil. The ship was filled up with as many of these commodities as could be stowed away, when a hole was made in the bottom of the proa, and she was sunk, while her crew were detained on board.

Captain Reed did this under the belief that Dampier and others who wanted to make their escape would be afraid to go on shore, lest the natives should kill them.

Passing the north-west end of Sumatra, the pirates steered for the Nicobar Islands, to the south of the Andamans. Here the ship was again careened, in order that she might be thoroughly cleaned, and thus sail faster.

The natives were a well-looking people, of a dark colour, the men being almost naked, but the women wore a short petticoat. After the ship was again floated, Dampier, finding that he could not get off by stealth, insisted on being landed. At last the captain agreed, and, getting up his chest and bedding, he induced some of his shipmates to row him on shore. One of them gave him an axe, which he had secreted.

Near the shore where he landed were two houses deserted by the inhabitants. The natives, who had been concealed, observing the boat pulling away, came out and made signs to the crew to take off their companion. When they saw that this did not succeed, the principal man came up to Dampier and offered to take him off in his own canoe. On this being declined, he invited him into his house with his chest and clothes.

He had not, however, been on shore an hour, when Captain Tait, with several armed men, came to take him back. He assured them that he had no intention to resist by force and accordingly accompanied them. On arriving on board the ship, he found her in an uproar, and three other persons demanded to be set on shore. These were Mr Coppinger, the surgeon, Mr Hall, and a man named Ambrose. Captain Reed offered no opposition to the departure of the two last, but would not part with the unfortunate surgeon. At last, Mr Coppinger, leaping into the canoe, swore that go he would, and that he would shoot any man who tried to prevent him. On this, Oliver, the quartermaster, following him into the canoe, took away his gun, and he was dragged back into the ship.

Dampier, Mr Hall, Ambrose, and a Portuguese were then set on shore. Soon afterwards, the four Malays belonging to Achin were also landed. The party now felt strong enough to defend themselves against the natives. Dampier's intention was to get into their good graces, and to obtain whatever he wanted by fair means. He would have preferred, for some reasons, having been left by himself, for he felt sure he should succeed in winning over the islanders.

The natives, on seeing so many visitors, kept at a distance, but did not attempt to molest them. Next morning, the owner of the house came to see them, and from him they obtained a canoe in exchange for an axe. They at once, being anxious to be off, embarked in her, but had got a short distance only from the shore, when she was overturned. They succeeded, however, in towing their chests and other property to the beach, and immediately lighted some fires to dry the contents, some books and sketches of maps having alone suffered. The Achinese in the meantime fitted their canoe with outriggers on each side, and made a mast and a substantial sail with mats. As soon as all was ready, they put off again in their frail bark, the islanders accompanying them in their canoes. Mr Hall, to frighten them away, fired a gun over their heads. On hearing it, they jumped overboard, and that fatal shot made all the natives their enemies.

They had great difficulty in procuring cocoa-nuts, and on going to the farther end of the island, they found a large number of people, who made signs for them to be off. On this Dampier presented his gun at them. On seeing it, they all fell flat down on their faces, but he turned round and fired it towards the sea, to show the savages that no harm was intended them.

As soon as he had reloaded, they pulled gently in. Again the savages made signs of their hatred, on which Dampier again fired off his gun, when the greater number sneaked away, leaving only five or six men on the beach. On this, Mr Hall landed, the only weapon he carried being his sword. The natives did not stir, so he took one of them by the hand, and making signs of friendship, a peace was concluded.

This evidently gave the greatest satisfaction to all the inhabitants, who now brought down melory, a sort of cake, made from a fruit resembling the bread-fruit. This they exchanged for old rags and strips of cloth.

Going to the south of the island, Dampier and his party provided themselves with more melory and a dozen large cocoa-nuts filled with water, containing in all about three gallons and a half. They also obtained three bamboos, which held three gallons more. This served for their sea store. Their intention was to go to Achin, on the north-west end of the island of Sumatra, from which they were about forty leagues distant. It bore south-south-east.

On the 15th of May, 1688, the Nicobar canoe commenced her perilous voyage with her company of eight persons, viz., three Englishmen, four Malays, and the Portuguese. She was about the burden of a London wherry below bridge, built sharp at both ends. She was deeper than a wherry, but not so broad, and so thin and light that when empty four men could launch her or haul her ashore on a sandy bay. She had a substantial mast and a mat sail, and good outriggers lashed very fast and firm on each side. Without them she would easily have been upset, and even with them, had not they been made very strong.

The Achinese placed such confidence in the Englishmen, that they would do nothing which Dampier and Mr Hall did not approve of. Dampier had made a sketch in his pocket-book from the chart on board the ship, and as he had also brought off a small compass, he was thus able to steer a right course. All night long they rowed on, relieving each other, while Dampier and Mr Hall steered by turns. After rowing twenty leagues, as soon as the morning of the 17th broke, they looked out for the island of Sumatra. It was nowhere to be seen; and glancing back, to their disappointment they observed the Nicobar Islands not more than eight leagues distant, showing that they had been pulling against a strong current. The wind again freshening on the 18th, they made better way. Dampier observed, however, a large circle round the sun, which caused him much anxiety, as it was the indication of a coming gale; yet he made no remark, lest he should discourage his companions. He observed, too, that should the wind, which was already strong, become more violent, they must steer away before it, and probably be driven sixty or seventy leagues to the coast of Queda, on the Malayan peninsula.

The wind came as expected. At first, by decreasing the sail, they attempted to keep to the wind, but the outriggers bent so fearfully that there was a fear of their breaking, in which case the canoe must have been overturned, and all on board have perished. They were, therefore, compelled, about one o'clock in the afternoon, to put right before the wind and sea. The wind continued increasing; the sea still swelled higher, and often broke, but striking the back of the helmsman, it was prevented from coming on board in sufficient quantities to endanger the vessel, but they were compelled to keep baling continually.

The evening of the 18th was very dismal: the sky looked black, being covered with dark clouds; the wind blew hard, and the seas ran high, roaring loudly, and covered with white foam. A dark night was coming on, no land in sight to cheer them, and the little bark in danger of being swallowed up by every wave; and what was worse than all, was, as Dampier confesses, none of them thought themselves prepared for another world. "I had been in many imminent dangers before now, but the worst of them all was but a plaything in comparison with this. Other dangers came not upon me with such a leisurely and dreadful solemnity. The sudden skirmish or engagement, also, was nothing when once blood was up, and pushed forward with eager expectations. But here I had a lingering view of approaching death, and little or no hopes of escaping it. My courage, which I had hitherto kept up, failed me. I made many sad reflections on my former life, and looked back with horror and detestation to actions which before I disliked, but now I trembled at the remembrance of. I had long before this repented me of that roving course of life, but never with such concern as now. I did also call to mind the many miraculous acts of God's providence towards me in the whole course of my life. For all these I returned thanks, and once more desired God's assistance, and composed my mind as well as I could in the hopes of it."

These hopes were not disappointed. He and Mr Hall taking it in turns to steer, while the rest hove out the water, they prepared, as Dampier writes, "to spend the most doleful night I ever was in. About ten o'clock it began to thunder, lighten, and rain; but the rain was very welcome to us, having drank up all the water we brought from the island."

At first the wind blew harder than ever. In half an hour it moderated, and by a lighted match they looked at their compass to see how they steered, and found their course to be still east, and thus they steered for several hours. For a short time they were able to haul up, but again had to put before the wind. During this period they were soaked through and through by the rain, which chilled them extremely. At eight o'clock on the morning of the 19th one of the Malays exclaimed that he saw land, and that it was Pulo Way, at the north-west end of Sumatra.

Trimming the smallest amount of sail they could venture to hoist, they steered with it, their outriggers doing them good service, for the wind pressed down the boat's side, and would have overturned her had it not been for them. As they approached the land, they saw that it was not Pulo Way they had at first observed, but the Golden Mountain in Sumatra, so-called by the English.

At ten o'clock it fell perfectly calm, and they took to their oars. In the morning they saw land about eight leagues off. With a fresh breeze, they steered for the river Jonca, about thirty-four leagues to the eastward of Achin. Entering it, the Malays, who were well acquainted with the people, carried them to a small fishing village, where they found accommodation in a hut.

The scorching heat of the sun at first starting, and subsequent cold and rain, threw the whole party into fevers. They were kindly treated by the inhabitants, who brought them abundance of provisions, and they were conveyed in a large proa to Achin. Here Dampier was placed under the charge of Mr Driscoll, a resident in the East Indian Company's factory. A few days afterwards the Portuguese, and subsequently Ambrose, died of the fever, and Mr Hall was so ill that it appeared unlikely he would recover, though Dampier, under the pretty severe treatment of a native doctor began to regain his strength. The effects of the fever hung about him until nearly a year afterwards.

He here made the acquaintance of Captain Bowery, who invited him to make a trip to the Nicobar Islands, but contrary winds compelled the ship to return.

Notwithstanding Captain Bowery's kind offers, Dampier accepted an invitation from a Captain Welden to sail to Tonquin. This voyage was performed, as well as another to Malacca. On his return from the last voyage, a little before Christmas, 1689, he met a Mr Morgan, one of the crew of the Cygnet. He had become mate of a Danish ship. From this man he learned the fate of many of his former companions. Some had taken service with the Great Mogul; others had joined the garrison at Fort George, having received a pardon for their piratical proceedings. The remainder of the crew, after committing various piracies, had entered into the service of one of the princes of Madagascar, in a harbour of which island their ship had sunk.

After making other trips, Dampier went to Fort Saint George, and from thence proceeded to Bencoulin, an English factory on the west coast, where he acted as gunner for five months. He had been persuaded to leave Madras by a Mr Moody, supercargo of a ship called the Mindanao Merchant, who had promised to buy a vessel and send him in command of her, to trade with the natives of the small island of Meangis. Mr Moody had in his possession a son of the King of the island, dubbed Prince Jeoly, who, with his mother, had been captured by the Malays, from whom Mr Moody had purchased them. Dampier's idea was that by treating them kindly he might be able to open up a commerce with the people, and establish a factory there. The prince was tattooed all down his breast and between his shoulders, as also on his thighs, while several broad rings or bracelets were marked round his arms and legs. The drawings did not represent figures or animals, but were full of lines, flourishes, chequered work, very skilfully and gracefully marked.

The poor young savage was thus known as the Painted Prince.

Mr Moody, being uncertain about fulfilling his engagement, as a recompense to Dampier, gave him a half share in the Painted Prince and his mother. Dampier took the utmost care of them; but, notwithstanding this, the unfortunate mother soon died, to the great grief of her son, who wrapped her up in all her clothes, as well as in two new pieces of chintz which Mr Moody had given her, and she was thus buried.

Growing weary of his life at Bencoulin, and pining to return home, being also anxious to carry out his project of making a voyage to Meangis, Dampier requested his discharge.

This was granted by the Governor and Council, and the Defence, Captain Heath, bound for England, coming into the roads, he agreed to ship on board her. Mr Moody had made over his share of the Painted Prince to Mr Goddard, her chief mate. When, however, Dampier was about to embark, the Governor, who was an ill-tempered, tyrannical man, refused to allow him to go. In vain he pleaded, and at last, having arranged with Mr Goddard to be received on board at night, leaving all his property, with the exception of his journals and a few other papers, he crept through one of the port-holes, and got into the boat which was waiting for him. He lay concealed until the last boat from the shore had left the ship, which then set sail for the Cape of Good Hope on the 25th of January, 1691.

Owing to the bad nature of the water, fever, which carried off many of the men and reduced others to the greatest state of weakness, broke out on board. To so helpless a condition was the crew reduced that they were unable to carry the ship into Cape Town Harbour, and would have had to keep at sea had not a Dutch captain sent a hundred men on board to take in her sails and bring her to an anchor. Here she remained some weeks, while the crew regained their strength. On the 23rd of May the Defence sailed from the Cape, and after touching at Saint Helena, without further mishap arrived in the Channel. Here, convoyed by some men-of-war, she got off Plymouth, and thence, parting with several ships which had kept her company, she ran into the Downs, where she anchored on the 16th of September, 1691.

Dampier, poor as he had been when he first joined the buccaneers, had to part with his share in the Painted Prince to obtain the means of reaching his home. The unfortunate Jeoly, after being carried about for some time to be shown as a sight, died of small-pox at Oxford.

From the time he left England in 1679, on board the Loyal Merchant, until his return in the Defence, upwards of twelve years had elapsed, during which period he had circumnavigated the globe, and visited more strange countries and gone through more hazardous adventures than almost any man who has ever lived, impelled undoubtedly by a roving disposition, but still more so by his ardent thirst to obtain a knowledge of natural history.

What became of his poor wife during this time, or how he supported himself on his return home, we are not told, except that he published the following year his "New Voyage Round the World," to which he afterwards added a supplement, entitled "Voyages and Discoveries." Possibly he obtained a good sum for these works, as from their excellence they soon brought the author into notice. Weary of wandering, he probably remained for some time on shore.



Chapter Twenty Three.

Dampier's Voyages, Continued -- A.D. 1699.

Dampier in command of the Roebuck -- Voyage to New Holland -- Visits the shore -- The first kangaroo seen -- Failure of attempt to catch a native --  The ship, refitted at Timor, sails for New Guinea -- Coasts along the shore -- Beautiful birds seen -- Intercourse with the natives-Provisions obtained -- A volcano seen -- A waterspout nears the ship -- Meets a Chinese vessel, and hears of the Dutch settlements -- Goes to Batavia -- Rotten state of the Roebuck -- Sails for England -- Founders off Ascension -- The crew landed -- Residence on the island -- Taken off by the Anglesey -- Sails for Barbadoes -- Dampier returns to England -- His services overlooked --  Sails in command of a squadron for the South Seas -- Rounds Cape Horn --  Fight with a French ship -- Clipperton runs off with the tender and his commander's commission -- Attempts to take the galleon -- Defeated -- Headed by Funnell, the crew mutiny, and part go off in a prize -- Puna plundered -- The Saint George destroyed -- Her guns and stores put on board a prize -- Sails for the East Indian Archipelago -- Taken by the Dutch, and imprisoned -- Escapes -- Reaches England -- Loss of credit -- Joins Captain Woodes Rogers as pilot on board the Duke -- She, with the Duchess, Captain Courtney, sails for the South Seas -- Come off Juan Fernandez -- Discover Alexander Selkirk, the original of "Robinson Crusoe" -- His residence on the island -- The sick landed -- The ships sail --  Prizes captured -- Guayaquil attacked and plundered -- The Manilla galleon captured -- Rich booty -- Prisoners well treated -- Another galleon attacked --  Privateers beaten off -- Sail by way of Guam for Java -- Sickness of crew --  The Marquis sold -- The ships return home -- Dampier falls into poverty --  Time and place of his death unknown.

The desire to discover new countries having revived among the English in the reign of William the Third, we next hear of Dampier in 1699, in command of the Roebuck, a king's ship fitted out for a voyage to examine the coasts of New Holland and New Guinea. She carried twelve guns and a crew of fifty men, with provisions for twenty months, but was old and crazy. She sailed from the Downs on the 14th of January, and after touching at the Cape de Verdes, shaped a course round the Cape of Good Hope. On the morning of the 2nd of August the mainland of New Holland was seen, but no anchorage being found, and bad weather coming on, she was obliged to stand off until the 5th, when she again stood in, and brought up in Shark's Bay. Among the animals Dampier saw on shore was one he describes as a sort of raccoon, differing from that of the West Indies chiefly as to the legs, for these have very short fore legs, but go jumping on the hind ones as the others do. This probably is the first description given of the small kangaroo of New Holland. He mentions different sorts of blossoming trees of several colours, but mostly blue, and smelling very sweet and fragrant. There were also beautiful and variegated flowers growing on the ground. The great want was for water, and for this a long search was made at different parts of the coast. At length a boat was sent ashore with an armed party carrying pickaxes and shovels. Three natives were seen, who retired; but when they observed the men beginning to dig, a large number collected, and with angry gestures ordered the strangers to begone.

At length, Dampier, accompanied by an active fellow, went forward to try and conciliate them; but still they kept aloof. Being anxious to capture one who might show them water, the commander allowed his companion to try and run one of them down. On being overtaken, they faced about, threatening their pursuer and Dampier with their spears. The former, though armed with a cutlass, was unable to keep them at bay, and Dampier, to save his life, was compelled to fire over their heads. The savages, seeing no harm was done, only uttered the words, "Pooh, pooh!" On this Dampier again fired, and one native fell, enabling the sailor to escape. Dampier on this turned back with his men, abandoning his attempt to capture a native, and being very sorry for what had happened. One only of the party, who appeared to be the chief, had his face painted with white pigment, to make him look more fierce.

In vain search was made for the huts of the natives. Some animals were seen resembling wolves, lean as skeletons, -- probably dingoes. At last some brackish water was found, and the Roebuck proceeded to Timor. Here the ship, being refitted and the crew refreshed, Dampier sailed on the 20th of December for the coast of New Guinea. It was made on the 1st of January, 1700, and appeared to be high, level land, covered with trees. The party who went on shore in the boats obtained fruits of unknown kinds, and a stately land fowl, about the size of a poultry-yard cock, sky-coloured with a white spot, surrounded by others of a reddish hue on the wings, and a huge bunch of feathers on the crown, was shot.

Beating up to the northward against currents and adverse winds, occasionally anchoring, an island named Sabuda was reached. Here they found a tribe closely resembling the natives of Mindanao, of a tawny skin. The voyagers also saw negroes having curly hair, like those who had at first obtained for the country the name of New Guinea. Still farther north, shell-fish of an enormous size were found. On the passage the ship touched upon a shoal, but got off without damage, and came to an anchor. Here cockles were procured weighing ten pounds, much smaller than some previously seen, the shell of which alone weighed seventy-eight pounds! Pigeons were obtained, and bats of enormous size were seen here. Rounding the northern end of the island, Dampier endeavoured to get to the eastward, but made slow progress. On the way the ship nearly ran on an island not laid down in the charts. To commemorate his escape, he named the place Providence Island.

Crossing the Line and passing Admiralty Islands, a mountainous land was approached, well wooded with large plantations, and cleared patches on the hill-sides. Numerous boats and proas came off, and as Dampier was anxious to establish an intercourse with the natives, he endeavoured to induce them to come alongside. They would not, however, venture near, but eagerly received some beads, knives, and other toys, floated to them in a bottle. They endeavoured to induce the Roebuck to come to an anchor, but this she was prevented doing by the current. When they saw her standing off, they approached, launching showers of stones after her from their slings. The crew had got ready their small arms, and a gun was fired, which either killed or wounded one of the savages. In consequence of this event, Dampier named the place Slinger's Bay.

On the 3rd of March an island, marked in the Dutch charts as Gerret Denijs, was reached, covered by lofty thickly-wooded mountains. On the sea-shore were numerous large cocoa-nut trees, and small huts were seen. The inhabitants were black, -- a strongly-limbed people with round heads, -- their hair curled, short, and dyed of different colours, red, white, and yellow. Although they had round faces, with broad bottle noses, yet their countenances would have been pleasant, had they not disfigured them by painting and wearing great rings through their noses as big as a man's thumb. They had also holes in their ears, in which they wore similar ornaments. Their canoes were ingeniously formed with outriggers on one side, the head and stern especially being adorned with carved work, of fowls, fish, or a human hand. They managed their paddles with great dexterity. Their weapons were lances, swords, and slings, and some had bows and arrows. As she proceeded northward the ship was followed by a canoe. To each of the natives in it Dampier gave a knife, a looking-glass, and a string of beads. He showed them pumpkins and cocoa-nuts, intimating that he wished to have some more of the same description. On this they produced three out of their boat. When shown nutmegs they intimated that they had such growing on their island. They also recognised gold-dust.

Another canoe afterwards came off, the natives appearing tractable and well disposed. Seeing a deep bay where the ship might ride at anchor safely, Dampier steered into it. When the ship was about five miles from the shore, six canoes came off, with about forty men in them. He made signs to them to go ashore, but they would not attend to him. He therefore sent a shot over their heads, when they pulled away as fast as they could. They had, however, no sooner got ashore, than others came off. One, a large, well-built boat, had forty men in her. Soon after another of smaller size made her appearance, with several others. As the ship lay becalmed, and it appeared probable that the savages intended to make an attack, the gunner was ordered to fire one of the guns loaded with round and small shot. The last dropped into the water short of them, but the round shot flew a hundred yards beyond them, between two of their canoes. This so frightened the natives, that they rowed away with all speed. A light breeze having sprung up, the ship neared the shore, when a vast number of people were seen peeping from behind the rocks on shore. Another gun was fired to scare them, as it was important to keep them at a distance while the boats were obtaining wood and water. The ship brought up at the mouth of a small river, up which it was hoped water might be procured. A boat was sent on shore, and on seeing her approach the natives came off and threw cocoa-nuts into her. While the pinnace remained here, the yawl was sent up to search for water, and soon returned with the casks full. Dampier afterwards sent ashore various articles, to purchase hogs, yams, and other roots; but the natives, although they admired axes and hatchets, would give only cocoa-nuts, and always made signs to their visitors to begone.

During another visit the natives showed more confidence. The men wore feathers in their heads, and had lances in their hands. The women had no ornaments, but wore bunches of green branches before and behind, on a string round their waists. They carried on their heads large baskets full of yams. During the next visit the people were more shy than at first. They had also carried off all the cocoa-nuts from the trees, and driven away the hogs. The sailors made signs to them, to know what had become of their hogs, when the natives, pointing to some houses at the bottom of the bay, intimated by the noises they made that there were hogs and goats up there, expressing by signs, such as holding out their hands at different distances from the ground, the animals they meant.

Wood was abundant; but though the natives fully understood the word cocoas, they did not bring any more. Dampier himself went on shore and visited some of their huts, which were poor buildings. The doors were made fast, as the inhabitants had fled. While he was thus employed, the men in the yawl filled two hogsheads and the barricoes, or breakers, with water. On his return on board, the officers and men requested leave to go and obtain the hogs; but he was unwilling to yield to their wishes, fearing that they would deal roughly with the natives. At last he consented, ordering them to act cautiously for their own safety, and to return at once should rain come on, to be exposed to which in that climate was considered dangerous. The great guns were got ready to cover them, should the natives appear hostile. As soon as the boat approached, the savages crowded to the shore, shaking their lances, some wading into the sea, holding up a shield in one hand and a lance in the other.

The sailors held up such commodities as were likely to attract them, but to no purpose, the natives still waved them off. The seamen at length, resolved to have some provisions, fired their muskets to scare them away. This had the desired effect, and all disappeared, with the exception of two or three, who still stood in a menacing posture. One, however, being shot in the arm, he dropped his target and ran off. None were seriously hurt, the object of the seamen being to frighten rather than injure the savages. They then landed, and found a number of tame hogs running about the house. Nine were shot, and with these, as it had begun to rain, they returned on board. In the evening, the rain having ceased, another party went on shore, when eight more hogs and a little live pig were captured. The natives by this time showed a disposition to be friendly, and brought down a number of cocoa-nuts, which they left on the shore.

These, with some nets and images, were brought off in a canoe. Next day the canoe was sent back with a couple of axes, two hatchets, some knives, looking-glasses, and other articles in her, thus amply repaying the natives for the provisions of which they had been deprived.

Sailing from the bay two days afterwards, a volcano was seen to the north-west sending forth a large pillar of fire, which shot up for two or three minutes, and then sank down until scarcely visible, then again rising and blazing as before. It was on an island, between which and the mainland, on the following day, the ship passed, there being a good channel between them.

All night the volcano vomited forth flame and smoke, and at every explosion a dreadful sound was heard like that of thunder. The intervals between these explosions were about half a minute. Some were faint in comparison to others, yet even the weakest vented a good deal of fire, and the largest made a roaring noise, and sent up a large flame thirty yards high, at the same time a stream of fire was seen running down the side of the mountain, reaching to the bottom.

The following day, as the ship had got to the other side, the stream of lava could no longer be perceived. Several other islands were seen and named. One was called Sir George Rooke's Island, another Crown Island, and a third Sir Robert Riche's Island.

On the 12th the sky looked very red, but soon after the sun was up there was a squall to windward, when on a sudden one of the men called out that he saw something astern. It was a waterspout beginning to work within a quarter of a mile of the ship in the wind's eye. She was at once put before the breeze. It came very swiftly, whirling the water up in a pillar about six or seven yards high. As yet no pendulous cloud from whence it might come could be seen. In about four or five minutes it came within a cable's length of the ship, when a long pale stream was observed descending from the clouds to the whirling water. Almost immediately afterwards the threatening column passed off to leeward.

After passing the island of Ceram about eight at night, a large vessel was seen on the weather side. As it was possible she might prove an enemy, the men went to their guns with matches lighted. The small arms were got upon the quarter-deck, and every preparation made for a fight; but as they were on opposite tacks, she was soon at a distance. The following morning, both vessels being becalmed, Dampier sent his yawl aboard the stranger, which proved to be a Chinese vessel, laden with rice, arrack, tea, porcelain, and other commodities, bound for Amboyna. The master gave the English a good deal of important information, and told them that the Dutch had settled at several places in the Eastern Archipelago.

The Roebuck was now steered for Batavia, as she required considerable repairs, having become foul and crazy, though it was not suspected in how rotten and ruinous a condition she was.

While here, Dampier heard that the Dutch had sent two vessels to capture him, supposing that he was a pirate.

The Roebuck sailed from Batavia on the 17th of October, and had a quick run across the Indian Ocean. On the 30th of December she reached the Cape of Good Hope, and from thence stood directly for Saint Helena, where she remained for some days. Just as she had made the island of Ascension, it was discovered that a dangerous leak had been sprung. The chain pumps were set going, but the water still gained on the crew. On the morning of the 23rd February, in the hopes of being able to stop the leak, the ship was steered in for the bay, and came to an anchor. Dampier devised a plan for stopping the leak; but either through the carelessness or ignorance of the carpenter, it was only made worse. Notwithstanding all his endeavours to check it, the water rushed in with such force that it was very evident the ship could not be kept afloat.

The boats were accordingly hoisted out, and the anchor being weighed, the vessel was warped in nearer the shore until she had only three fathoms and a half under her keel. A raft was now constructed to carry the men's chests and bedding ashore.

Before eight o'clock at night most of them had landed. In the morning the sails were unbent to make tents, and the next day a spring of fine water was found, and goats, land crabs, man-of-war birds, and boobies were seen; turtles in abundance could also be obtained, so that the ship's company had no fear of starving. Some lived in the tents, and others sheltered themselves in the holes of the rocks.

About a week after the crew landed two ships were seen, and Dampier ordered his men to turn a dozen turtles, should they send on shore; but they stood off the land.

He and his people resided on this island until the second of April, when eleven sail appeared to windward, but passed by. The day following three ships of war and an East Indiaman came into the bay and anchored.

Dampier, with about thirty-five of his men, went on board the Anglesey, while the rest were disposed of between the other two men-of-war. The Anglesey was bound for Barbadoes, where she arrived on the 8th of May, 1701. Dampier was extremely anxious, however, to get home to vindicate his character for the loss of his ship. In a short time he succeeded in obtaining a passage on board the Canterbury, East Indiaman, in which he at length reached England.

Although during his voyage he had made many important additions to geographical knowledge, he was much distressed at the loss of his ship and his papers; and, as the Earl of Pembroke no longer presided at the Admiralty, he obtained no reward for his services, nor promise of further employment. No one in authority seemed to consider that he had been sent to sea in a rotten old ship, unfit for the service, and that she had foundered not from any fault of his, but through sheer old age and decrepitude.

After the death of William the Third, followed by the War of the Spanish Succession, privateering was actively carried on. A company of merchants had fitted out two vessels, the Saint George and the Cinque Ports, to cruise against the Spaniards in the South Seas. The command of these vessels was given to Dampier, -- a proof of the estimation in which he was held. He hoisted his flag in the former, which earned twenty-six guns and one hundred and twenty men. The other was commanded by Captain Stradling, who acted throughout very independently of his superior. They sailed from the Downs in April, 1703, but were kept some time at Kinsale, into which port they had put. It was not until September that they finally got to sea. Their first object was to capture the flotilla which sailed from Buenos Ayres, or, should they fail in so doing, to go round Cape Horn and wait for the treasure-ships from Baldivia, and to seize the famed Manilla galleon.

The ill-disciplined crew soon quarrelled among themselves, but Dampier managed to keep them in subjection, until, rounding Cape Horn, they reached Juan Fernandez. Here they encountered a French cruiser, which they attacked; but after a seven hours' fight she got away, both parties having suffered considerable loss. They afterwards failed to reach the latitude intended before the treasure-ships had sailed from Baldivia.

Their next enterprise, which was to surprise the fleet in the Bay of Santa Maria, also failed, although Dampier captured a few small vessels sailing thence. At Nocoya John Clipperton, Dampier's chief mate, ran off with the tender, carrying away his captain's commission, as well as most of the ammunition and stores.

The Saint George now sailed for the northward, and, to the great joy of the crew, espied the Manilla galleon. She was attacked, but the guns of the Saint George, carrying only five-pound shot, could do nothing against the twenty-four-pounders of the galleon, and, much shattered, she was compelled to haul off. The crew, now more than ever discontented at this misfortune, rose in mutiny; and Funnell, who was Dampier's steward, putting himself at their head, was allowed to take one of the prizes, -- a brigantine of seventy guns and thirty-four men, --  with a portion of the stores, guns, and ammunition, to sail for India.

Dampier had now but twenty-five men left, but, notwithstanding this, after refitting his vessel, he attacked and plundered the town of Puna. After this it was found that the Saint George was so unsound and rotten as to be unfit to keep at sea. He accordingly shipped her guns, ammunition, and stores into a brigantine which he had taken, and abandoned her. In his new vessel he sailed for the Indian Archipelago, where, not having his commission to show, he was seized by the Dutch and thrown into prison. At last, however, he obtained his freedom, and returned home poorer than when he set out; while the owners of the Saint George, who had gained nothing by the adventure, bitterly complained of her loss.

Dampier had now no longer sufficient interest to obtain the command of a ship; but another privateering expedition being set on foot by some Bristol merchants, who equipped two ships, the Duke and Duchess, he agreed to go as pilot.

The command was given to Captain Woodes Rogers, with whom Dampier sailed on board the Duke, of three hundred tons, thirty guns, and one hundred and seventy men. Captain Dover was her second captain, and she had three lieutenants. The Duchess was commanded by Captain Courtney, a gentleman of fortune, who had provided a large portion of the funds for the expedition. Mr Edward Cook went as her second captain, with three lieutenants. She was two hundred and seventy tons burden, and carried twenty-six guns, and one hundred and fifty-one men. Both ships had legal commissions from H.R.H. Prince George of Denmark, Lord High Admiral, to cruise on the coast of Peru and Mexico, in the South Seas, against Her Majesty's enemies, the French and Spaniards. The crews were of a mixed character and very undisciplined. One-third were foreigners of most nations, while of her Majesty's subjects there were tinkers, tailors, haymakers, pedlars, fiddlers, one negro, and about ten boys. It was hoped, notwithstanding, that as soon as they had learned the use of their arms and got their sea legs, they would be brought under discipline.

Showing a mutinous disposition, before long many of the crew had to be put in irons, and the rest taking warning, without any misadventure, both ships got round Cape Horn, and steered for the island of Juan Fernandez. Here it was their intention to obtain water. On coming off it at night they observed a fire on shore, which caused them much anxiety, as it was supposed that these were French ships there, which they must either engage or go without the water they so much needed. Some supposed that the fire was lighted by a Spanish garrison, others by a body of Frenchmen, or a crew of pirates. Both the ships were got ready to engage should it become necessary.

On beating up to the island in the morning, no strange ships were seen in either of the bays into which they could look. The voyagers accordingly came to the conclusion that if any ships had been there, they had made their escape during the night on seeing the approach of the English. Boats were sent on shore, and after some time the pinnace returned, bringing an abundance of crayfish, and a wild-looking man dressed in goat-skins.

Who this stranger was it soon became known. It will be remembered in the previous voyage made by Dampier, about four years before, that the Cinque Ports, commanded by Captain Stradling, separated from him. The master of this vessel was Alexander Selkirk, a Scotchman, born at Largs, in the county of Fife, who had been bred a sailor from his youth. He was considered by Dampier as the most experienced and best man on board. Having had a dispute with Captain Stradling, and considering from the leaky state of the Cinque Ports that she might never reach England, he had desired to be put on shore at this island of Juan Fernandez, with which he was well acquainted, having been there before to obtain wood and water.

After some reflection he changed his mind, and requested to be taken off again; but to this Captain Stradling would not consent, and the Cinque Ports sailing away, he was left to his fate.

No sooner did he come up the side than he was recognised by Captain Dampier, who was heartily glad to see him, and strongly recommended him to Captain Rogers, who at once gave him the rank of mate on board. He it was who had made the fire on shore the previous night on seeing the approach of the ships which he guessed were English.

During the four years he had been on the island he had not conversed with a single human being. On his first coming on board the Duke, he had so greatly forgotten his language that it was difficult to understand him, for he seemed to speak his words by halves. He was offered a dram, but would not touch it, having drunk nothing but water since his being left there. It was some time, indeed, before he could even relish the ship's provisions.

He had, during his stay, seen several vessels pass by, but only two came to an anchor. As he cautiously approached to discover their nationality, he found them to be Spaniards, and immediately retired; but having been seen, he was pursued, and had great difficulty in escaping from them. They followed him into the woods, where he climbed to the top of a tree close to the foot of which they passed in chase of some goats, which they shot, but failed to discover him.

When landed, he had with him his clothes and bedding, with a gun, some powder, bullets, and a hatchet, a knife, a kettle, and his Bible, besides some mathematical instruments and books. For the first eight months he had great difficulty in bearing up against the melancholy feelings which oppressed him at being left alone in so desert a place. He occupied himself, however, in building two huts with pimento-trees, which he covered with long grass, and lined with the skins of goats he had killed with his gun. He had, however, but a pound of powder, and when that was nearly expended he produced fire by rubbing two sticks of pimento-tree on his knee. The lesser hut served him as kitchen, and in the larger he slept and employed himself in reading, singing psalms, and praying; so that, as he remarked, he was a better Christian while in this solitude than he had ever been before.

At first he never ate until hungry, partly because his grief took away his appetite, and partly because he had neither bread nor salt. He also never went to bed until he could watch no longer. From the pimento wood he manufactured torches, which served him as a light at night, while he enjoyed its fragrant smell. He might have caught fish, but he could not eat them for want of salt, as they disagreed with him, except crayfish, which were as large as English lobsters, and very good. These he sometimes boiled, at others broiled, as he did his goat's flesh, with which he made very good broth.

He kept an account of five hundred goats which he had killed, and of as many more which he caught, and, having marked them on the ear, let go. When his powder failed, he caught the animals, nimble as they were, by chasing them, and from constant practice he ran with wonderful swiftness through the woods and up the rocks and hills. On one occasion, while thus engaged, he nearly lost his life by falling over a precipice. When he came to his senses, he found the goat dead under him. He there lay for twenty-four hours, and was then scarcely able to crawl to his hut, which was about a mile off. On reaching it he did not move again for ten days. He at last got accustomed to eat his meat without bread or salt. During the season he had plenty of good turnips, which had been sown by Captain Dampier's crew, and now covered several acres of ground. Cabbage-trees also afforded him good cabbage. He seasoned his food with the fruit of the pimento-trees, which is similar to Jamaica pepper. He also found black pepper, which had some useful medicinal qualities. On wearing out his shoes, not thinking it necessary to manufacture fresh ones, he went barefooted, and thus his feet became so hard that he could run over the roughest ground without suffering. When he first took to wearing them on board his feet swelled and caused him considerable uneasiness. He employed part of his time in cutting his name on trees, with the date of his landing, and other particulars. At first he was greatly annoyed by cats and rats, which had been landed from some ships touching there, and had now greatly increased. The rats gnawed his feet and clothes while he was asleep, so he bethought himself of encouraging the cats by giving them the goats' flesh. By this means so many of them became tame that they would assemble round him in hundreds, and kept the rats at bay. He likewise tamed some kids, and, to amuse himself, would now and then dance and sing with them and his cats.

When his clothes wore out, he made himself a coat and cap of goat-skins, which he stitched together with thongs of the same material. A nail served him for a needle. When, in time, his knife wore out from constant grinding, he made others of some iron hoops which had been left on shore. Finding in his chest some linen cloth, he manufactured some shirts, using a nail as a needle, and employing the worsted of an old stocking to stitch them, and he had his last shirt on when discovered. Had the vessels he had seen been Frenchmen he would have gone among them, but he preferred the risk of dying on the island to falling into the hands of Spaniards, who would, he believed, have murdered him, or made him a slave in the mines, as they were supposed to treat all the strangers they could get hold of.

He described the climate as genial, the winter lasting only during June and July, when there was but little frost, though occasionally heavy rains. He saw no venomous or savage creature on the island, the only beasts, besides rats and cats, being goats, the ancestors of which had been left there by Juan Fernandez, the discoverer. Besides the pimento-trees, some of which were sixty feet high, and some large cotton-trees, the only trees of value were some bearing black plums, which, however, growing among the mountains and rocks, were difficult to get at. The trees and grass were verdant all the year round, and it was evident that the soil was fertile in the extreme.

Alexander Selkirk was the true original of Defoe's "Robinson Crusoe." He afterwards entered the Royal Navy as a lieutenant, but obtained no higher rank.

Many of the men who had been suffering from scurvy were here landed and sheltered in tents, and by means of two or three goats which Selkirk caught for them each day, and the vegetables with which they were supplied, they soon recovered.

Sailing from Juan Fernandez, a look-out was kept for Spanish vessels. Quarrels and disputes arose among the officers, but they were settled by the judicious management of the captain, and by the sensible regulations laid down for their government.

On the ist of April they took a vessel of five hundred tons, laden with dry goods and negroes, commanded by two brothers, Joseph and John Morel. Many others were taken, differing in value. From these they gained useful information as to the condition of the various places on the coast. Their first exploit was an attack on the town of Guayaquil, when Dampier commanded the artillery. Though the Spaniards were prepared, it was captured without much loss of life, the soldiers, notwithstanding that they numbered many more than the English, having fled into the woods at the approach of the invaders. The vessels getting up the river, the guns were brought to bear on the town, by which the privateers had it completely in their power, when, having taken possession instead of burning it down, they offered to ransom it for twenty-seven thousand dollars, besides the plunder they picked up, which amounted to the value of about two thousand pounds. These terms were agreed to, and the money paid to them. They likewise sold the goods taken on board their various prizes to the Morels and the other Spaniards, though at a quarter of their value. But this was better than destroying the merchandise which they could not carry off. Sailing northward, the Duke and Duchess, with one of the prizes which they had fitted out as a ship of war, attacked a Manilla galleon with number of merchants and several ladies on board. She carried twenty guns, twenty pattereroes, and one hundred and ninety-three men. After an engagement which lasted about three glases, she struck her colours, having nine men killed, ten wounded, and several blown up with powder. Captain Rogers was himself badly wounded in the face, and one man was slightly wounded. The prize was called by the high-sounding name of Nuestra Senora de la Incarnation Disenganio. Though not so richly-laden as they had expected, the silks, satin, and china not having arrived at Manilla before she sailed, she still contained in gold and silver to the value of twelve thousand pounds, besides other articles of commerce. She was carried into Porto Seguro, where the more valuable part of her cargo was transferred to the privateers. Her passengers, especially the ladies, were so well treated, that they warmly expressed their gratitude. Indeed, both on this occasion and at Guayaquil, the females who fell into the power of the privateers experienced no injury.

From the prisoners they learned that another larger and far more richly-laden galleon was coming from Manilla, but it was stated that she had already reached her destination. This, however, Captain Rogers did not believe. Leaving a guard in charge of the prisoners on board a prize in the harbour, the Duke and Duchess, with another vessel called the Marquis, which had been fitted out, put to sea, to watch for the Manilla ship. Before long a stranger was seen approaching, and the other vessels being at a distance, she mistook the Duke for her consort, the galleon lately captured, and allowed Captain Rogers to get up to her.

He attacked her gallantly, but she was heavily armed and strongly manned, and, before he could venture to run alongside, had triced up her boarding nettings.

The Duchess and Marquis soon came up and joined the fight, but after engaging her for seven hours and making with their small shot but little impression on her thick hull, the captain agreed that it would be folly to run the risk of losing their masts, and therefore, hanging on to her until dark, so as to prevent her entering Porto Seguro, they edged away, and allowed her to escape without further molestation. She proved to be the Vigonia, of about nine hundred tons, carrying forty heavy guns and as many pattereroes, with a crew of about four hundred and fifty men.

Captain Rogers was here again wounded. The crew of the galleon were well protected by bales placed between the guns. How many men she lost it was impossible to ascertain, but two were seen to drop from the tops.

On the 10th of January the three ships sailed from Porto Seguro, and steered for the island of Guam, where they arrived on the 10th of March. They anchored under Spanish colours, but on making themselves known were well received by the Governor, who treated them with perfect confidence and supplied them with provisions, they in return entertaining him and his officers on board, while the English were courteously received on shore. Thence they sailed by the north of Gilolo, stopping at Bouton to take in provisions and water, till they reached Batavia. Here the surgeon and several other persons died of fever, contracted on shore. The Marquis was found to be so rotten that her goods were transferred to the other two vessels, and she was sold.

At the end of October they left Java, and putting into the Cape, waited there for the homeward-bound fleet, in company with which -- twenty-five sail in all, Dutch and English -- after passing round to the north of Shetland, they anchored in the Texel in July of the following year.

Here they had to wait for some time for a convoy, but at length, on the 14th of October, the two ships came to an anchor off Erith, thus ending their long and perilous voyage.

Their skilful and talented pilot probably landed here, but from that day forward nothing of his history is known. Owing to the falsehoods and misstatements published by Clipperton and Funnell, his character has been much maligned. He, too, probably died in poverty, as he was already advanced in life on his return from his last voyage; and the prize money obtained was not distributed until eight or nine years afterwards.

He bitterly repented of his early life among the buccaneers; even when with them his conduct was always humane; and he was induced to remain in their company more for the sake of adventure than for obtaining booty. He at all events escaped from that hardness of moral feeling which is too generally the consequence of associating with abandoned companions.

Few voyagers have added so much to our knowledge of distant parts of the world, and the accuracy of his remarks has been acknowledged by all those who have visited the countries he describes.

His conduct must not be judged by the opinions of the present day, when even privateering is looked down upon and condemned by all right thinking men. Whatever his countrymen may have thought of him, foreign voyagers speak of him in the highest terms. Humboldt says that no navigator could be compared to him. Malte-Bran terms him the learned Dampier, and French and Dutch discoverers style him the incomparable, the eminent, the skilful, the exact Dampier.



Chapter Twenty Four.

Anson's Voyage To The South Sea -- A.D. 1740.

War with Spain -- Original plan of expedition abandoned -- The Centurion and other ships ordered to form a squadron under Commodore Anson --  Miserable equipment -- Ships overladen -- Drop down Channel -- Cross Atlantic, and pass through the Straits of Le Maire -- Bad weather comes on -- Two of the ships nearly wrecked -- Severn and Pearl lost sight of -- Centurion in fearful danger -- Scurvy breaks out, and numbers die --  Anchors at Juan Fernandez -- The sick landed -- The Trial joins her -- Goats found marked by Alexander Selkirk -- The Gloucester comes off the island -- Long time in getting in -- The Anna Pink appears -- The Centurion goes in chase of a stranger -- Takes a prize -- Crew and stores of the Anna Pink transferred to Centurion -- The Trial takes a prize, and crew and stores being removed into the prize, she is destroyed -- Females taken on board a prize courteously treated -- Paita attacked and captured -- The seamen dress up in the Spaniards' clothes --  Booty taken -- The town burnt -- Spaniards acknowledge Anson's generous treatment of his female prisoners -- The squadron lays in wait for the Manilla galleon -- Negroes enter on board as seamen -- Miss the galleon --  Preparations for crossing the Pacific -- Prizes turned adrift -- The Gloucester abandoned -- Her crew taken on board Centurion -- Scurvy again breaks out -- Fearful mortality -- The Ladrones sighted -- Centurion brings up off Tinian -- Sick landed -- She is driven out to sea -- Great anxiety -- A vessel commenced -- The ship appears -- Reaches Macao -- Repaired --  Fresh men shipped -- Sails to watch for the galleon -- Her capture -- The Centurion on fire -- Anson's coolness -- Sails with his prize for Canton --  Roguery of the Chinese -- Anson and his men extinguish a fire at Canton --  Sails for England -- Hears of the war with France -- Narrow escape from a French fleet.

War with Spain having been declared towards the end of 1739, it was proposed to fit out two squadrons, one under the command of Captain Cornwall, to sail round the Cape of Good Hope and attack Manilla, and the other under Captain Anson, then commanding the Centurion, to sail into the Pacific, round Cape Horn, to injure the settlements of the Spaniards on the west coast of South America, and to destroy their trade. The two squadrons were afterwards to meet to carry out together whatever might be deemed advisable. The first part of the scheme was soon abandoned, and Commodore Anson's squadron alone was ordered to proceed into the South Sea.

Captain Anson's family was little known. He was not supposed to possess even brilliant talents, for "he was," as Earl Stanhope writes of him, "dull in conversation and slow in business, but he had undaunted bravery, steady application, and cool judgment. He punctually followed his instructions and zealously discharged his duty, and by these qualities -- qualities within the attainment of all -- he rose to well-earned honours, and bequeathed an unsullied renown. He thus deserves to be held forth to British seamen as an example of what may be accomplished by industry, courage, and love of their profession."

The squadron consisted of the Centurion, of sixty guns and four hundred men, on board of which the commodore flew his broad pennant; the Gloucester and Severn, each of fifty guns; the Pearl, of forty; the Wager, of twenty-eight; and the Trial sloop, of eight guns. There were also two victuallers to carry provisions, to be taken on board the squadron when there was room to receive them.

Besides the seamen, there were four hundred and seventy invalids and marines. Five hundred of the former unfortunates, notwithstanding that the commodore strongly protested against such unsuitable men being sent, were ordered to embark, many of them out-pensioners from Chelsea, but two hundred and forty who had sufficient strength to get away escaped, their places being supplied by two hundred and ten marines -- raw, undrilled recruits, who had not yet been allowed to use firearms. They were placed under the command of Lieutenant-Colonel Crackerode. Many of the poor worn-out old pensioners shed tears as they marched on board, feeling their utter unfitness for the duty they were called upon to perform. Indeed, out of the whole number, not a single man returned. The squadron, after many delays, sailed from Saint Helen's on the 16th of September, 1740. Having touched at Madeira, they anchored on the 18th of December off the island of Santa Catalina, on the coast of Brazil.

On touching at Madeira, Commodore Anson learned from the Governor that a squadron of Spanish ships, commanded by Don Josef Pizarro, had been sent out to attack them. This expedition, however, met with a lamentable fate.

Anson's crews suffered greatly from the ships being so deeply laden that the ports could not be opened to admit air. As soon as they arrived at Santa Catalina, the tents were erected on the shore, and the sick men sent into them. The ships were also repaired, some of the guns sent down below, and the stores taken on board.

In about a month the squadron again sailed. Having put into Fort Saint Julian to obtain salt and fresh water, a council of war was held, when the commodore proposed to the captains under him that they should attack the town of Baldivia, the most southern place on the coast of Chili. On the 1st of March, Cape Virgin Mary was sighted, at the entrance to the Straits of Magellan. The weather at that time was beautiful, but it was remarked in those southern latitudes that fair weather was always of short duration, and was a certain presage of a succeeding storm. On the 7th of March they were passing along the coast of Staten Island, which surpasses all others in the wildness and horrors of its appearance. It seems to be composed entirely of rocks, terminating in a vast number of rugged points, which tower up to a prodigious height, all covered with everlasting snow, while the points themselves are surrounded with frightful precipices. The hills appear as if rent by earthquakes, with nearly perpendicular chasms dividing them, reaching almost to their very bottoms, so that nothing can be imagined more savage and gloomy than the whole aspect of this coast.

Favoured by a strong current and brisk breeze, the squadron passed through the Straits of Le Maire in about two hours, and the voyagers flattered themselves that the chief difficulty of their undertaking was over, their hopeful ideas being heightened by the brightness of the sky and the serenity of the weather. Scarcely, however, were they through the straits than the wind began to blow in violent squalls, while the tide rapidly drove the ships to the eastward. It was with the greatest difficulty that the Wager and Anna Pink escaped being dashed to pieces against the shores of Staten Island. The sea rose into mountainous billows, and the ship rolling gunwale to, threatened to dash the men to pieces against the decks or sides, several, indeed, being killed and others greatly injured.

After some time the gale subsided, but on the 23rd again broke out with redoubled violence, the mainsail of the Centurion being split to rags. Storm succeeded storm. For a long time the squadron endeavoured to beat against the easterly gales, during which the Severn and Pearl were separated from them and never more seen. To add a finishing-stroke to their misfortunes, the scurvy broke out among the storm-tossed crew. At first it began to carry off two or three a day, but at last eight or ten died in twenty-four hours.

Most of the survivors were suffering from the same distemper, and the few who preserved their health were quite worn out with incessant labour. Sometimes four or five dead bodies, some sewn up in their hammocks, others not, were to be seen washing about the decks for want of help to bury them in the sea. Notwithstanding this, the Gloucester was the only ship which suffered much, by carrying away her mainyard; but on the 7th of April several guns were heard to leeward, and it was soon seen that the Wager had lost her mizenmast and main-topsail yard, while the Anna Pink had had her bowsprit so injured that there was a risk of her losing her fore-topmast. By this time the weather had moderated, and assistance was sent to the disabled ships.

On the 8th of May the island of Soccoro was sighted off the coast of Patagonia, a barren and inhospitable region, the shore being lined with rocks, above which the snow-covered Andes could be seen in the distance. By this time scurvy had destroyed no less than two hundred men. In vain the Centurion cruised for the missing ships, and at last stood for the island of Juan Fernandez; but it was passed during thick weather, and it was not until the 9th of June that it was at length discovered. While the Centurion was endeavouring to find the right bay in which to anchor, the current set her so close to the shore that she was compelled to bring up. In the morning a lieutenant with a boat's crew was sent to try and discover the proper anchorage. He returned with some seals and grass, which was eagerly devoured by the men suffering from scurvy. So weak were all the crew that it was with great difficulty that the anchor could be weighed, nor indeed was it tripped until assisted by a strong breeze. They here found the Trial sloop. Her commander came on board and stated that out of his small crew he had buried thirty-four men, and that those who remained were so weak, that only himself, his lieutenant, and three of his men were able to handle the sails.

Tents having been erected, the healthy men were employed in carrying the sick on shore. It was hoped that they would at once be restored to health; but for the first ten or twelve days rarely less than six were buried each day, and it was not until they had been twenty days on shore that the survivors began to recover.

Anson, who had brought a number of seeds and fruit-stones, at once had them planted for the benefit of those who might afterwards visit the spot. Anson's people found the island still abounding with goats, and among the first killed was one which had its ears slit, by which they concluded that it was one of those which Alexander Selkirk had captured no less than thirty-two years before their arrival. It was indeed an animal of majestic appearance, dignified with a venerable beard and many other signs of antiquity.

Several others, also marked, were met with, they all having long beards and other characteristics of extreme age. The goats had no longer the island to themselves; for dogs had been landed which had increased so greatly that they disputed the territory with the former occupants, hunting together in packs. A curious spectacle was witnessed when one of these packs made chase after a herd of goats which escaped to the mountains. Here the active animals took refuge on a ridge which was accessible only by a narrow path, skirted on each side with precipices. On the top of the path a long-bearded he-goat posted himself fronting the enemy. The dogs, which had pursued eagerly, got up to about twenty yards from him, when, seeing his determined attitude, they dared approach no nearer, and laid themselves down, panting, well knowing that he would hurl them down the precipice, should they venture to attack him. The dogs, it was suspected, lived entirely on seals' flesh, for several which were killed and eaten had a fishy taste. As the goats, taking refuge in the more inaccessible parts of the country, could with difficulty be killed, the crews subsisted on the flesh of the young seals, which they called veal, and on that of the sea-lions, which was denominated beef. Large numbers of fish were also caught with lines.

The Trial sloop having so quickly joined the Centurion, it was hoped that the rest of the squadron would appear; but a fortnight passed, and none being seen, the worst was feared as to their fate. On the 21st of June, however, a ship was perceived to leeward of the island, but she disappeared. It was not until the 26th that a sail was again seen; it was found to be the Gloucester, and a boat was immediately sent off laden with fresh water, fish, and vegetables. This seasonable supply saved the lives of the survivors on board her. She had already thrown overboard two-thirds of her complement. Excepting the officers and their servants, scarcely any were capable of doing duty. Every one of the pensioners had died, and most of the marines. For many weeks afterwards, however, though several of the Centurion's crew were sent to her assistance with further refreshments, she was unable to beat up to the anchorage. It was not until the 23rd of July that she at length got into the bay. Her crew were now reduced to less than eighty men. The sick, on being landed and well supplied with fresh provisions, recovered sooner than was expected. Great anxiety was now felt on account of the non-appearance of the Anna Pink, laden with provisions, as the flour on board the other ships was almost exhausted. At last, about the middle of August, she came in, having spent the greater part of the intermediate period in harbour on the coast of Patagonia, where the wild animals, killed by the crew, supplied them with abundance of meat. None of her men had died.

The Anna Pink was now broken up and her stores transferred to the Centurion, which stood in great need of them, as it had been with much difficulty that a fresh suit of sails had been made out of the canvas remaining on board; it had been even necessary to unlay a cable to obtain sufficient ropes for her rigging.

It was now computed that of the nine hundred and sixty-one men who had left England in the Centurion, Gloucester, and Trial, six hundred and twenty-six were dead, three hundred and thirty-five thus alone remaining to man the three ships.

Brave as Anson was, he could not but dread lest he should, with his diminished crews, fall in with Don Pizarro's squadron, not aware at the time of its fate, which had been even worse than his own.

A vessel being seen in the north-east, which, having got near the island, steered away towards the coast, it was concluded that she was Spanish. On this Anson resolved to give her chase, and his crew, hurrying on board the Centurion, bent sails, and by five in the afternoon was under weigh.

For three days the chase was continued, when the stranger made her escape. On steering back towards Juan Fernandez, the Centurion, however, made out another sail, which at first bore down upon her. Supposing that she was one of Pizarro's squadron, every preparation was made for an engagement. On getting nearer, however, it was discovered that she was a merchantman, and four shots quickly brought her to. She was found to be laden with sugar and blue cloth, with a few other articles. Besides this there were several trunks containing silver, the value of which amounted to seventy thousand pounds. Beside the treasure obtained, Anson had the satisfaction of hearing of the destruction of Pizarro's squadron, and that there was no chance of being molested by any men-of-war. By means of intercepted letters and the information obtained from the prisoners, it was found that several other richly-laden vessels were likely soon to sail from Callao to Valparaiso. To obtain the best chance of capturing them, Anson ordered his ships to cruise separately, the Gloucester being directed to take up her station off Paita, out of sight of land. On the 19th of September the Centurion, accompanied by the Carmelo, her prize, put to sea. Four days afterwards two ships were seen, one of which, a powerful vessel, stood towards them. The crew of the Centurion went to their quarters, but as the stranger could not escape, they were ordered not to fire. Being hailed in Spanish, an answer came from Mr Hughes, a lieutenant of the Trial, who gave them the welcome intelligence that she was a prize to that ship, having been captured after a long chase. She measured six hundred tons, being one of the largest merchantmen employed in those seas, and had on board five thousand pounds sterling. The Trial had, however, sprung all her masts, but, bad weather coming on, no assistance could for some time be rendered her. When at length the weather moderated, her commander came on board, and representing her leaky and unseaworthy state, requested that he and his crew might be transferred to the ship which he had just taken, which was now called the Trial's Prize. To this the commander agreed, and the guns, stores, and everything of value were removed on board the prize. Having returned to Juan Fernandez, the Centurion again put to sea, and shortly afterwards captured another prize, but of no great value. She had three ladies on board, a mother and two daughters, who were in a dreadful fright on seeing the English, but the honourable treatment they received from Anson and his officers soon quieted their fears.

Another prize was in a short time taken, from which information was received that there was a considerable amount of treasure in the custom-house at Paita, ready to be shipped on board a fast sailing-ship then in port. To prevent this the commodore resolved at once to attack the place, which was of no strength, and contained, it was supposed, but a small garrison. The ships standing in during the night, four boats were dispatched, carrying fifty-eight men, under the command of Lieutenant Brett. The Spanish pilots taken in the prizes were warned that if they proved treacherous they would be shot, and the rest of the prisoners carried off to England.

Lieutenant Brett reached the mouth of the bay without being discovered, but no sooner did he enter it than some of the people on board a vessel riding at anchor perceived them, and instantly put off in their boat, rowing towards the fort, shouting out, "The English! the English dogs!" by which the whole fort was alarmed.

Several lights being seen, Lieutenant Brett hurried forward his men, to give the enemy as little time as possible to prepare for their defence. Before a boat could reach the shore, a shot was fired from the fort, passing very near one of them. This made their crews redouble their efforts, and, before another gun was fired, leaping on shore, they were conducted by a Spanish pilot through a narrow street into a large square. As they marched along with tolerable regularity, the shouts and cheers of the sailors, so long confined on shipboard, who now, for the first time, found themselves in an enemy's country, with the prospect of immense pillage, joined with the noise of their drums, made the Spaniards suppose that they were a numerous party. The invaders were received by a volley from the merchants holding the treasure, who had arranged themselves in a gallery running round the custom-house. One of the seamen was killed and two wounded, but the house being surrounded, and the fire being briskly returned, the defenders disappeared, and the English obtained quiet possession.

Lieutenant Brett now divided his men into two parties, ordering one to surround the Governor's house, to secure him if possible, while he himself, with the other party, marched to the fort. The latter was at once entered, the garrison having escaped over the walls. The Governor also had got away, habited in but scanty garments, leaving a young wife much in the same condition, but who was afterwards carried off by two sentinels. The escape of the Governor greatly vexed Lieutenant Brett, as he had hoped by capturing him to treat for the ransom of the place. The few inhabitants who remained were shut up under a guard in one of the churches, except some negroes, who were employed in carrying the treasure from the custom-house and other places to the fort, escorted by a file of musketeers.

Although orders had been issued that there should be no pillage, the sailors could not be prevented from entering the houses, and as the Spaniards had left behind them their clothing, mostly embroidered or laced, the seamen put them on over their dirty trousers and jackets, some adding a bagwig or a laced hat to their costume. When this practice was once begun there was no preventing the whole detachment from imitating it.

Those who came latest, not finding men's clothing, equipped themselves with women's gowns and petticoats, so that when they appeared before their commander he was not immediately satisfied that they were his own people. Meantime, while the British crews were employed in carrying off the treasure, two hundred horsemen were seen collecting outside the town, besides other troops, but the commodore having got the Centurion close in, felt very sure that they would not venture to attack his people on shore. Reports were, however, brought off on the second day that the number of the enemy being greatly augmented, they intended to storm the place, led by one Gordon, a Scotch papist and captain of a ship in those seas.

Notwithstanding this the crews continued their work of spoliation, and the next day a reinforcement was sent on shore, so that the Spaniards dared not attempt to carry out their plan.

On the third day, the 15th of November, besides the treasure, the more valuable part of the effects found in the town, consisting of rich brocades, bales of fine linens, etcetera, cases of brandy and wine, hogs, sheep, fowls, and other provisions, were brought off. The prisoners were then landed, and placed in one of the churches at a distance from the town. Lastly the place itself was set on fire in all directions, and burned to the ground.

As Lieutenant Brett and his men were about to embark, the Spaniards, seeing them on the open beach, made a feint of attacking them, but halted, as it was expected they would do, when they came near. The boats were about to shove off when it was found that one of their number, a Dutchman, was missing. Just then they heard his voice shouting, but the smoke was so thick that he could not be seen. Presently he came rushing into the water, and was lifted on board half dead from fright. It appeared that having taken too much brandy he had fallen asleep, when on awakening, seeing some Spaniards approaching, and finding himself surrounded by smoke, he started up, and dashing through the flames, fortunately directed his course towards the beach.

This affair at Paita, though well executed, inflicted a cruel injury, not on the Spanish Government so much as on an unoffending and industrious community, and Anson has justly been blamed for the act.

Having scuttled and sunk all the vessels found in the harbour, with the exception of five, which were fitted out as men-of-war, he sailed away from the place with his booty, the value of which amounted to upwards of thirty thousand pounds.

Notwithstanding the severe loss they had suffered, the prisoners expressed their gratitude to the commodore for the considerate way they had been treated. An ecclesiastic of some distinction especially was most warm in his expressions of thankfulness for the civilities he and his countrymen had received. He could never forget the way the men had been treated, but he said that the commodore's behaviour to the women was so extraordinary and so extremely honourable that he doubted whether all the regard to his ecclesiastical character would be sufficient to render it credible.

Having rejoined the Gloucester, which had taken only two small vessels, Anson steered for the southern part of California, there to watch for a Spanish galleon annually dispatched with treasure from the port of Acapulco to Manilla. On arriving at their destination, after cruising for some time, during the night a light was seen, when they were about twenty-five leagues from the shore. Chase was immediately made, it being supposed it was the galleon's light. Great was their disappointment when morning broke to discover that it was underwood or stubble burning on the side of a lofty mountain, which, seen at the immense distance at which it was discovered, appeared no larger than an ordinary ship's light. On arriving in the neighbourhood of Acapulco, a boat was sent into the harbour at night to ascertain the state of its defences. Three negroes were captured on board a fishing canoe, and were taken to the commodore. They gave the information that means had been energetically taken to defend the place, and that a garrison had been stationed on an island at the entrance.

Anson therefore resolved not to attack it, but to devote all his means to capturing the Manilla galleon as soon as she should come out of port. For this purpose he stationed his squadron of six ships over a long distance, but sufficiently near to each other to keep up communication. Besides these, two boats were sent in every night to watch the entrance of the harbour.

A good many negroes had been taken at different times, and these were promised their freedom if they would enter on board as seamen and be trained to the management of the guns. It was supposed that the galleon would sail on the 3rd of March from Acapulco, and every one was looking out for her; but the days went by and she did not appear. At last it was necessary to obtain water, and Anson steered for the harbour of Chequetan, about thirty leagues from Acapulco. He hoped, when it was known that the ships were there, the galleon might attempt to slip out and try to escape. He therefore left Lieutenant Hughes to cruise off the port of Acapulco twenty days longer, that, should the galleon sail, he might easily be informed of it.

To protect the watering-place, which was at some distance from the beach, a strong barricade was erected across the only path leading into the country, a little way beyond it, and here a guard was always stationed. As the whole of the crews together were scarcely sufficient to man even the Centurion, three of the prizes, having their cargoes and stores removed, were carried out and sunk. These and many other arrangements having been concluded, preparations were made for sailing across the Pacific. It was necessary first to pick up the boat off Acapulco, which ought long before that time to have returned.

Having got to within three leagues of Acapulco, and nothing of the boat being seen, it was feared that she had been wrecked or captured by the Spaniards. Under the supposition that she had been taken, Captain Anson sent in a Spanish officer, one of his many prisoners, and a boat manned by Spaniards, to offer an exchange of prisoners. Some time after she had gone the missing boat appeared, the wan countenances of her crew showing the sufferings they had gone through.

They had been about to return when a strong current carried them away to leeward, and they had to run still farther to look out for some place where they might land and obtain water. As they had not now to wait to hear from the shore, the prisoners were put on board two launches, which were well supplied with water and provisions, they all thanking the commodore and praising his humanity for the way they had been treated.

On the 6th of May the two ships, the Centurion and Gloucester, took their departure from the coast of Mexico, hoping that in a few weeks they would arrive at Canton, whither they were bound. During this passage the scurvy again broke out with almost as much severity as before. At first they were favoured by the trade wind until the end of July, afterwards heavy weather came on, during which the gale carried away the Gloucester's topmasts, and she sprung so bad a leak that it seemed impossible she would keep afloat; and finally her commander, Captain Mitchell, begged to be taken on board the Centurion with his crew. The commodore came therefore to the resolution of destroying her, although with her went a large quantity of valuable goods. The weather became calm, and the boats were at once engaged in removing the sick, but three-fourths of them expired before they could be got on board the Centurion.

Captain Mitchell's last act before leaving the Gloucester was to set her on fire, and she was thus deserted. When she had been left about four leagues astern, she blew up. The noise made by the explosion was slight, but a dense black pillar of smoke shot up to a considerable height in the air. Thus perished H.M.S. Gloucester.

On the 26th the Ladrones were sighted, and the ship stood towards Tinian, prepared for an encounter should the Spaniards attempt to attack her. To deceive them Spanish colours were hoisted, and the ship was made to look as much as possible like the Manilla galleon. The cutter was then sent in shore. Soon afterwards a proa came off to meet her, and was captured and brought back in tow. In her was a Spaniard, with four Indians. One of these was a carpenter by trade. Wishing to get away from the place, he very willingly shipped on board the Centurion. The Spaniard gave so favourable an account of Tinian, that all were cheered with the prospect of landing there. He stated it to be uninhabited, but used by the Spaniards at Guam as a store for supplies for their garrison, of which he was a sergeant, sent here with Indians to jerk beef; and that wild cattle, hogs, poultry, and fruit abounded. This account delighted the English, and finding themselves masters of the situation, they secured a bark, which was the only vessel capable of giving notice to the Governor of Guam, and prepared to take possession of the island. A large hut, used as a storehouse, was taken possession of as a hospital, and the commodore himself and all his officers assisted in conveying the sick on shore, as he had before done at Juan Fernandez. They were indeed the only persons who had strength sufficient for this service.

The place fully came up to the most favourable descriptions given of it. Here there seemed a fair prospect that the sick would in time recover. Deaths took place at first, but fresh provisions, rest, and good air soon began to restore the remainder to health, and in about a month's time all who were able to do duty were sent on board the Centurion. She was moored in the most perfect way possible, as many gales were anticipated. Many of the officers and a large number of the crew were on shore, as well as Captain Anson, now himself suffering from scurvy. The expected storm came on, and when morning broke, what was their dismay not to perceive the ship! It was supposed that she was lost, and several people suggested that the boat should be sent round the island to look for the wreck, and save any who might have escaped. Others began to fear that the Governor of Guam, hearing of their being there, would send a strong party to take them prisoners, and perhaps treat them as pirates, and deprive them of their lives. Many believed that they were destined to remain on the island, without any means of returning home. Captain Anson did his utmost to keep up their courage, and told them that he had formed a plan to lengthen the Spanish bark, so as to be able to carry the whole of them to China. For some time, however, he did not succeed in raising their spirits; but as the Governor of Guam did not send to capture them, they began to hope that the plan proposed by the commodore might succeed, and the work he suggested was commenced.

He himself always rose at daybreak, and commenced work, thus shaming the rest, who were now as industrious as he could desire, and punctually came at the same time to the rendezvous, whence they were distributed to their different employments. While thus engaged one day a sail was seen in the offing. Hopes were entertained that it was the Centurion returning. Presently another rose above the horizon, when Captain Anson examining them through his glass, observed that they were only boats. He now fully believed that they were those of the Centurion, which had probably foundered, and all his hopes of harassing the enemy and performing the duties imposed on him vanished. After a time, however, he discovered that they were Indian proas. Not to alarm the Indians, he ordered his people to keep out of sight. They came to within a quarter of a mile of the shore, where they remained for two hours, and then again stood to the northward.

The bark had been hauled up, sawn in two, and considerable progress made in the work, when, on the 11th of October, one of the Gloucester's men, being on a hill in the middle of the island, was seen rushing down at full speed, crying out, "The ship, the ship!"

On this Mr Gordon, a lieutenant of marines, hurried to the commodore, who, at the news, threw down his axe, with which he was at work, and in his joy broke through, for the first time, the calm reserved manner he had hitherto maintained. All hurried down to the beach, and before the evening the Centurion was visible to all. A boat was immediately dispatched, with eighteen men, carrying fresh meat and fresh vegetables, for the refreshment of her crew. The next afternoon she came to an anchor in the road. When driven out to sea, those on board had fired guns, but owing to the wind and rain, they had not been heard. After great exertions the anchor was hove up, and the ship continued driving, and, as she was short-handed, it was a long time before sail could be made on her. For many days she had been beating up to windward, until she had got back as described.

The Commodore now lived on board. The same accident again occurred, and the ship was driven out to sea, leaving seventy of her men on shore. After five days, however, she got back again, and having completed her water, sailed on 21st of October for Macao.

The Centurion was for some time beating along the coast of China, among countless fishing-boats, until she came to an anchor off Macao on the 12th of November. She remained at this port for five months, until the health of her crew had been re-established.

Captain Anson here had the satisfaction of learning that the Severn and Pearl, the two ships which had separated from the squadron, had arrived safely at Rio Janeiro. Of the sad fate of the Wager, and the loss of the larger number of her officers and crew, he did not receive intelligence till his return home. He was annoyed by the extortionate demands made by the Chinese carpenters for the necessary repairs of the ship, while he had considerable difficulty at times, in consequence of the behaviour of the Chinese authorities, in obtaining provisions.

At length, on the 19th of April, all being ready, the Centurion made sail and stood out to sea, her crew increased by several Lascars and Dutch, so that she was now in a condition to resume hostilities. Before Anson left Macao, he let it be understood that he intended to touch at Batavia on his homeward voyage, but he had formed a very different decision.

The Manilla galleon, not having sailed from Acapulco, in consequence of his appearance off that place, calculating that there would be two vessels this year instead of one, he determined to cruise off the island of Samal in the hopes of intercepting them. He at first kept this plan to himself, but as soon as the ship was at sea he summoned the crew on deck and informed them of his intentions. The place he intended to cruise off was Cape Espirito Santo. It was sighted on the 20th of May. As the commodore knew that sentinels were placed on that cape to give notice of the Manilla ship as soon as she made the land, he immediately tacked and took in top-gallant sails to avoid being discovered.

The crew were now kept constantly practising at their guns, an exercise which had been pursued for some time previously. By this means they were rendered extremely skilful. Every preparation was also made for battle. The commodore's journal shows how anxiously he and all on board were looking out for their expected prize. At last, just a month after the arrival of the Centurion at her station, a sail was discovered at sunrise in the south-east quarter, by a midshipman, Mr Charles Proby. The commodore had taken every means in his power to secure the victory. He had placed about thirty of his choicest marksmen in the tops, and as he had not hands enough remaining to quarter a sufficient number to each great gun in the usual manner, he placed on his lower tier only two men to each gun, who were to be employed solely in loading it, while the rest of the people were divided into different gangs of ten men each to run out and fire such guns as were loaded. By this arrangement he was able to make use of all his guns, and instead of firing broadsides at intervals, to keep up a constant fire without intermission. He knew that it was the custom of the Spaniards to fall down on deck when they saw a broadside preparing, and to continue in that posture until it had been given, after which they rose, and presuming the danger to be over for some time, worked their guns and fired with great briskness, until they supposed that another broadside was ready to be fired, when they acted as before. The plan adopted by the commodore, however, rendered this practice of theirs impossible.

At the news of a sail being in sight, the ship's company had no doubt that this was one of the galleons, and they expected soon to see the other. The Centurion stood on until about half-past seven, when the stranger could be seen from her deck, and no doubt remained that she was one of the long-sought-for ships. The hopes of the Centurion's crew rose high, and all hands with alacrity hastened to their stations. At length the galleon fired a gun and took in her topgallant sails, which was supposed to be a signal for her consort to hasten up. The Centurion, therefore, fired a gun to leeward in order to amuse her.

The commodore was surprised all this time to find that the galleon did not alter her course, but continued to bear down upon her, for he hardly believed -- what afterwards appeared to be the case -- that her captain knew his ship to be the Centurion, and had resolved to fight her. About noon the Centurion was a little more than a league from the galleon, and could fetch her wake, so that she could not now escape. No second ship appearing, it was concluded that she had been separated from her consort. Soon after the galleon hauled up her foresail, and brought to under her topsails, with her head to the northward, hoisting Spanish colours, and having the standard of Spain on the topgallant masthead.

The Centurion now rapidly neared the galleon. A little after noon there were several squalls of wind and rain, which often obscured the latter from sight; but whenever it cleared up, she was observed resolutely lying to. Towards one o'clock, the Centurion hoisted her broad pennant and colours, she being then within gunshot of the enemy. The Spaniards, the commodore observed, had neglected to clear their ship, they being engaged in throwing overboard cattle and lumber. He gave orders to fire upon them with the chase-guns, to prevent them from completing their work.

The galleon returned the fire with two of her stern-chasers. Soon after the Centurion came abreast of her, within pistol-shot, keeping to leeward for the purpose of preventing her from putting before the wind and getting away.

Now the engagement commenced in earnest. For the first half-hour the Centurion overreached the galleon, and lay on her bow. By the greater wideness of the ports of the former, she could traverse almost all her guns, while the galleon could only bring a part of hers to bear. Scarcely had the action begun, when the mats with which the galleon had stuffed her netting took fire and burned violently, blazing up half as high as the mizen-top. This accident threw the enemy into great confusion, and the commodore feared lest the galleon should be burned, and his ship suffer by driving on board her. The Spaniards at last, however, freed themselves from the fire by cutting away the netting and tumbling the whole mass into the sea.

Still the Centurion kept her advantageous position, firing her guns with great regularity; whilst, at the same time, the topmen, who having at their first volley driven the Spaniards from their tops, made great havoc with their small arms, killing or wounding every officer but one that appeared on the quarter-deck, and wounding in particular the general of the galleon himself. After the engagement had lasted half an hour, the Centurion fell alongside the galleon, the decks of which her grape-shot swept so effectually, -- killing and wounding a great number, --  that the Spaniards were thrown into the greatest disorder, as could be seen from on board the Centurion. The Spanish officers were observed running about to prevent desertion by the men from their quarters; but all their endeavours were in vain; and at last, having fired five or six guns, the galleon's colours being already burnt, the standard at her main-top-gallant-masthead was struck. The seaman who did this would have run great risk of being shot down, had not the commodore given orders to the men not to molest him. The action lasted altogether about an hour and a half, during which the Spaniards lost sixty-seven killed and eighty-four wounded.

The prize was called Nuestra Senora de Cabadonga, and was commanded by Don Jeronimo de Montero, a Portuguese by birth, and a skilful and brave officer. The galleon was much larger than the Centurion, had a crew of five hundred and fifty men, and thirty-six guns, besides twenty-eight pidreroes or petards, each of which carried a four-pound ball. She was besides well furnished with small arms, and was provided with boarding nettings.

The treasure she contained amounted to nearly a million and a half of dollars. Scarcely, however, had the galleon struck, and the long-expected wealth she contained become the prize of the English, than a terrible announcement was made to the commodore by one of the lieutenants, who whispered to him that the Centurion was on fire near the powder-room. He received the intelligence with his usual calmness, and, taking care not to alarm the crew, he gave the necessary orders for extinguishing it. Some cartridges had been blown up between deck, in consequence of which a quantity of oakum, near the after-hatchway, close to the powder-room, was on fire. The volumes of smoke which issued from this caused the apprehension that a dangerous fire had broken out.

The crew, led by their officers, set to work to extinguish it. While they were thus engaged, the galleon fell on board the Centurion on the starboard quarter, but she was cleared without doing or receiving any considerable damage. By the exertions of the men, the fire was in a short time got under. The commodore now made the first lieutenant, Mr Saumarez, captain of the prize, appointing her a post ship in his Majesty's navy.

Most of the prisoners were at once removed on board the Centurion, and judicious arrangements were made for keeping them from rising, which, as they far outnumbered the crew of the Centurion, they might easily have done; indeed, when they saw the men by whom they had been captured, they expressed themselves with great indignation, to be thus beaten by a handful of boys.

All the seamen, with the exception of the wounded, were placed in the hold, and that they might have air, the two hatchways were left open, these hatchways being fitted with a square partition of thick planks, made in the shape of a funnel, which enclosed each hatchway on the lower deck, and reached to that directly over it on the upper deck, rising seven or eight feet above it. It would thus have been extremely difficult for the Spaniards to clamber up. To increase that difficulty four swivels were planted at the mouth of each funnel, and a sentry with a lighted match stood ready to fire into the hold, should they attempt to escape. The officers, amounting to seventeen or eighteen, were lodged in the first lieutenant's cabin, under a guard of six men, while their general, who was wounded, lay in the commodore's cabin, with a sentinel placed over him.

As there was a scarcity of water, only a pint a day could be supplied to each prisoner. Of this they could not complain, as the ship's company had but a pint and a half. Still, they suffered greatly.

All arrangements being made, the Centurion and her prize sailed for Canton. Captain Anson now heard that the Manilla ship, for which he had watched at Acapulco the preceding year, had set sail sooner than the others, and had probably got into the port of Manilla before the Centurion arrived off Cape Espirito Santo. He had thus to regret his long delay at Macao. On her arrival in the river of Canton, a boat, with a mandarin, immediately came off to the Centurion from the forts of Boca Tigris, to inquire what she was and where she came from.

Captain Anson, in reply, gave him an exact account of the ship. The officer, on hearing of the number of guns and the amount of ammunition she had on board, declared that he could not venture to make such a statement to his superiors, who would instantly become alarmed.

Captain Anson's object was to remain here during the monsoon, and to obtain a supply of provisions for his voyage home. During his stay in the river he had to submit to various annoyances. The Chinese authorities treated him in a way for which they were then and have ever since been notorious. The provisions they promised were not forthcoming, and the traders endeavoured to cheat the strangers in all sorts of ways. The fowls which had been brought on board quickly died, and the crew thought that they had been poisoned. On examining them it was found that they had been crammed with stones and gravel, to increase their weight. The hogs also which had been purchased ready killed had had water injected into them, and even the live ones had had salt given them to increase their thirst, so that they had drunk vast quantities of water, and were inflated. Even at the last, hearing that the barbarians, as they called the English, never ate anything which died of itself, the Chinese managed to drug the animals so that they died before the ship was out of harbour, numbers of boats following to pick up the carcases. Anson's greatest difficulty was to obtain food, and Anson had himself to go up to Canton, the contractors not having prepared the bread they had promised, nor any other articles of food. At last the authorities had the impudence to demand port dues for the ship. This Captain Anson, answering that she was a man-of-war, and that he had not come to trade, refused to pay. He at last dispatched a letter to the Viceroy, insisting that his various demands should at once be complied with.

He, with some of his officers and a boat's crew, had gone up to Canton, when a fire broke out in the town, which threatened to burn down the whole place. Chiefly by his and his men's exertions the fire was got under, although not until a large amount of damage had been done. It consumed a hundred shops and eleven streets full of warehouses. When the fire was subdued, many Chinese merchants came to Captain Anson and requested him that he would allow each of them one of his "soldiers," as they called his boat's crew, to guard their warehouses and dwelling-houses, which they feared might be pillaged, should any tumult arise. He granted their request, and had the satisfaction of finding that his men had behaved themselves with great diligence and fidelity.

Next morning many of the inhabitants waited on the commodore to thank him for his assistance, frankly owning that they could never of themselves have extinguished the fire. Captain Anson's conduct on this occasion greatly assisted him in his subsequent proceedings with the timid and treacherous Chinese.

His great object was now to sail for England before the enemy should gain intelligence of the wealth carried in the Centurion. Having disposed of the galleon for six thousand dollars, much below her real value, Captain Anson set sail from Macao on the 15th of December, 1743. Having touched at Prince's Island in the Straits of Sunda, he anchored in Table Bay, at the Cape of Good Hope, where he remained until the 3rd of April, 1744, when he sailed for England.

Speaking a ship on the way, he learned that war had broken out between the English and French.

A careful look-out was kept to avoid the enemy, and on the 15th of June, to the infinite joy of all on board, the ship came safely to an anchor at Spithead. Captain Anson there learned that a French fleet was cruising in the chops of the Channel, and, from the account of their position, he found that the Centurion had run right through it, but had, during the time, been concealed by a thick fog.

The return of the expedition, although with sadly-diminished numbers, caused general joy throughout the country. The treasure taken from the galleon was carried through the streets to the Tower in thirty-two waggons, attended by a large procession. The voyage thus happily ended had occupied three years and nine months. Had the ships been properly fitted out, and supplied with efficient crews, most of the disasters which had attended the expedition would have been avoided. At the same time the intrepidity and prudence of the commodore, and the unflinching perseverance and courage displayed by the seamen, are worthy of all admiration, and make the expedition of the Centurion one of the most notable of voyages.



Chapter Twenty Five.

Voyages Of Captain Cook -- A.D. 1768.

Birth and education -- Enters the Royal Navy -- Employed to take soundings in the Saint Lawrence -- Diligence in study -- Marriage -- Expedition to observe the transit of Venus -- Cook appointed to the command -- Equipment of the Endeavour -- Scientific men sail with him -- Leave Plymouth -- The nuns of Santa Clara -- Jealousy of the Governor of Rio de Janeiro -- Natives come on board -- Their behaviour -- Landing and exploring the country --  Overtaken by a snow-storm -- Sufferings from cold -- Return to the ship --  Voyage continued -- Round Cape Horn -- Run 700 leagues -- Coral reefs -- Naming islands -- Anchor in Matavia Bay -- Conduct of the natives -- Captain Cook lands -- Aspect of the country -- Reception by the chiefs -- Pocket-picking by the inhabitants -- A thief shot -- Annoyance of Captain Cook -- Excursions up the country -- Erect a fort -- Punishment of one of the ship's company -- The pity of the natives excited -- Theft -- Recovery of the property -- The transit of Venus -- The Queen Oberea -- A native priest wishes to accompany the English -- Dress, habits, and manufactures of the natives -- The expedition sails -- Islands visited -- A famous warrior -- Dancers -- The Society Islands -- Off Oheteroa -- Opposition of the people -- Anniversary of sailing -- A comet -- Discovery of New Zealand -- Disturbance with the natives -- Prisoners taken -- Attempt to carry off a boy -- Mercury Bay --  Furious Gale -- Survey of New Zealand completed -- Australia sighted --  Anchor, and go on shore -- Conduct of the people -- Botany Bay -- Strikes a reef -- Repairing the vessel -- Australia -- Sail for England -- Sickness at Batavia -- Arrival.

Captain James Cook, who deservedly takes rank as the greatest of English explorers and navigators, was the son of a farm labourer, and born at Marton, near Stockton-upon-Tees, on the 27th of October, 1728. Shortly afterwards his father, an intelligent and industrious man, obtained a situation as farm bailiff to Mr Thomas Skottowe, of Airy-holme, near Ayton, in Yorkshire, by whom young James, when old enough, was sent to a commercial school, where he learned writing and the rules of arithmetic. At the age of thirteen he was apprenticed to Mr William Sanderson, a grocer and haberdasher, at the fishing town of Straiths, near Whitby. He remained with his master until he was about eighteen years of age, when, having a strong desire to go to sea, he obtained a release from his engagement, and having apprenticed himself to Messrs. Walker and Company, shipowners, of Whitby, he embarked on board one of their vessels -- the Truelove, collier -- trading between Newcastle and London. After having made several voyages, from his thorough knowledge of seamanship, he was raised to the rank of mate on board the Friendship.

In her he remained until the breaking out of war between England and France in 1756, when, considering the risk he ran of being pressed, he volunteered as an able seaman on board the Eagle, of sixty guns, commanded by Captain Harmer, who was succeeded by Captain Palliser, afterwards Sir Hugh Palliser, Cook's warm and constant patron. He had by this time many friends on shore, and his captain, who having remarked his intelligence and assiduity, had already made him a quartermaster, received a letter recommending him to his notice, and in a short time obtained for him a warrant as master. In 1759 Cook was accordingly made master of the Grampus, but the former master returning, he was appointed to the same rank on board the Garland. He was again doomed to disappointment, as she had sailed, but quickly received an order appointing him to the Mercury, which immediately sailed for North America, to join the fleet under Sir Charles Saunders, which, in conjunction with General Wolfe's force, was engaged in the siege of Quebec. He was here employed, by the recommendation of Captain Palliser, who now commanded the Shrewsbury, in taking soundings in the Saint Lawrence opposite Quebec. While thus occupied he had a narrow escape of being captured by the French. After this he had many opportunities of displaying his talents, while he applied himself diligently to the study of astronomy and other branches of nautical science. While serving on board the Northumberland, he was engaged in the capture of Newfoundland, and was afterwards employed, at different periods, in surveying its coast. At the end of 1762, returning to England, he married Miss Elizabeth Batts, a young lady of respectable family. By her he had six children, three of whom died in their infancy. His last visit to Newfoundland was as marine surveyor, in 1767. After the establishment of peace between England and France, two expeditions had been fitted out to circumnavigate the globe, one under Lord Byron, and the other under Captains Carteret and Wallis. Before the return of the latter commanders, a new expedition was designed for the purpose of observing the transit of Venus, which had been calculated by astronomers would occur in 1760. Various parts of the Pacific were talked of as most suitable; but before the expedition was ready, Captain Wallis returned and recommended King George's Island or Otaheite as the most eligible situation for observing the approaching transit.

After various persons had been proposed to command the expedition, the Secretary of the Admiralty named Cook; and Sir Hugh Palliser, who was applied to, strongly recommending him, he was at once appointed.

Instead of selecting a frigate or larger ship, Sir Hugh Palliser chose the Endeavour, a bark of three hundred and seventy tons, built for a collier, as more suitable for the purpose, as she could, from her build, carry ample provisions and stores, could run into shallow water, and might be laid on shore to be repaired without risk.

She was at once carried into a basin in Deptford yard, and Lieutenant Cook received his commission as commander. She was fitted with ten carriage and ten swivel guns, and those appointed to sail on board her numbered, in addition to the commander, his officers, and scientific men, forty-one able seamen, twelve marines, and nine servants, making altogether eighty-five persons. She was victualled for eighteen months. One of the chief promoters of the expedition was Mr Banks, afterwards Sir Joseph Banks, President of the Royal Society, who obtained permission to join the expedition. He took with him Dr Solander, a Swedish naturalist, a secretary, two draughtsmen, and four servants. The Admiralty also appointed Mr Green, an astronomer, to assist Lieutenant Cook in his observations. A large supply of such articles as were likely to be useful were taken on board by Mr Banks.

The Endeavour having gone round to Plymouth, set sail from thence on the 26th of August, 1768, and steered a course for Madeira. Here the simple nuns of the convent of Santa Clara, hearing that the strangers were great philosophers, begged to be informed when it would thunder, and whether a spring of fresh water was to be found anywhere within the walls of the cloisters.

The Endeavour, sighting Teneriffe, reached Rio de Janeiro on the 13th of November. Here the ignorant Portuguese Governor, jealous of the expedition, and unable to comprehend its objects, treated the voyagers with scant courtesy. His only idea was that they were going out to witness the passing of the north star through the south pole.

On the 11th of January, 1769, Cook came in sight of Tierra del Fuego, and three days afterwards entered the straits of Le Maire. The Endeavour anchored in the bay of Good Success, where they met with a number of the inhabitants, three of whom were induced to come on board, but showed a remarkable want of interest in all they witnessed. Being treated, however, in a kind way, they became very friendly, and showed no fear of their visitors. They were not so low in the scale of humanity as many voyagers have described them, and probably not less capable of receiving instruction than other savages. The weather being fair and mild, on the 16th of January Mr Banks, Dr Solander, Mr Green, Mr Monkhouse, the surgeon, and Mr Buchan, a landscape painter, landed to explore the country. After crossing a morass, commencing the ascent of a mountain, and passing a wooded tract, it being nearly eight o'clock in the evening, the party were greatly fatigued, while they were chilled with the intense cold. Though Dr Solander had kept saying, "Whoever sits down will sleep, and whoever sleeps will wake no more," he himself was the first to insist on resting, and it was with the greatest difficulty his companions could get him on. He and a black man were at length allowed to recline against some bushes for about five minutes, but even during that short period his limbs became so numbed that he could hardly move. The rest of the party had gone on, and had succeeded in lighting a fire, towards which the Doctor was dragged, but it was found impossible to rouse the black, who was left in charge of another black and one of the seamen named Richmond. The snow came on and fell incessantly for two hours.

Mr Banks dispatched some persons to look for Richmond and the blacks, but they were unable to find them. About midnight a cry was heard, and the seaman was discovered standing, but unable to move, while one of the blacks lay insensible on the ground. So exhausted were the party that their united efforts failed to bring in the unfortunate negroes, who quickly expired, and were left where they fell, covered up with boughs. The night was passed in the greatest possible misery. In the morning, so fierce were the snow-blasts that it was found impossible to proceed, while they dared not venture to quit the fire. At length, having shot a vulture, the only food they obtained, at ten o'clock they set out, and after walking three hours found themselves on the beach, in sight of the vessel. On the 22nd the Endeavour proceeded on her voyage, and the fourth day afterwards rounded Cape Horn. She then ran for seven hundred leagues without land being in sight. Several coral islands were passed, the first of which was inhabited, and, after the dreary mountains of Tierra del Fuego, appeared a terrestrial Paradise. It was an almost circular band of land, with here and there cocoa-nut trees rising out of it, and enclosing a large lagoon. The natives appeared to be tall, of a copper colour, with long black hair, and they held in their hands poles of considerable length. This was called Lagoon Island, others, from their shape, obtained the names of Bow Island, Chain Island, and and Bird Island.

About noon on the 9th of April the high mountains of Otaheite were faintly discerned, but owing to calms the ship did not come to an anchor in Matavia Bay until the morning of the 13th. She was immediately surrounded by canoes, their crews bringing off fruits and fish, and waving green branches as a sign of friendship.

These were taken by the seamen and placed in different parts of the ship, to show the natives that their visitors also wished for peace. Strict rules were now laid down by the commander for the government of his people while on shore. He then landed with Mr Banks and Dr Solander, and a party of men under arms.

The natives received them in the most humble manner, the first who approached creeping up on his hands and knees to present a green branch as an emblem of peace.

After examining a place to ascertain if it was suitable for watering purposes, the party marched three or four miles into the interior through groves of trees loaded with cocoa-nuts and bread-fruit, affording the most grateful shade. Numerous huts were seen under these trees, which in the daytime had the appearance of roofs without walls. At night mats were let down, to afford such privacy as the habits of the people in that genial climate required.

All this time none of the principal persons of the island had made their appearance. After the ship had been there a couple of days, two chiefs, Matahah and Tootahah, came off, the first fixing on Mr Banks as his friend, and the latter on Captain Cook. The ceremony of making friends was gone through. It consisted in the natives taking off the greater part of their clothing and putting on that of their visitors. Their dress was formed of the bark made from the paper mulberry-tree. Captain Cook, Mr Banks, and others went on shore with their new friends, where they met another chief named Tabourai-Tamaide, and formed a treaty of friendship with him.

During a feast with which he entertained his visitors, Dr Solander and Mr Monkhouse found that their pockets had been picked, the one of an opera-glass, the other of his snuffbox. The chief showed his concern, and offered several pieces of native cloth as a compensation. This, however, was refused. The chief going out, by the aid of a sage woman, recovered the articles, and restored them to their owners.

One of the first objects to be attained was the erection of a fort, to protect the astronomical instruments. The spot was soon fixed upon, away from the habitations of the natives, and a party of men sent on shore to commence operations. While the principal officers were away, a number of people gathered round to watch what was going on, and one of them, rushing forward, seized a sentry's musket, and made off with it. Without consideration, a midshipman ordered the marines to fire, which they did, but did not hit the thief. He, however, being pursued, was at length shot dead.

Notwithstanding this, the chiefs behaved with great moderation, and seemed satisfied that the act was not in consequence of any hostile feeling, though death was far too severe a punishment for the crime the man had committed.

Cook was greatly annoyed at this incident. He considered it prudent, however, to warp the ship closer in, to protect his people while engaged on shore, as he feared, in consequence of no natives coming near the ship, that they might be attacked. Before long, however, the natives got over their alarm, and brought propitiatory gifts of the usual green boughs. So confident was Cook of their good feeling that he allowed his officers to make excursions into the country.

Crossing a belt of fertile land on the side of the harbour, they reached a range of barren hills. Beyond them again they descended into a wide plain, watered by a river nearly a hundred yards wide. The plain was studded over with houses, the inhabitants of which appeared to live on the ample productions of their country. Happy as the people appeared to be, it was evident that they were mere children of impulse, scarcely knowing right from wrong. The greater number were pertinacious thieves, and addicted besides to many vices. Though not apparently bloodthirsty, they were accustomed to offer up human sacrifices. But little insight at that time was gained into their religious practices.

While the fort was in course of erection, the natives watched the proceedings closely. It was finished by the 26th of April, and six swivel guns were mounted on it. This seemed to alarm the people, who moved to a distance; but the chiefs came in with their wives, and exhibited no signs of fear. While they were there the butcher took a fancy to a stone hatchet in the hands of one of the women, and because she refused to give it, he threatened to kill her. The captain hearing of this, ordered him to receive a couple of dozen in the presence of the natives.

When they saw the first strokes given their kind feelings being aroused, they entreated that the rest of the man's punishment might be remitted, and when their petition was refused they burst into tears. A day or two after this great alarm was caused in the fort by the disappearance of a large instrument in a case, without which the intended observation could not be taken. The friendly chiefs were applied to, and by their means the thief was traced, and though the parts of the instrument had been divided among various persons, the whole were collected uninjured, and it was finally set up in its place.

To have a better chance of obtaining a clear sky, the astronomers were divided into three parties. One with Mr Banks proceeded to the island of Eimeo, twelve miles west of Otaheite; Mr Hicks went to a spot eastward of Matavia Bay; while Captain Cook and Dr Solander remained at the fort. The eventful morning of the 3rd of June arrived. The sky was perfectly clear, and the passage of the planet Venus over the sun's disc was observed to great advantage.

Captain Wallis had discovered a female whom he supposed to be the Queen of the isles. She was recognised by Mr Molineux, the master of the Endeavour, who had accompanied Captain Wallis on his late voyage. Her name was Oberea. She was therefore treated with much attention, and many presents were made to her. Among them she seemed to value most a child's doll, possibly supposing it to be one of the gods of the white man. She had apparently been deposed, and Tootahah had become the principal chief, but, jealous of the favours shown to Oberea, was not content until a doll had been presented to him also, and at first he seemed to value it more than a hatchet. Among the attendants of Oberea was Tupia, who had become a priest, and had evidently considerable influence among his countrymen. He had from the first attached himself to the English, and now expressed a strong desire to accompany them when they should quit the country. As his services were likely to prove of the greatest value, Captain Cook gladly agreed to his proposal, and he was appointed interpreter on board the Endeavour.

The inhabitants of Otaheite were far superior to those of most of the other islands. They were all more or less clothed in well-made cloth manufactured from the paper mulberry-tree, and ingeniously painted. In wet weather they wore instead garments made of matting, some of a very fine and beautiful description. They produced a great variety of basket-work, and made string and rope of various thicknesses. Their houses were neat, and they were remarkably clean in their habits, many of them washing twice or oftener in a day. The last event of importance which occurred was the desertion of two marines, who stole from the fort, intending to remain in the country.

As Captain Cook could not allow so bad an example to be set, he was compelled, in order to recover them, to detain Tootahah and several other chiefs until the fugitives should be restored. The natives retaliated by capturing two petty officers, and the arms of two others, and matters began to look serious, until, by the intervention of Tootahah, the deserters were restored and received due punishment.

After a stay of three months the voyagers, having bade farewell to their friends on shore, prepared for sailing, when Tupia, accompanied by a boy as his servant, came on board, and expressed his readiness to accompany them.

About noon on the 12th of April the anchor was weighed, and the vessel getting under sail, the Indians on board took their leave of their visitors and Tupia, weeping with a deep and silent sorrow, in which there was something very striking and tender. Tupia evinced great firmness, struggling to conceal his tears, and, climbing to the masthead, made signals until he was carried out of sight of the friends he was destined never again to see. As they sailed along he frequently prayed to his god Tane for a favourable breeze, but it was observed that he never commenced his orisons until he saw the signs of the coming gale.

The islands of Eimeo, Huaheine, Ulietea, and Bolabola were visited in succession. The ship anchoring near Ulietea, Captain Cook took the opportunity to stop a leak, and take in ballast; he went also to visit Opoony, the warlike sovereign of Bolabola, who had conquered this and many of the neighbouring islands. Instead of seeing a fine-looking warrior, as he expected, he found a withered, half-blind, decrepit old man, who was, notwithstanding, the terror of the surrounding islands. The people on shore welcomed their visitors with all possible courtesy. On their way they met a company of dancers, men and women, who were said by Tupia to be among the principal people. The women wore graceful head-dresses of long braids of hair and flowers, with pearls in their ears. The upper parts of their bodies were unclothed, but they were amply covered from the breast downwards in native cloth stained black. Regular dramas were represented before the strangers, and the style of dancing was objectionable in the extreme. An ample supply of hogs, poultry, and provisions having been obtained at Ulietea, the Endeavour again sailed. When off Bolabola, at which the landing was found to be extremely difficult, to gratify Tupia Captain Cook fired one of his guns, though the ship was several leagues off. Tupia's object was to exhibit his hatred of the King of that island, as well as the power of his new allies. To the group of islands which had been seen or visited, Captain Cook gave the name of the Society's Islands, but Otaheite was not included among them, and continued to be known as King George's Island.

On the 13th of August the Endeavour came off Oheteroa, considerably to the south of the others. Here the natives, dressed in coloured cloths and feathers, stood ready to oppose a landing; and after several fruitless attempts to conciliate them, Captain Cook continued his course to the southward. On the 25th of August, the anniversary of their departure from England, the day was celebrated by taking a Cheshire cheese from a locker where it had been preserved for the purpose, and tapping a cask of porter, which proved to be in excellent order. On the morning of the 30th a comet was seen in the east, a little above the horizon. After this, a heavy sea and strong gales were met with from the westward, and the ship being wore round, stood to the northward. On the weather moderating, the cruise was continued westward during the whole month of September, and on the 6th of October land was seen from the masthead bearing West-by-North.

On the evening of the next day the voyagers got near enough to observe that the country was of great extent, with several ranges of hills rising one above the other, and beyond them a lofty chain of mountains. The general notion was that they had found the Terra Australis Incognita. Night coming on, they were compelled to stand off, but the following day again sailed for the shore.

They saw some neat small houses, and a large number of people seated on the beach. Farther on was discovered a high regular paling, enclosing the whole top of a hill. In the afternoon the ship came to an anchor off the mouth of a river in a bay, the sides of which were composed of white cliffs of great height.

Such was the first view the English obtained of New Zealand, which has since become the home of many thousands of our countrymen. Captain Cook, Mr Banks, Dr Solander, and a party of men having landed, tried to open a communication with the natives across a river. While they were on the bank, a party of savages with long lances rushed out of a wood, and were on the point of spearing the men left in charge of the boat, when the coxswain fired and shot one of them dead. The natives then ran away. On examining the dress of the dead man, it was found to answer the description given in an account of Tasman's voyage, which convinced the explorers that that navigator had previously visited the country. On the following day the natives again appeared on the opposite side of the river, inviting the strangers to cross; but Tupia warned them to be careful, and prepared for hostilities. Ultimately the savages swam across, almost all armed. At first they appeared inclined to trade, but in a short time made an attempt to seize the weapons of the English, and one of them carried off the cutlass of a seaman, which he flourished about his head as he made his escape. Others in considerable numbers came down to his assistance. At first Mr Banks fired, and merely wounded the man, who was still retreating, when Mr Monkhouse took a more fatal aim, and he dropped, and another piece being fired, the savages at length fell back. Shortly afterwards Captain Cook, who was anxious to make some prisoners, and by treating them well to inspire a general confidence, sent the boats to capture some canoes which were seen coming in from the sea. The natives, however, assailed their pursuers so vigorously with stones and other missiles, that the English were compelled to fire, and four men were killed. Three boys were captured. Cook deeply lamented this proceeding, though it appeared to be almost unavoidable. The boys on being taken on board became reconciled, and at first seemed very unwilling to be sent on shore, but were ultimately seen to join their companions.

Such was the unhappy commencement of our acquaintance with the natives of New Zealand. As nothing could be obtained at the place where Cook first anchored, it was called "Poverty Bay." Leaving on the 11th, he proceeded along the coast for six days, until the bluff headland was reached, to which he gave the name of "Cape Turnagain," as the ship was there put about to return along the coast. She continued her course until she had sailed completely round the island. Names were given to the bays and headlands, which they retain to the present day. The intercourse with the natives was mostly of the same lamentable character as that at the commencement, though they in some instances brought off fish and willingly traded with the voyagers. The savages, however, stole whatever they could lay hands on, though appearing to be amicably disposed. One suddenly seized Tayeto, Tupia's boy, and, dragging him into his canoe, made off. The marines fired at the canoe farthest from the boy, when one of the natives fell, on which the other let go his hold of Tayeto, who leaped overboard and swam to the ship.

At Mercury Bay -- so-called in consequence of an observation of the planet Mercury having been made in the harbour -- the natives behaved in a more peaceable manner, though many of them there tried to cheat their visitors. To this conduct there were some exceptions. One chief, named Toiava, behaved with great propriety, and expressed his hope that his countrymen would properly conduct themselves in future. Some of the canoes which approached the ship were of great size, one of them having sixteen paddles on each side and containing sixty men. She was making directly for the ship, when a gun loaded with grape-shot was fired in front of her, and, on a second shot being discharged over the heads of the crew, they seized their paddles and made for the shore.

A headland, near which this occurrence took place, was consequently called "Cape Runaway." Captain Cook having landed near the spot called by Tasman: "Murderer's Bay," on ascending one of the neighbouring hills, discovered that the country, which he at first supposed to consist of one large island, was divided by a strait into two islands. This strait has since been called Cook's Strait. Leaving the inlet, on which he bestowed the name of Queen Charlotte's Sound, the ship was borne rapidly through the straits. Having been exposed, when off the coast, to a furious gale, which, though it was the height of summer, lasted for five weeks, he continued his survey of New Zealand, and having run down the coast of Middle Island, and discovered Banks's Island, he returned to Cook's Straits. The Endeavour took her departure from Cape Farewell, the last land seen of New Zealand, on the 31st of March; and sailing westward, on he 19th of April land was descried, which proved to be part of New Holland. For several days the Endeavour coasted along the shore to the northward, until at last a bay was discovered, into which she ran and came to an anchor. Several black natives were seen on shore flourishing their spears. Abreast of the Endeavour was a village of about eight huts, and not far off four small canoes, with a man fishing in each. Presently an old woman with three children came out of the forest, laden with fire-wood. She threw down her burden, and kindled a fire, when the men, landing, began to dress the fish, apparently taking no notice of the ship.

Captain Cook, with several companions, went on shore, when most of the people ran away; but two, armed with lances, came down on the rocks to dispute the landing of the strangers, regardless of the presents which Captain Cook held out to them, flourishing their lances and shouting in discordant tones. Even when a shot was fired, though at first they retreated, one of them returned and threw a stone at the invaders. At last, another musket, loaded with small shot was fired at their legs, when, one of them throwing a spear, they both took to flight. The explorers, now landing, found some little children hidden in a hut; they were not disturbed, but some presents of beads, ribbons, and pieces of cloth were left in exchange, for a bundle of spears which was appropriated. It was at first supposed that these were poisoned, as a green substance was observed on their tips; but, on examining them, it was found to be seaweed, and that they must have been used for spearing fish. The next day, when Mr Banks, Dr Solander, and the others, landed, they found that their presents had not been removed. While the English were filling casks at a spring, and drawing the seine, when large numbers of fish were taken, the natives watched what was going forward without attempting to molest them.

Several excursions were made by the naturalists on shore, when they also kept at a distance. A few animals and numerous gaily coloured birds were seen, and vast quantities of plants collected, from which circumstance Captain Cook gave the place the name of Botany Bay, which for half a century it retained. On the 6th of May the Endeavour left Botany Bay, and steered northward. Shortly afterwards, as she was passing along the coast, a seaman named Jackson observed what he took to be the entrance to a harbour, which in consequence was called Port Jackson; but Cook did not attempt to enter, being doubtful at the time whether it would prove to be a harbour. The object was now to lay the ship ashore, to clean and repair her. As he sailed along he anxiously looked out for a suitable spot, landing occasionally to explore the country. He had got as far north as 16 degrees 4 minutes, when, one fine night, as the ship was rapidly running on, a grating sound was heard. She had struck upon a reef. The officers and crew hurried on deck. The well was sounded: she was making a great deal of water. The boats were hoisted out, and attempts made to heave her off, but she beat so violently on the rocks that the crew could scarcely keep their feet, and she could not be moved. Her sheathing-boards and false keel also floated up. As she had struck at high water, though she might not sink, there appeared every probability of her becoming a wreck. Cook did not despair. At once the guns, ballast, and other heavy articles were thrown overboard, and preparations made for heaving her off when the tide again rose. Happily a dead calm came on, and at daybreak land was seen about eight leagues off. All day long the crew laboured without moving her. The night tide was likely to be the highest. At length she was hove off into deep water. Now the difficulty was to keep her afloat, for the crew were wellnigh exhausted by their exertions. At length Mr Monkhouse suggested that he had seen a vessel saved by fothering a sail -- that is, covering it thickly with oakum, and then dragging it under the ship's bottom to the place where the leak existed, when the oakum, drawn in by the force of the water, would fill up the openings.

This was done, and succeeded so well that two pumps kept her afloat until the 17th, when a safe harbour was found, and she was at once hauled ashore. It was then discovered that a fragment of the rock had gone through her bottom, and remained sticking there. Had this fallen out, she must have foundered. Tents and a forge were at once set up on the shore, and the carpenter, blacksmith, and others to assist, were speedily busy repairing the damage the ship had received. The sick were also landed. Of these there were many, for notwithstanding all their care, that scourge of seamen, scurvy, had already made much progress.

Mr Banks and other scientific gentlemen made excursions into the country. They saw several animals, but the strangest of all was of about the size of a greyhound, mouse coloured, and very swift. It had a long tail, and leapt like a hare, while the print of its feet resembled those of a goat. It was some time before another of the same species was seen and shot, when it was discovered to be what has since become a well-known animal, called after the native name, a kangaroo. Some days elapsed before any natives were seen. At last a gang approached, when Captain Cook ordered his people to take no notice of them. This had the desired effect of allaying their fears, and though shy, they became tolerably friendly.

A few days afterwards a party ventured on board, and took a great fancy to some turtles which had been caught, though they seemed to regard nothing else with interest. They first took hold of one, and then attempted to carry it off; but, on being prevented, jumped into their canoes, and paddled away in a rage. On landing, they seized a brand from under the pitch-kettle, and with it set fire to the long grass. It blazed up so furiously that it was with the greatest difficulty that the tent in which Tupia was lying sick could be preserved, while the woodwork of the smith's forge was destroyed; it also caught a sow and young pigs, one of which was scorched to death. On a subsequent occasion the natives played a similar trick. Providentially, the stores and powder had been taken on board, or the consequences would have been serious.